A fairy flitted through the forest deep Alas, she was shivering and cold. Her mother’s admonitions she didn’t keep, Nor wore her coat of gold.
“Too late, too late!” she feared the worst To be caught by Old Man Frost To live forever encased in a curse, In a frosty tomb to be lost.
Just when her limbs were turning blue And Despair did grip her heart A rustling noise her attention drew And Hope got a brand new start.
A beautiful cape was hung on a tree The maple seeds clustered together ‘Twould fit her shoulders to a “T” And protect her from the weather.
Old Man Frost reached out a hand To claim his little prize But the fairy warmed, she twirled and Disappeared before his eyes.
So keep this warning in your mind When Mother says, “Wear your coat!” Don’t ignore her or you might find A curse with no antidote!
I knew once I mentioned that a fairy might wear those maple seeds as a garment that a poem was brewing in the background. Do me a favor and read this out loud to someone. I’d love to make this poem into a little book with cute little illustrations.
Ah well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and then I’d delete this post.
We went for a walk in the woods recently and I found myself musing about Robert Frost’s famous poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I decided to do my own version, with apologies to Mr. Frost. I’ve printed his first, since it should have pre-eminence, and mine, with the photos, afterward.
Stopping by Woods on A Snowy Evening Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. Robert Frost
Walking through Woods on A Snowy Afternoon Whose woods these are I think I know The bend in the river tells me so No one will see us walking here To see the stalks all topped with snow
The cross-country skiers must think it queer To walk instead of skiing here Uphill and down without a break Over the bridge, the deer path near.
Up to the fence, then leftward a shake To see a field all plastic staked The air is fresh and cold and sweet Our lungs are alive, our legs awake
The cattails beckon, the sight’s a treat But the car will take some time to heat And miles to go before we eat, And miles to go before we eat. Lynniebee
I’ll probably delete this, but don’t tell Mr. Frost.
When we sing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve at home, I always insist that we sing all the verses of Good King Wenceslas. To recap, the carol is about the good king who sees a poor man gathering wood for fuel on a cruelly cold winter’s night, walking through deep, crisp and even snow. Those of us in Minnesota (and other hinterlands) know well what a cruelly cold winter’s night feels like.
So the king asks his page about the man – who is he, where does he live – and then concocts a plan for the two of them to go deliver some meat and wine to the poor fellow, as well as pine logs for his fire. The peasant lives a good league away, which is about three miles, so this is no easy jaunt. The night gets darker, the weather is bitter, and the wind gets stronger. There’s no mention of wind chill, but I feel it when we get to that verse – I feel it.
The young page begins to falter under these brutal conditions. He wants to finish the mission – there’s no doubt that he wants to stay with the king – but his heart is failing him. “I can go no longer,” he concludes, probably with some amount of shame and despair.
The good monarch neither condemns nor criticizes the page, but neither does he let him lie down and just rest for a bit. He encourages him. He gives him true courage to continue by telling the young man to walk behind him in his footsteps. “Thou shalt find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly.” And it works! As the page treads in his master’s footsteps, there is heat where the king has walked. He is warmed and renewed for the journey ahead.
The conclusion of the story is: “Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth and rank possessing, Ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.“
A nice moral to be sure, that when we seek to bless the poor, we will ourselves find blessing. But I’ve always derived greater comfort and meaning in the idea that Christ will never lead us where He hasn’t already walked. He leaves footprints behind which we can follow and as we walk in them we will be given all that we need to keep going, no matter what sort of “rude wind’s wild lament” may be dragging us down.
Several times in the last week or so, we’ve been out walking in cold weather, trudging through the snow. I have sometimes positioned myself behind my husband, walking in his footsteps, and the song has percolated up into my brain almost subconsciously. “Mark my footsteps my good page, tread thou in them boldly…Thou shalt find the winter’s rage freeze Thy blood less coldly.”
And my heart is encouraged.
I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless someone comes to the door with meat, wine and pine logs. It might even be the King!
I had kind of hoped that another topic would present itself, but here I am, stuck with squirrels. They were out in force today – as many as I’ve ever seen gathered by our bird feeders. If Alfred Hitchcock wanted to take another run at a horror film after having filmed “The Birds,” he could take a pass at it with squirrels.
They come across as very playful, busy critters, but I was once followed by a horde of them at a park when I was in college and it was very creepy. When I say “horde,” I mean about ten of them.
I admire their chompers, though. We had a black walnut tree once and I decided to make black walnut cookies. That’s when I found out how hard they are to crack to get the meat out. I had to put each one in a vice and tighten it until it basically exploded. My husband did not appreciate this assault on his workshop. But watch a squirrel with one of those walnuts – child’s play! And no explosions either. This also makes me determined not to let one of those little buggers get ahold of one of my fingers.
We had six of them frolicking around eating all the bird seed today. You’ll find this incredible, but I have a favorite. He’s a little smaller than the rest and incredibly jumpy, which makes me think that he’s probably a runt that’s had to endure teasing by his older rodent siblings.
Yes, he’s my favorite. Or she is. Who can tell?
And now, for the grand finale: squirrel verse.
“Quit eating our suet!” Said the bird to the squirrel They began to fight, A creaturely quarrel. And while they were at it, The other squirrels came And had a nice feast While watching the game.
That’s called “speed poetry.” It doesn’t take long and you don’t get much.
This is such a nutty post that squirrels will probably crack it into pieces and eat it in the morning.
On the way back from our early morning Bible study, we saw the rising sun was accompanied by those rainbow ears that make it a sun dog. So many glorious photos could have been taken from various vantage points on the way home, but all I had was my phone and we would have had to pull over and stop so I could get out and get the shots. It was about -13 degrees and I’m not that dedicated. I waited until we got home where I got my Nikon out to take a perfectly lousy shot from the back door. If it’s possible, use your imagination to remove the trees and houses and you can see the sun dog with its left ear.
I told you it was lousy.
At twilight last night, I looked out the window randomly and saw four deer strolling through our back yard on the way to dine on the neighbor’s tree, where they posed for a photo. This was another lousy photo since it was through the window.
I take a fair number of lousy photos, but don’t usually share them. Here are a few more because if you’ve read this far, you are the type who isn’t a quitter.
You can certainly feel free to share your lousy photos with me. And here’s one I took recently that could have fallen into that category, but I like it.
It looks like a gown of maple seeds hanging up to dry. If fairies exist, this is the type of thing they would wear.
So, that’s the musing of the day. Some days you get quality stuff. But this is not that day! (feel free to think of Aragorn when you read that)
Tomorrow I shall muse upon squirrels unless some other topic squashes that one in a bloodless coup. Stay tuned!
I’ll probably delete this lousy post in the morning.
First of all, does that sculpture look like me? I hope the answer is no, but we’ll come back to that later.
Registration for classes at the University of Minnesota back in the day was a big hassle. You could get your classes all picked out, wait in a long line, and finally get up to the registrar only to find out that one (or more) of the classes you wanted was filled, necessitating a last-minute substitution. Certain classes were nearly impossible to get into unless you had first-day registration, which didn’t happen often.
So one spring when I discovered I had struck gold with that coveted registration position, I abandoned most of my regular classes and signed up for ballroom dance, drawing and sculpture. Having suffered through many winters of discontent, I was about to embark on the spring of artistic adventures.
I’ll tell the stories of my experiences in the dancing and drawing classes another time. The above photo is the story of my sculpture class. I believe it’s the only project I did for the entire trimester. We had to create a clay model, encase it in plaster and then meticulously dig the clay out, leaving a hollowed out plaster cast in which to pour concrete. Finally the big day came in which we would take the plaster off and reveal our finished sculpture pieces.
Most of the students did what you might call normal stuff. Mine was definitely in the realm of weird. We gathered around each other’s pieces (small class – maybe 6-8 people total) and gave feedback. When the group assembled to look at mine, there was a brief silence as I imagine they were grappling with how to put into words the sensation provoked by looking at it. One fellow finally said, “It looks like you.”
While I was still reeling from that observation, another person noted that both of the hands were right hands – did I intend that? I had not. In fact, that was the first time it had been brought to my attention. I believe there may have been some discussion about what I was trying to communicate with this piece, but the rather dull truth was that I just thought it looked neat. I probably could have spun some philosophical nonsense about the oppression of man which would have found an appreciative audience. “See how he is oppressed from above, being held down by a hand. And his speech is oppressed by the hand over his mouth.” But the moment passed and I had nothing.
The thing that I just couldn’t get past was the guy’s comment that it looked like me (and the class generally agreed with this observation). It felt like an insult at the time, particularly since I was very sensitive about the size and shape of my nose. But I don’t think he meant it unkindly. It’s an interesting observation, actually – was I unconsciously re-creating the most familiar face to me, the face I always saw in the mirror?
We’ve lugged this heavy and unattractive piece with us wherever we’ve moved, which betrays a certain conceit on my part. I don’t think my kids will be fighting over who gets to take it when I’m gone. Somewhere there’s a dumpster just waiting to receive it and as dust returns to dust, so shall concrete return to concrete.
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I’ll probably make a clay mold of this post in the morning and then throw it out before it becomes a monstrosity.
I was at the grocery store today and while checking out, the clerk asked me how my day was going so far. I gave a positive review and tacked on the statement that generally I like Mondays. He gave me a funny look and said, “Well, you’re alone in that!”
Mondays have gotten a bad rap. For many people it’s when they start their work week again. For students, it means starting up with a new school week. I guess if you hate your job or hate school, you’d have a good reason to hate Mondays. Even if that’s the case, it may be the attitude that needs adjusting, not the day.
Monday isn’t the first day of the week – that position is already filled by Sunday. And when Sunday is a day of worship and rest, it can prepare you to hit the ground running on Monday with renewed energy and a cheerful heart even when the task ahead is unpleasant and daunting. At least that’s how it often works for me.
I’ve had hard Mondays, crabby Mondays, tedious Mondays and bluesy Mondays, but whatever kind of Monday I’m having, if it follows on the heels of a day of worship, good fellowship and a rest from my usual labors, I feel prepared to handle it, come what may.
How about you?
I’ll let you know in the morning if I’ve gone through with my plans to delete this post. But until then, assume nothing.
Synopsis of the story thus far: Our frog hero, Fig Newton, met a little girl on the river named Lucy, who knitted him a scarf, made him a sailor’s hat, made him a little boat and reluctantly said goodbye to him so he could go see the world. Along the way, Fig was thinking through his trip when he ran across a bear carrying another girl. The bear was Grimpus Leatherfoot and the girl, Miss Agra Glendalough. They decided to travel along with him, walking by the riverside since his boat was too small for them. He spent some time thinking about what he’d want to do and see before returning home. Later, he was singing in the boat by himself and was accosted by a fox named Phineas who stole his boat, leaving Figgy sitting on the riverbank, bereft. When Grimpus and Agra returned, Fig indulged in some self-pity, receiving a much needed rebuke from Miss Agra. Suitably chastened and in better spirits, he told them of the theft. Grimpus recognized the description of the thief as Phineas Fox and recommended that they give chase immediately. (See Parts 1-6 if you want the gritty details).
Fig Newton had thought of Grimpus Leatherfoot as a slow and lumbering old bear, but found that he had a pretty piece of work keeping up with Grimpus, even with his bounding hops on those “springy legs.” They followed the river as best they could, but sometimes the brush was too thick even for Grimpus to crash through, so of necessity they had to take some detours. Miss Agra hung on for dear life, but Grimpus was running on all fours and she wasn’t used to laying down in the carry pouch. With all the bouncing, she began to feel quite ill.
“Stop! Grimpus, stop!” she called out in distress. Neither the bear nor Fig heard her at first, but eventually she threw up on Grimpus’s fur, which had the desired effect. They halted in the middle of a small clearing, Grimpus making apologies for the bouncing and Agra making apologies for the mess in his fur, while Fig stood nearby hopping up and down impatiently. Finally, he could stand it no further.
“All apologies seem to have been given and accepted – let us not tarry here too much longer and lose the trail. We don’t know how long the wretched fox will be staying on this part of the river – if it splits up ahead, we won’t know which direction he’s gone. Let’s go!”
But in spite of Figgy’s sense of urgency, certain realities needed to be faced. They could not go on at the pace that they had been, no indeed. They were still close enough to the river for Grimpus to go jump in and give his fur a good washing, which he did (I dare say you’d do the same). Afterward, they took stock of the situation, noting the strengths and weakness of their position.
Strengths: Grimpus was somewhat familiar with the territory, the party was well motivated to continue the hunt, the fox couldn’t go very fast in the Lucky Lucy, so he probably couldn’t get irretrievably too far ahead of them. Trusting to Providence, they needn’t panic and lose heart.
Weaknesses: They couldn’t outrun the fox at this rate. They would have to be more clever than him, learn of his strategy and “outfox” him. And to do this, Grimpus said, they’d need the help of a renowned denizen of the forest, someone whose influence and contacts spread far and wide, who commanded the loyalty of many others who could be their eyes, ears and feet in this chase.
Fig and Miss Agra listened attentively to this last bit of intelligence, excited and curious. Grimpus paused for effect. Once again, Figgy couldn’t wait. “We’re with you, old bear, but don’t stop now! Just who is this illustrious fellow who can be the balm to all of our troubles?”
A commanding voice came from behind Figgy. “Impatience never won any battles, my young frog. Wisdom comes from listening, planning and waiting for the right moment.”
Fig Newton turned around and beheld the astonishing sight of a rather unimpressive looking hedgehog sitting in a sleigh, of all things. He wore a green tam on his head which gave him a sporty look. At first the frog wasn’t sure by what mechanism the sleigh could move on these trails, but upon closer inspection, he saw four mice harnessed to it. Miss Agra clapped her hands in delight at the whole scene, feeling suddenly much restored and encouraged.
“Good day, Colonel Purslane, sir.” Grimpus came to attention. To Fig and Miss Agra he said, “Nothing happens in this forest that the Colonel doesn’t know about. We shall tell him our story and if he takes an interest, we could not find a better ally. But when he speaks, I’d recommend that you listen and not interrupt.” This last comment he directed to Fig Newton and if frogs could blush, he would have. But they’re cold blooded and have to show their embarrassments in other ways, so he looked down at his webbed feet and wished he could hop away.
That’s all for Part 7, my friends. I’ve been writing this at a snail’s pace, only adding installments as I’ve added more felt creatures to the collection. I’m on a sewing break, so who knows when we’ll find out what happens next?
It was an ugly plant. It hadn’t bloomed for a couple years and I kept forgetting to water it. Then I’d overwater it. The very presence of this plant in my house was a silent reproach to me and my black thumb.
But I couldn’t quite make myself just throw it in the compost heap. It seemed brutal to do something that intentional.
So I did the next best thing. We went out of town for three weeks in the fall and I left it outside on the back stoop. I also left a note for our neighbors saying something like “Don’t bother watering the potted plants outside – I’m letting them die off before winter.” There! That’ll take care of it, I thought. By the time we get back, it’ll be a fait accompli.
But it wasn’t. Our neighbor accidentally knocked it over and the whole thing fell out. He took pity on it, stuffed it all back in the pot and then watered it. We got back and there it was, barely living, still a silent reproach.
I sighed and carried it inside. Clearly, it was not going to be so easy for me to get rid of it. I didn’t want it sitting with the rest of my indoor plants, though (all two of them) – so I decided “out of sight, out of mind.” I put it in one of the empty bedrooms and closed the door, forgetting about it for weeks on end and then overwatering as usual. The plant sat in virtual darkness the whole time, only getting light from the window on these short winter days.
But what I didn’t know was that this was just what the plant needed to thrive – lots of darkness in a cool room with a little neglect thrown in. And then it happened.
Wouldn’t you welcome all your afflictions and trials if you knew this was going to be the result? Good news for you: it is.
Consider it all joy, my brethren, when you encounter various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. And let endurance have its perfect result, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing. James 1:2-4
I’ll probably put this in a dark room and neglect it in the morning.
Lynniebeemuseoday 