Changes Made Here

I just spent 20 minutes deleting all the Spam that has collected on this blog. I hate to make it difficult to comment here, but I have to.

Now you will have to prove you are a human being before you can leave a comment. Some bloggers ban anonymous comments, but I have some friends who don't have Google addresses and I don't want to keep them from leaving comments.

Recently I set up a website for the first time. You should be able to go there with www.glendacbeall.com, but I don't know if the search engines are finding it yet. If anyone can pull it up, please let me know what you think. It is a website for Writers Circle which is my studio in Hayesville, NC where we hold writing classes spring, summer and fall.

I still have work to do on the website, but hope to have it where I want it before long.

If you have any suggestions that would make it better, I am open to hearing them.

Contact me at nightwriter0302@yahoo.com. 

For now, I am returning to watching Celtic Thunder Mythology. I love these Irish guys, but I'll have to listen to Mythology for a while before I like it as well as I did the first album. 

St. Patrick's Day - We all wear green.

Our last St. Patty's Party - Barry and me, brown-bagging in Young Harris

Although we are told that everyone is Irish on St. Patrick's Day, I feel I'd be a fraud if I pretended I came from the land of the shamrock. My ancestors came over from England in the 1700's. However, I believe I have some Scots-Irish blood in me, like many families from North Carolina and Georgia.

I love celtic music, poetry and books set in Ireland.

Celtic Thunder is one of my favorite musical groups. I have been playing Celtic Thunder Heritage over and over since I saw the group on Public Television recently. Celtic Woman is another terrific Irish group and their haunting harmonies take me to the moors overlooking the pounding sea.

I want to share this poem by an Irish poet. I love the title.

On An Apple-Ripe September Morning

On an apple-ripe September morning

Through the mist-chill fields I went

With a pitch-fork on my shoulder

Less for use than for devilment.

The threshing mill was set-up, I knew,

In Cassidy's haggard last night,

And we owed them a day at the threshing

Since last year. O it was delight

To be paying bills of laughter

And chaffy gossip in kind

With work thrown in to ballast

The fantasy-soaring mind.

As I crossed the wooden bridge I wondered

As I looked into the drain

If ever a summer morning should find me

Shovelling up eels again.

And I thought of the wasps' nest in the bank

And how I got chased one day

Leaving the drag and the scraw-knife behind,

How I covered my face with hay.

The wet leaves of the cocksfoot

Polished my boots as I

Went round by the glistening bog-holes

Lost in unthinking joy.

I'll be carrying bags to-day, I mused,

The best job at the mill

With plenty of time to talk of our loves

As we wait for the bags to fill.

Maybe Mary might call round...

And then I came to the haggard gate,

And I knew as I entered that I had come

Through fields that were part of no earthly estate.

By Patrick Kavanagh


Here is my Irish toast to you, my readers.

Like the warmth of the sun
And the light of the day,
May the luck of the Irish
shine bright on your way.

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY!!!