What’s in Freddy’s Pocket?

Freddy is seven years old. He has big pockets because he has need of them. Wherever he goes, he is finding treasure. He’s always on the lookout for treasure and so he sees what most people miss. At the end of the day, he goes to his room and empties his pockets, making inventory of the booty for the day.

He likes to think of it as booty, a word he learned when his dad was reading to him. Freddy regards himself as a clever and observant pirate, looking for discarded booty. He even says the word out loud when he sees something to pick up because he likes the sound of it. “Booty!” “Booty!”

But when he goes to his room to empty his pockets, he turns into a dragon, fiercely guarding his hoard. He has little boxes that he sorts things into. He came upon these excellent little boxes in his mom’s craft room, a treasure trove all in itself – but most of it was treasure he couldn’t take. She had set aside these boxes to give away. She was always saying she had too much stuff. Too much! But when he had asked her if he could keep them, she smiled and said “Of course – a pirate needs boxes, doesn’t he?” She knows all about Freddy the Finder, Freddy the Pirate, and Freddy the Dragon.

Today is an extra special day for Freddy, a day like no other in the world of Freddy the Finder. Before lunchtime, he has already been outside in the yard and found:

• A marble
• A longish piece of black and white twine
• A stick with sharp thorns on it. He tried to put that in one of his pockets and decided it wasn’t meant to be “inside treasure,” just “outside treasure.” These are terms his mom and dad taught him when he put a nice worm in his pockets.
• A spoon somewhat flattened by a car (which made it even better)
• A couple feathers. He has a special box just for feathers.

After supper, though, is when the special thing happens. During a family walk at the nature center, he pokes along behind everyone – you can’t go very fast when you’re being a clever and observant pirate. He sees movement under some fallen leaves and squats down, waiting to see what it is. There! He grabs it and marvels at the colorful thing in his grubby hands. Orange and blue with soft spikes and a glaring yellow eye! He carefully places it in his only empty pocket and runs to catch up with everyone.

“Hey! I need to know if this is inside treasure or outside treasure!” Freddy the Pirate hopes that Freddy the Dragon will be adding a Live Thing to his precious hoard.

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I wrote this because in spite of its painted flaws, I was really drawn to this lizard, which in real life is probably too big to fit into Freddy’s pockets. I’d love to have the skills to illustrate the whole story. It’s semi-autobiographical because as a child I was always finding and hoarding little treasures in my room. No worms, though – yuck.

Be like Freddy – spend more time looking for treasure.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, or I might put it into a treasure box.

I continue to be mesmerized by reflections in puddles when I’m out on walks these days.

They are broken and sometimes wrinkled pieces of the world, splattered on the ground, easy to walk over (or into) without noticing. And you can focus on the water,

or the reflection in the water.

Sometimes the reflections of signs on wet pavement look like a paint spill:

I actually had to step closer to that one to make sure it wasn’t really paint on the ground. Reflections are powerful illusions.

When I see sunlight sparkling on water, it’s not uncommon for me to take two photos, one in focus and one out of focus, which does magical things with the light.

I decided to try to take a photo of the sun in a puddle, thinking the reflection would do less harm to my eyes than looking directly at the sun in the sky. I was seeing phantom suns everywhere for the next ten minutes, imprints from the image being burned onto my retinas. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea and it definitely wasn’t a great photo.

The World’s In A Puddle
A puddle tells you a story
Whole worlds are contained within
Step in and rearrange it,
But it always assembles again.

Thursday Thoughts has been brought to you by Lynniebeemuseoday.

I’ll probably reflect on deleting this in the morning.

Way back on February 3, I started these three watercolors, copied from photos I took out of my Mom’s old calendar books. It was a test to see if I could

A. Do a good enough sketch from the photo,
B. Figure out how to paint them
C. Decide what style works best for me
D. Enjoy the process.

I finished the bird that first day and then set the other two aside for a few weeks before pretty much forcing myself to continue working on them (which says a lot about D). How sad is that? I follow a good half dozen watercolor artists on Instagram and what I’ve noticed about them is:

A. They each have a strongly developed style of painting,
B. They have a tendency toward a subject from which they hardly ever vary (houses, flowers, trees, water scenes, etc.), and
C. They put out a lot of content; some of them are churning out things DAILY, which boggles my mind.

Having now finished the other two paintings, I set them before you:

The lizard painting really cracks me up. You can see by the mouth area that I started to get lazy – who cares how exact all of this blue detail is anyway? And then it turned out to look like he’d been drinking blue Kool-aid and got stains around his mouth. I decided that some black outlining might cover a multitude of watercolor sins.

So here’s what I learned:

A. I think the sketches turned out fairly well.
B. The paintings, while not excellent, turned out better than I’d hoped. I kind of liked how the bird and ladybug turned out, while at the same time seeing areas that could be improved. I enjoyed trying to figure out how to get the colors right (or at least close). It’s a great way to learn, I think.
C. My style? Hmm…Once again I’ve learned that I don’t enjoy work that requires a lot of detail in either drawing or painting. I like working from a photo, though. I really like defining things with a black outline. Maybe I should start with something like that first next time and fill it in with paint? I’ll have to explore different subjects and figure out what I gravitate to the most.
D. In spite of whining about forcing myself to do these, once I got going, I enjoyed the process.

Next, I’ll tackle Lesson 3 in the Watercolor Italy book and also continue to work on finding subjects and styles best suited for me.

A. The ladybug, lizard and the bird
B. I painted them; you have endured
C. This commentary long and boring
D. My thanks upon you I am pouring.

Good day, good people!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, as long as it’s not a terribly detail oriented job.

I bought a huge tome of the selected poetry of Ogden Nash, so you can expect to see his poetry with some regularity here. To kick it off today, here’s a poem that our children would all recognize, since we bought it in the form of a board book with funny illustrations and read it to them many times they were young.

The Hippopotamus
Behold the hippopotamus!
We laugh at how he looks to us,
And yet in moments dank and grim
I wonder how we look to him.
Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus!
We really look all right to us,
As you no doubt delight the eye
Of other hippopotami.

And speaking of Ogden Nash, I got permission from my friend Teresa to share her experience in high school reciting one of his poems:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

THE SCENE:  The year is 1973/1974; I am a Freshman standing in front of my High School English class, shaking in my required-footwear uniform saddle shoes; it’s my turn to recite – from memory – a poem that I have found “meaningful”; The class is bored beyond words and half asleep; but Sister Estelle (about 100 years old and wearing full Nun-hood regalia) has given me her full attention.

I had memorized several poems, but in my traumatized state of mind I quickly chose the shortest poem from my inventory:

                                           The Turtle by Ogden Nash

                                        The turtle lives ‘twixt plated decks

                                        Which practically conceal its sex

                                         I think it clever of the turtle

                                          In such a fix to be so fertile.  

Ten or 12 seconds of perfectly paced recitation, and my trial by public speaking was over – or so I thought.   The mention of the word “sex” seemed to bring the class out of its stupor as they came alive with giggles.  Sister Estelle motioned for me to stay put as I attempted to return to my seat.  She seemed a bit unsteady, but recovered quickly and restored order in the classroom.  I still remember the feeling of dread as I realized I was directly in Sister Estelle’s line of fire.  She asked me “What did you find meaningful about that poem?”   I couldn’t tell her that I chose it because it was short poem, and that I simply wanted to get my presentation over quickly. So I said, honestly enough, that I found the poem to be funny.  Sister Estelle didn’t seem to accept that  response.

Then from somewhere in my brain the words tumbled out ( at least this is a close approximation):  “The late Ogden Nash (passed away in 1971) was a well-known and popular American comic poet.  He wrote a number of short poems (and longer poems as well), often with unconventional rhymes, that elicited laughter from his readers”.

Sister Estelle blinked,  and I was released from her steely gaze to live another day..!

Postscript:  When heading down the student-packed hall to my next class, I endured more than a few teasing remarks…  Is it any wonder that “The Turtle” poem has been forever seared into my brain cells….?!?

From Teresa, Who is Actually Quite Fond of Turtles

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Thanks, Teresa!

I imagine many of us can relate to having a memory which has been seared into our brains like that, but it’s wonderful to redeem it by making it into a well-told story. Bravo!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless I turn turtle.

The alarm went off at 7:00 a.m. as usual. Beatrice opened her eyes a crack, turned off the alarm and yawned lazily. She was about to get up when she remembered that her parents had left after supper last night for a short getaway, leaving her and her (slightly) older sister by themselves for a couple days. School was out for the summer, but there was a long list of chores for Beatrice and Anna to do in the house and out in the garden before they’d have some free time. Beatrice luxuriated in the thought that no one was there to make her get up, rolled over and went back to sleep.

“Bea – get up!” Anna, of course. Bea kept her eyes closed to retain the illusion of sleep and mumbled “I’m going to sleep in – just leave me alone.” Amazingly, this seemed to work. Anna closed the door and left Bea in bed. But now she was awake. Oh well, she still didn’t need to get up. She reached for her phone and started out with Instagram before moving on to Facebook, Snapchat, and TikTok. A couple hours later, she realized she might as well get out of bed and at least eat breakfast. She put her feet on the floor and stepped on something sharp. “Ouch!” She checked the floor, but didn’t see anything. Another step, more pain, like she was stepping on broken glass. There were no cuts on the soles of her feet, though. “Odd,” she thought, and made her way slowly to the bathroom, trying to step carefully, but still feeling like she was walking on thorns. Progress was slow. She found her sandals out in the hallway and put them on, but it made no difference.

She worked her way slowly and painfully out into the kitchen and saw that Anna had already eaten, cleaned up and was nowhere to be seen. She was probably outside watering and weeding in the huge garden that their parents set such store by. Bea felt a slight pang of guilt, but this was quickly overshadowed by irritation at Anna. The worst thing to happen when one is giving in to a splurge of self-indulgence is to see someone else doing the Right Things. Bea knew she was being unreasonable and she didn’t care. She reached for the refrigerator door. “Ouch!” The door handle felt like it was covered with prickles. Bea fumed. Her one day off and everything was becoming so difficult. Why?!!

She inched toward the back door and couldn’t even touch walls for support – sharp, everything was so sharp. When she got to the door it was ajar, so she nudged it with her knee to open it more (ouch!) and gasped when she looked out over the back porch and the yard. An entire sea of thorny overgrowth had sprung up. You could barely even see a pathway out to the garden. Bea could hear the hose running and heard Anna humming, so she knew Anna was out there working.

“Anna!” she shouted, hoping Anna was close enough to hear her.

“Oh, you finally decided to get up, eh?” Anna answered from somewhere, hidden by the prickly jungle that had overtaken their yard, “I could use some help out here. When are you going to come and do your section of the garden?”

“What? How did you make it out there through that hedge of thorns? I’m not sure I can even get past the door!”

The hose turned off. Anna suddenly appeared through the thicket of overgrowth, walked easily to the door and asked, “What on earth on you talking about?”

**********************************************

The way of the lazy man is like a hedge of thorns,
But the way of the upright is a highway.
Proverbs 15:19

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Fiction Friday was inspired by my reading in the book of Proverbs today.

Have a blessed weekend!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, hopefully not having to work through a hedge of thorns to do so.

My daughter and I realized that we were both having trouble getting motivated to work on our watercolor painting projects, so we agreed to hold each other accountable to a plan. I haven’t completed yet what I said I’d work on, but got a good start.

The Italy Watercolor workbook – I started Lesson 2 back in January and was so discouraged with the first “draft” that I set it down. I worked on the second one today and am not any happier with it, but have accepted the fact that skills are not magically transmitted, but are learned over time.

The far left is, of course, the artist’s rendition. The middle one is my first try. I think I regressed, if possible. By the time I finished the second one, I had an unreasonable hatred of that shadow under the flower pot – everything I did made it look worse. As long as I’m confessing unreasonable hatreds, I’m not terribly fond of how the brick area on the right turned out, either – which wasn’t in the original photograph, by the way. The artist decided to put it in for interest. Sigh. Maybe the next lesson will be better.

I also started some watercolors from photos that I had taken out of my mom’s daily planners from years ago.

I’ve been working more on the ladybug, but it’s also harder than I thought. I have an ever escalating admiration for those who can do this and make it seem so effortless.

So the adventure continues!

The font has changed again and I don’t know why. I was hoping that my problems with the font and the formatting from yesterday were gone, but here they have reared their ugly heads again. It’s hard to be so un-savvy in the tech world sometimes. Still, this might publish just fine and you’ll wonder what I was talking about. One can always hope.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.

Let’s start off with a little whimsy:

“Beneath this slab
John Brown is stowed.
He watched the ads,
And not the road.”
Ogden Nash

And here’s an even shorter one by Nash that tickled my funny bone:

“The Bronx?
No thonx!

The last time I shared an Ogden Nash poem I got a perfectly delightful email from my friend Teresa with her story about the time she recited one of his poems in high school. If I can get her permission, I’ll share that story on this blog sometime soon.

From the latest Lord Peter Wimsey book that I’m reading called The Nine Tailors, we have this quote from the Rector, Mr. Venables:

“What can’t be cured must be endured.”

That’s a nice one to keep tucked away for the right time.

And a selection out of The Abolition of Man by C.S. Lewis:

“An open mind, in questions that are not ultimate, is useful. But an open mind about the ultimate foundations either of Theoretical or of Practical Reason is idiocy. If a man’s mind is open on these things, let his mouth at least be shut.”

I’m pretty sure that if I were in the same room as C.S. Lewis I’d keep my mouth shut no matter what. 🙂

More from Sackett by Louis L’Amour:

“I thought you were a good man.” “Glad to hear you say so. It’s an appearance I favor. Not that I’ve ever been sure what it was made a good man. Mostly I’d say a good man is one you can rely on, one who does his job and stands by what he believes.”

The ideas I have are principles that men have had for many a year. I’ve been reading about that When a man enters into society–that’s living with other folks–he agrees to abide by the rules of that society, and when he crosses those rules he becomes liable to judgment, and if he continues to cross them, then he becomes an outlaw.

There was a Texas Ranger one time who said that there’s no stopping a man who knows he’s in the right and keeps a-coming. Well, I’ve often been wrong, but this time I was right and they had to pay mind to me or bury me, and mine is a breed that dies hard.

“No, Angie, if the folks who believe in law, justice, and a decent life for folks are to be shot down by those who believe in violence, nothing makes much sense. I believe in justice, I believe in being tolerating of other folks, but I pack a big pistol, ma’am, and will use it when needed.”

Doesn’t it seem like we need more straightforward and uncomplicated thinking like that of Sackett these days?

Lastly, one of Elisabeth Elliott’s gems from Keep A Quiet Heart:

“Prayer is a powerful weapon. It is an indispensable weapon. It takes practice to wield it. It takes courage and time and spiritual energy.“

Drawing on the Paper App by son Isaac back in the day.

I hope you have enjoyed this week’s Reading Roundup. It’s fun for me to hunt and gather these things to share.

I’ll probably be too busy wielding the weapon of prayer in the morning to have time to delete this.

P.S. There’s something weird going on with how this is publishing – sorry. I don’t seem to be able to fix it.

Time for some Monday Musings.

1. Am I the only one who dreads making phone calls? I procrastinate about that all the time, especially if it’s business or doctor appointment related. Procrastination is not very smart and I’d like to think that I do less of it now than when I was younger. When I was in college the first paper I wrote for my English Comp class was entitled “The Art of Procrastination.” It was quite meta, considering I wrote it at the last minute and fluffed it up with plenty of useless drivel. A last comment on procrastination before I move on:

2. I found out recently that when I leave a glass of water out in the living room, the cat puts her face in it to try to drink it (my husband observed this phenomenon). I was surprisingly horrified. But maybe that reaction is justified: let’s not forget that cats are the kind of animal that licks its hind end. I am now much more cautious about giving her access to my water glass. Crisis averted. Good old Luna.

3. I went out today to get some photos of the mountains across the street from us before they melt away (which is likely to happen in the next week). Here’s what I got:

And then I slipped on ice and fell. Game over. I retreated home to clean my camera lens and lens cover. To be honest, those mountains were less impressive up close than they were from across the street. I don’t think I’ll be sorry to see them go.

That’s probably enough musing for today. Give yourself a pat on the back for sticking with me.

I’ll probably muse about deleting this in the morning.