On the morning of Christine’s funeral, I stood on the steps to her daughter’s home, holding a poem her father wrote. I had found it in the big box of our family photos Rosamond had possession of. I concluded she was looking to make more prints of us, and sell them for money. I told Rosemary I was going to read this poem at the service. I was shocked and disgusted to see and hear her words; “That would be highly inappropriate!” This is when I knew my mother was part of The Plot where outsiders met in the Rosamond home and discussed – business! They talked about buying the estate and making a movie from Rosamond’s biography – that Rosemary told me Carrie Fisher might write. Rosemary, nor I, knew we were kin to Elizabeth Rosemond Taylor. If I had read Royal Rosamond’s poem, then there would exist there is a Rosy Literary History in MY family, and, proof one family member is keen on literature. No family member spoke over Christine’s body lying exposed in a open coffin – as planned!
Three months ago Michael Dundon and I talked about why he did not attend Christine’s funeral. He came over to tell me she was dead. What should have happened, is the three of us should have entered Rosamond’s home, and asked Vicki if she was going to serve as Executor. If she told the truth I would have dismissed her. “I am going to be the executor!” The third person is Michael Harkins, who drove me there.
Mr. Dundon’s father-in-law worked for Rosboro Lumber. This history goes with my movie The Big Trees. Michael’s mother’s name is Rose. She had a daughter named Rosemary. Above is a photograph of Michael and Christine. He is sixteen. Yesterday we again looked at his mortality. Somethings – are forever! The Farewell Rose – is eternal. I will send Rosamond’s poem to the friend, and brother in AA, that I love, so he can read it – to the one he loves.
Thomas Whitaker Rosborough came to Springfield Oregon with his lumber outfit that might have included his black loggers whom he may have adored, because, he refused to get rid of them when he moved Rosboro about Arkansas. I will be contacting Eric Richardson about this possibility.
by Royal Rosamond
The tide was low today, my love
A cadence of the sea was wrought
In melancholy strain, and low and fraught
With whisperings of your name above
The deep sea song!
A shell that lured along the shore
Whispered; “I love you evermore!”
I wrote your name upon the sands –
Would that I traced with gentle hands –
The minor chords were wont to spell
The tide is high tonight, my dear.
The rock-bound shore loves the wave
But sends it dying to its grave.
The low base notes vie with the fear
The wind send on
The all-encircling gloom
Descended o’er old ocean’s tomb!
Your name is gone tonight, my love:
The angry surge rushed in above.
It cries aloud, with sea gull’s shrill
“I love you still!”
Over The Hill And Back
Last night, Don Kahle, who writes for the Register Guard, told me the Free Library was lost in the fire. I swear I smelled burning books. Gone are the smell of roses, gone with a wind that blew a fire through Blue River. What does blood smell like? What is in a name? A child pricks her finger on all that remain, thorns amongst the ashes, and so little human DNA that God sprinkled, there.
“Where art thou?” Was God first recorded question.
Here we are, Lord, in Finn Rock that should have been renamed Rosborough. Here we are amongst the pines and the cedar, the salmon and the trout that run in waters as blue as can be. My grandfather, Royal Rosamond, the son of William Rosamond, and Idia Rose talked about opening a fishing resort on his property in Arkansas. His friend, Otto…
View original post 7,503 more words