To the Daffodil

I made this photo for my facebook, and I like it so well, I wanted to put it here, too.  I love the greens and yellows together.  I love the poem.  I love daffodils.  We're still waiting to see them here this year, but a woman can dream.  The original photo was from my friend Karin, and of her spring gardens in northern Indiana.

Another text I had considered including was the Daffodowndilly traditional English rhyme,

Daffodowndilly 

Is new come to town

In a yellow petticoat 

And a green gown.

And as long as we're on the subject, here are a few other choice daffodil tidbits.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
~William Wordsworth, "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud," 1804

When I bought my farm, I did not know what a bargain I had in the bluebirds, daffodils and thrushes; as little did I know what sublime mornings and sunsets I was buying.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The daffodil is our doorside queen; 

She pushes upward the sword already, 

To spot with sunshine the early green.

~William Cullen Bryant

More About Children of the Heavenly Father

I found this info while trying to recheck something I had read this morning.

Verses 1-2 are based upon Psalm  84

The hymn verses

Children of the heav’nly Father
Safely in His bosom gather;
Nestling bird nor star in Heaven
Such a refuge e’er was given.

God His own doth tend and nourish;
In His holy courts they flourish;
From all evil things He spares them;
In His mighty arms He bears them.

Psalm 84
How lovely is Your tabernacle,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longs, yes, even faints
For the courts of the Lord;
My heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.

Even the sparrow has found a home,
And the swallow a nest for herself,
Where she may lay her young—
Even Your altars, O Lord of hosts,
My King and my God.
Blessed are those who dwell in Your house;
They will still be praising You. Selah

Blessed is the man whose strength is in You,
Whose heart is set on pilgrimage.
As they pass through the Valley of Baca,
They make it a spring;
The rain also covers it with pools.
They go from strength to strength;
Each one appears before God in Zion.

O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;
Give ear, O God of Jacob! Selah
O God, behold our shield,
And look upon the face of Your anointed.

For a day in Your courts is better than a thousand.
I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God
Than dwell in the tents of wickedness.
For the Lord God is a sun and shield;
The Lord will give grace and glory;
No good thing will He withhold
From those who walk uprightly.

O Lord of hosts,
Blessed is the man who trusts in You!

Verse 3 is based upon Rom. 8:38-39
The hymn verse

Neither life nor death shall ever
From the Lord His children sever;
Unto them His grace He showeth,
And their sorrows all He knoweth.

Romans 8:38-39
For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Verse 4 is based upon Job 1:21
The hymn verse

Though He giveth or He taketh,
God His children ne’er forsaketh;
His the loving purpose solely
To preserve them pure and holy.

Job 1:21
And he said:
“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,
And naked shall I return there.
The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away;
Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

I didn't find any information on the basis of the latter two verses, but I'll include them here with the references I cited in the previous post. These are the most obvious passages of which these verse remind me.

Verse 5 draws upon Matthew 10:30 and Luke 12:7
The hymn verse

Lo, their very hairs He numbers,
And no daily care encumbers
Them that share His ev’ry blessing
And His help in woes distressing.

Matthew 10:30 and Luke 12:7

But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. 

Verse 6 draws on Psalm 121:3-4
The hymn verse

Praise the Lord in joyful numbers:
Your Protector never slumbers.
At the will of your Defender

Ev’ry foeman must surrender.

Psalm 121:3-4
He will not allow your foot to be moved;
He who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, He who keeps Israel
Shall neither slumber nor sleep. 

I also read a little bit about the poet, Karolina Wilhelmina Sandell Berg, also known as Lina.  This blog post seems to summarize all the variety of biographical information about her.  It sounds as though she was blessed with a very fruitful pen.  I was especially looking for information about the tragic year she had, during the year this hymn was first published.  Some sources tell that this hymn was the direct result of a year of tragedy in her life, a year of death and illness, the pinnacle or which was the death of her dear father in a shipwreck.  Others feel she wrote it during her teenaged years, but that it wasn't published until later in her life, after her tragic year.  Either way, the hymn beautifully portrays God's providential care, and the idea that our times are in His hands.

Verses 3 and 4 always remind me of the familiar verses St. Paul wrote to the Philippians, as he was waiting to find out if he was to be executed.
Philippians 1:19-26
For I know that this will turn out for my deliverance through your prayer and the supply of the Spirit of Jesus Christ,  according to my earnest expectation and hope that in nothing I shall be ashamed, but with all boldness, as always, so now also Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death.  For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain.  But if I live on in the flesh, this will mean fruit from my labor; yet what I shall choose I cannot tell.  For I am hard-pressed between the two, having a desire to depart and be with Christ, which is far better.  Nevertheless to remain in the flesh is more needful for you.  And being confident of this, I know that I shall remain and continue with you all for your progress and joy of faith,  that your rejoicing for me may be more abundant in Jesus Christ by my coming to you again.

Words and Feelings, in Writ and Melody

After the Grammys the other week, all the news was of singer and songwriter, Adele.  Adele had vocal chord hemorrhage last fall, had laser surgery for her condition in November, and gave her comeback performance the night of the Grammys singing "Rolling in the Deep."  Not only that, Adele won awards in all of the six categories for which her work was nominated.



Wow!  What a voice.   I've heard a number of her songs on my Jar of Hearts station on Pandora, and am always captivated.

After the Grammys, during all the Adele publicity, my friend, Tom R. posted  on facebook a Wall Street Journal article called "Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker."   The author of the article attempted to explain, in a scientific way, why some songs are more likely than others to pull at our heartstrings.

I was reminded of this this morning on my way home from my morning exercise excursion at a neighbor's house.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.   I had to exercise alone today, because of a transportation mix-up getting the kids to school this morning.  I was approaching Lana's from the west just as Connie's vehicle was leaving, pulling out of her driveway to the east.  The other ladies were done and I was just arriving, so I knew I would not have any company this morning.

As I was spending time on the treadmill, I began to be plagued by the boredom that generally sets in for me during solitary indoor exercise.  "Time to use that imagination, Mary.  Find something with which to occupy your brain."  Hmmm.  Various ideas flitted through my head.  I wished I had my mp3 player.  Or a radio.  Or my laptop with a wi-fi connection so I could finish listening to that lecture in the free Hillsdale College class I signed up for.

Since the treadmill I was using faces the window, which looks out upon a little bit of snow-covered yard between the house and the woods, I decided to engage in a writing exercise, while the treadmill demanded exertion of a different sort from my body.  I've occasionally bemoaned the fact that I am not a good photographer.  I often see things that are visually rich or emotionally compelling.  But when I try to capture such an image, or the feeling it draws forth, with a photo, it always falls short.  I usually find I have better success painting pictures with words and phrases.  But it takes practice and work.  So it's not unusual for me to see something during my daily life, and spend some time thinking about how best to capture such an image with words.

With this challenge of capturing images with words in the front of my mind, I looked out the window at the snowy and blustery landscape.  I made myself notice the details.  I concentrated on all those little things that we don't generally have time to think about consciously, but which get into the periphery of our minds.  I made myself think of ways to describe what I saw, using engaging turns of phrase and descriptive language to paint a picture with words.

Most of what I pondered today as I treaded and watched, is not worthy of remembering.  Just images and ideas.  But there was one scene that challenged me.  I couldn't find just the right words while I was there, but I'm going to try to work it out here.  

As I gazed upon the snowy woods, I caught a stir of movement out of the corner of my eye.  A patch of deep golden color skittered into the whiteness of the scene.  A dry leaf caught up in the winter wind.  The wind had not yet captured the leaf completely.  It traveled across my view in a hesitant manner, sliding forward a few inches at a time, only to get hung up on something that forced its stop. The snowfield that looked smooth and glossy apparently held obstacles that remained undetected to my eye.

I continued to watch as the leaf made its way across the snow.

Slide and stop.  Slide a little.  And then stop again.  Hesitant.  Fluttering slightly in the wind.  Tipping upward in a teasing sort of manner, only to settle back down against the snow.  Then slowly sliding forward again.

Until suddenly, with a jolt and a tumble, as quickly as it had entered my line of sight, the leaf was gone in a rush of wind.  Up into the air, end over end.  It floated into the trees, and was lost to sight among the gray trunks of the poplars.

As I drove home, I was still lost in my world of words.  Vocabulary and phrases.  Word pictures.  How to breathe life into mere words, to portray a scene as visually rich and constantly changing as life itself?

The black line of the winter road led me forward into the vast whiteness that is winter here in Northern Minnesota.  The view seemed to stretch forever.  The blackness of the highway was broken here and there.  Unsettled.  A blur of whiteness above the black.  When the lay of the adjacent land allowed, the whipping winds lifted the loose snow from the fields.  It hovered along the ground, in a swiftly moving cloud.

As I passed the woods which surround Glen V's farm, I approached a ford.  A snow ford.  One of those spots where the writhing cloud of snow had found a suitable place to cross the highway.  Just as travelers in the old days sought out the best place to cross a river, so too the blowing snow finds its favorite places to ford the impasse which we call a roadway.

The drifting snow seemed to rise up to threaten me as I passed.  It billowed across the road in a thick whirl.  A drift was growing at the side of the road, building a ridge along the highway that would soon stretch across the road, first in little fingers, and then finally, in a thickened mound.

I was plucked suddenly from my world of words.  A haunting strain of music trickled from the car radio.  I heard the opening cadences of the song and instantly felt a beautiful sort of melancholy pull at my heart.  I don't know that I've ever heard Alan Jackson's "Remember When," before.  But as the combination of music and lyrics toyed with my emotions, I recalled that article about music and emotions, Anatomy of a Tear-Jerker.  I don't have the musical skills to easily analyze "Remember When," according to the tear-jerker rubric described in the article.  But I do know that whatever combination of musical techniques that song employs, it works for me.  It got me...right...right...right there.



I may play around with words.  I may try to be interesting and compelling and vivid.  I may even imagine I succeed a little bit.  But I will probably never be able to make my words work like the poetry in this song spins its magic in combination with the musical strains.

My favorite line, by the way, "Remember when the sound of little feet was the music we danced to week to week."

Adrift in Etherland

There is, oh, so much information in the world.  So many things one could learn.  So many things that are most definitely not important, in which one could lose oneself.    Maybe someone with a tendency toward ADD is more susceptible to such wanderings than others?  It always amazes me, though, when I go on such a tour of google or wikipedia or even the World Book Encyclopedia, me how many things there are to be interested in.

This morning, for instance, I'm trying to write a post about my ambivalence toward the election process this year, how strange that is for me, and how Santorum's Minnesota straw-poll victory, combined with a similar caucus victory in Colorado and a non-binding primary victory in Missouri made me happy enough I'm feeling the stirrings of political excitement.  See, it only took four lines to say that, but somehow I got lost along the way.  Badly lost.

I was looking for a quote I've seen attributed to Edmond Burke.  "All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."  Then I discovered that this particular quote is not even an actual documented quote.  It is considered a contested quote.  It, and many similar versions, is currently thought to be a conglomerate of Burke's views.

I also discovered that a version of this quote shows up in Tolstoy's War and Peace, "All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing."  I've never read War and Peace.  It's been on my list.  But after taking about two months one winter to read The Brothers Karamazov I decided I didn't have time in my life for War and Peace.  There are only so many hours in a day.  And a busy mom has no business reading tomes.  Especially when the only reason she wants to read such a book is to be able to say, "I did it!"  Which truthfully, is pretty much the only reason I'd do it. To be able to slide it into conversation, to drop a line every now and then about the a certain character or philosophy or quote. To be able to look smart and well read and be admired for being an academically accomplished person.  (Yes, I have a little vanity thing which which I struggle.)

After reading a little while about Tolstoy, I went back to Burke and found this little nugget that pleased me.

Manners are of more importance than laws. The law can touch us here and there, now and then. Manners are what vex or soothe, corrupt or purify, exalt or debase, barbarize or refine us, by a constant, steady, uniform, insensible operation like that of the air we breathe in.  from Letter #1 of Letters on a Regicide Peace (1796)

That quote put me in mind of the reason Joe and I had originally decided to homeschool our children and my one big regret with sending them into public school.  The quote is not altogether similar, but it did remind me of one of my primary parenting philosophies.  Kids in school can learn school stuff, the rules or rudiments of reading, writing and arithmetic.  But, their little persons, their characters, are so much more important than those rules and basics of academics.  This shaping and building of character is simply not a teacher's job.  How can a parent accomplish such a monumental task in a few short evening hours?

Leaving aside parenting philosophies, the next stop on my morning wanderings through the world of information took me to Burke's Letters on a Regicide Peace.  Did you see that in the quote above?  What an interesting title!  Whatever does it mean?  It was irresistible to me.

Apparently Burke did not think much of Prime Minister William Pitt's attempts to make peace with the revolutionary government in France in the early years after her revolution.  France's governing body was officially called, in English, the French Directory, but Burke referred to it as the Regicide Directory, because of its renegade abolition of the Monarchy (or Regent).

But interestingly, the letters are written in the Juvenalian style.   Hmmm.  Does that mean written as through from the mouth of a youth?

As a matter of fact, no.  Decimus Iunius Iuvenalis, who is also known by the English form of his last name, Juvenal, was a Roman poet in the early centuries AD. 

Oh, and look, he wrote in dactylic hexameter.  Wow, that's so cool!  I remember learning about iambic pentameter, and I can guess that hexameter must mean that there are maybe six sets of beats...but what about the dactylic part?  Doesn't it just make you want to know more?

According to wikipedia,

Dactylic hexameter (also known as "heroic hexameter") is a form of meter in poetry or a rhythmic scheme. It is traditionally associated with the quantitative meter of classical epic poetry in both Greek and Latin, and was consequently considered to be the Grand Style of classical poetry. The premier examples of its use are Homer's Iliad and Odyssey and Virgil's Aeneid.

Oh, boy, more food for thought.  Where can I go from here?

Take a breath, Mary.  Your coffee is cold, your writing time is used up, and what have you to show for your time?  A few assorted bits of trivia rattling around your brain?  That's about it, and not very important to your primary vocations of child rearing and homemaking.  Also not very important to the secondary (or is it tertiary?) vocation of blogger. 

And in case you're wondering, as I was, what comes after tertiary, it's quaternary, quinary, senary, septenary, octonary, nonary, and denary.  Sadly, there is no similar number relating to the eleventh of something, but the twelfth, in case you ever need to use it, would be duodenary.   Just imagine,... it doesn't have quite the same ring, though,...Duodenary Night, by William Shakespeare...hmm.

Vvvvvvveeerrrrryyy bbbbiiiiggggg ssssiiiiiggggghhhhhh.


So in order to say I at least accomplished something, I quickly wrote this up so that you, my readers, can maybe smile a little.  Maybe you can pat yourself on the back, and say to yourself, "At least I am not as bad as theMom."  Or maybe even, you'll go on to some big and important earth shattering accomplishment because of the little seeds of curiosity planted by accompanying me on my little informational junket through the ether world.

The Lengthening of Days, a Meditation

Joseph Farquharson   Glow'd with tints of evening hours

While the earth remains,
Seedtime and harvest,
Cold and heat,
Winter and summer,
And day and night
Shall not cease.

Numbers 8:22

Vincent Van Gogh   Enclosed Field with Rising Sun

  
In the heavens God has set a tabernacle for the sun,
 Which is like a bridegroom 
coming out of his chamber,
         And rejoices like a strong man to run its race.
 Its rising is from one end of heaven,
         And its circuit to the other end;
         And there is nothing hidden from its heat. 

Psalm 19:4-6

Recommended Poetry Books for Children

Favorite Poems Old and New: Selected For Boys and Girls
by Helen Ferris Tibbets and Leonard Weisgard
This is my favorite poetry book.   It contains poems at a variety of levels, arranged by topics such as seasons, animals, going places, historical figures, etc.  The indexes are handy, because they not only list by author and title, but also by common titles or first lines.



The Golden Flute:  An Anthology of Poetry for Young Children
selected by Alice Hubbard and Adeline Babbitt
This is another collection that I enjoy very much.   We picked this up used somewhere along the way, and it's gotten much use throughout the years.  The audience is a bit younger in the one than in Favorite Poems Old and New.  The chapter categories are similar.  The indexes include a comprehensive list of possible subjects under which one might find a certain poem. It's too bad this nice volume is no longer in print.

Book of Famous Poems
Compiled by Marjorie Barrows
These poems are especially suited for introducing young children to many classic poets and poems.  It includes a familiar verse or two from many longer poetical works, the knowledge of which was at one time considered part of our cultural heritage.  There are little mostly black and white inset decorations here and there to lend interest.
At the bottom of the front cover, this book includes the note, "A Companion Book to One Hundred Best Poems for Boys and Girls."  I'd love to find that one somewhere, too. It appears it was briefly republished in 2004, but doesn't look as cool as the old one.

The Random House Book of Poetry for Children: A book of 572 Poems for Today's Child
complied by Jack Prelutsky; illustrated by Arnold Lobel
We have this book sitting around somewhere, but I haven't used it as much as some of the others.   I believe it includes a higher percentage of contemporary poems.  The kids like many of those for the silliness they lend. Lobel's illustrations make this nice for the kids to read on their own, or just fun for pre-readers to peruse.




Classic Poetry: An Illustrated Collection
Edited by Michael Rosen, Illustrated by Paul Howard
We used this one for school one year, and then it got put away with the school books.  I really need to get it out again.






The Oxford Illustrated Book of American Children's Poems
edited by Donald Hall
This one, too was put away with the school books, so I can't tell you much about it, just that we liked it. This one is not as large a volume as some of the previous ones, but I thought that since its focus was American poetry, it might be useful to build a sub-category in the cultural literacy framework in a reader's brain.


The Poetry for Young People series.  I love these books.  We used to get them from Scholastic; they usually came in a three- or six pack.  We'd give them away for gifts, or put them in our kids' Christmas stockings.  Most books in this series are available in paperback or hard cover each title highlighting an important poet or topic, and colorfully illustrated to keep the interest of the younger children.  Featured poets are Alfred, Lord Tennyson, Carl Sandburg, Edgar Allan Poe, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Edward Lear, Emily Dickinson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Langston Hughes, Lewis Carroll, Maya Angelou, Robert Browning, Robert Frost, Robert Louis Stevenson, Rudyard Kipling, Wallace Stevens, Walt Whitman, William Blake, William Butler Yeats, William Carlos Williams, and William Shakespeare.  Featured themes are American Poetry, Animal Poems, and The Seasons.  Also available is A Treasury of Poetry for Young People, which includes the complete text and illustrations from the books on six American poets from the above list. I'd love to have this entire set.

I Saw Esau: The Schoolchild's Pocket Book
Illustrated by Maurice Sendak; introduction and notes by Iona Opie.
If you are accustomed to Sendeck and his quirky humor, you will enjoy the illustrations in this title.  The book is by a British publisher, so to some here in America, parts of it might seem somewhat coarse or inappropriate.  We got this book for Matt when he was quite young, maybe four or five.  One illustration that the kids found quite,... uh,... mezmerizing accompanied the rhyme, "I one my mother, I two my mother, etc."  Sendeck's illustration featured a mother nursing a toddler.  At each line of the rhyme the child gulped down more of the mother, beginning with one breast at the line for "one," and both breasts for the line with "two," etc., ending with the mother being completely consumed at the line, I eight my mother.  It's been years since I've looked at that one, but I believe there was also some portrayal of naked children, or children engaged in arguably shocking varieties of naughtiness. 




Books by Paul Fleischman; one of his specialties is poems for two or more voices to read together. The one I linked, Big Talk, is poems for four voices.








Anything by Shel Silverstein or Jack Prelutsky.  These men are/were geniuses with words and picture language.  The kids love going through their collections on their own, once they can read independently.











Picture book collections by Douglas Florian.  He has many fun and creative spins on language.

Family Poetry Night at the Abrahamsons

When the kids were younger, we tried to have family time every night.  What did we do for family time?   Mostly we read.  We always had a read-aloud going, sometimes we played games, and Friday was movie night.  Periodically I would ask the kids to memorize a poem suitable to their age and ability; we'd then plan a night of recitation.  If you are not a homeschool family, this probably sounds artificially quaint or anachronistic even.  I mean, really, who makes their kids recite poetry and calls it entertainment?

But please understand, Joe and I are both lovers of the written word.  We don't have television, and at that time tried to limit even a DVD on the computer to Friday movie nights.  We intentionally strove to instill in our kids an appreciation for the simple things of life. 

And we were homeschoolers.  So we could call such evenings "school."  Besides the enjoyment of "simple things" we were striving to instill, we were teaching with these poetry recitations.  The children honed their skills in elocution, memorization, and speaking in front of others; they broadened their exposure to famous poets and poems, built their vocabularies, and gained familiarity with rhythm and sound.  And we'd often get little history lessons in, too, if a particular poem had historical merit, such as Walt Whitman's Captain, my Captain, which he wrote after Lincoln's death.  Any time we spent on these things in our evenings was time we did not have to spend on it during our school days.

But alas!

Gradually the increasingly greater age span of our children made finding a books or activities that would interest all of them at once more difficult. The older kids were often busy with evening activities.  One or another child sometimes had school work or lessons remaining into the evenings. Or Mom and Dad were simply tired out.  Gradually our family time slipped to periodic, then rare.

Lately, after the additional changes to our lifestyle due to having our kids in public school, our evening family time has dwindled to almost non-existent.  We try to stand firm on evening devotion and prayer time, but even that is challenging some nights.  Some kids fall asleep before we're ready, other's are coming in at all different times.  Supper gets late, or chores take longer than expected.

This has been a very sad thing in my life.

This fall, I've tried, striven, demanded that we regroup and get back to this time together.  I'm trying, with only moderate success, to be more faithful about an early supper.  I'm trying, with mixed results, to get most of the supper prep dishes washed up while I'm preparing the meal.  I've asked Joe to try to be home from his office during the evening, to lend a helping hand, or simply to "be there". 

And I've worked to initiate a "no computer from 5:00-8:00 pm" rule.  This has probably been the hardest, since we have such bad habits.  The computer sits in the kitchen.  Somebody is always on it.  Whoever is sitting here might visit with whoever is preparing supper.  The younger kids are always running through, and they know that if Joe or I is not the one fixing supper, we can be found at the computer during that time.  So they come there to visit with us.

But there is also much just plain, mind numbing, spacing out to whatever is on it, to the avoidance of everything else in the home.  It's like we've forgotten how to live without staring at the stupid computer.  I think a big part of it is that Joe and I have become so overwhelmed with the responsibilities that come with raising this many kids, that we've resorted to escapist computer use to deal with the pressure.

Bad, bad, bad.

How to we get back to better habits?

For one, we're starting with read-aloud.  I am bound and determined to keep plugging along no matter how many or few kids are home.  No matter if supper dishes are done or not; dirty dishes will always wait until morning.  No matter if Joe and I have laryngitis, as we did this week--one of the older kids read for us; they are able.  No matter what!

We're reading Little Britches by Ralph Moody.  Read this book if you never have.  In fact, read Moody's whole series of autobiographical books.  He has been described as the male counterpart to Laura Ingalls Wilder. 

We've actually read this book several times for read-aloud, but not for perhaps four of five years.  Even though it is one we've read previously, I chose it because 1) since it's familiar to the older kids, if they miss some, it's OK;  2) its story draws in boys and girls alike; 3) its timeless themes of hard work, independence, and family, is of interest to a variety of ages;  and 4) it's a family favorite, so I'm hoping to play on my older kids' sentimental side-- if they are tempted to think, "Stupid family time,"  they might instead think, "Hey, I remember this part!"

So far so good.  Not perfect, but we're still hanging in there.  I started my mission to recapture family time about a month ago, and we've gotten through 11 chapters.  We are mostly all still eager to get to the living room once Joe or I call, "Family time!"  But we still don't get to it every night.  It's something to continue working toward.

Last night we did something different.  Matt was off at the hunting shack with the family with whom he hunts; Clara and Sophie were at a slumber party; and Joe and I still have this annoying laryngitis type bug.   I especially didn't want Clara and Sophie to miss Little Britches, since they are old enough to be fully engaged in it, and young enough to not really remember much from the earlier times we've read it.

So we needed something different.  Yes, it was Friday, so we could have had movie night, but sometimes it seems as though the kids see so much video type stuff these days anyway, that even movie night is no longer special.  That's another thing we have to try to change.

I decided to try an extemporaneous poetry night.  I called the little ones over, grabbed a couple of my poem books, and quickly assigned each of the four little ones a little something to learn.  Then I assigned Louisa, Elsie, and Joe each one younger child to help, and I helped Inge.  She really is too little to quickly learn much of a poem, but I helped her learn John 3:16.  Much more valuable that a poem in the long run, anyway.

Joe helped John learn the first verse of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's, Paul Revere's Ride.

Listen my children' and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.
On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year.

Stella memorized Apple Blossoms by Helen Wing

The apple blossoms grow so high
Upon the branches of our tree,
I can't reach up to smell them; so
They send their perfume down to me.

Louisa helped Donna memorize the first verse of Helen Hunt Jackson's, September.  At least, that is what she was supposed to help Donna learn.  Jackson's poem begins,

The Goldenrod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.

But, yes, well, my Louisa apparently wanted to add a little,... uh,... pizzazz to our recitations.  Donna, for her part, learned well what Louisa taught.  But that stinker, Louisa...What's a mom to do with such a girl?

Apparently, Donna, being unfamiliar with the word orchard, kept saying, "apple turds."  (I'm not sure what this says about my family.  A four year old is more familiar with turds than orchards.  What can I say?)  So Louisa built off this little confusion to come up with an entirly new ending to the poem,

The Goldenrod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees with apple turds
Smell yucky and taste gross.

Hmm.  Poor little Donna, standing there in front of us, saying her little poem in all seriousness; and Joe and I staring aghast for those first few heartbeats of realization.  Then, of course, we all kind of chuckled, Joe and I reprimanded Louisa for being so cheeky, and I quickly taught Donna the correct words so she could do it again, the right way this time.  That Louisa!

We finished off our poetry night with us older people reading our selections.  Elsie read The Moon, by Robert Hereford; and Louisa read The Road Less Traveled by Robert Frost.  I, with my croaking voice, read through the rest of Paul Revere's Ride.  Joe chose Longfellow's, Excelsior.

I'm sure they would never admit it, but I think even the older kids had fun, in a quiet (or cheeky) sort of way.

Words! Aren't They Fun?

stell 1( verb ) stell to place or fix firmly or permanently; 2( verb ) stell a prop; a support, as for the feet in standing or cilmbing; 3( verb ) stell a partial inclosure made by a wall or trees, to serve as a shelter for sheep or cattle

Finally, I found the definition at definition_of.net.

Thanks, Steve and Holly for finding this for me.  I'm going to remember this dictionary.  Sometimes there are words I know exist that I just can't find anywhere.

Sonnet XXIV
by William Shakespeare

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
    Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
    They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

Sheep Shearing Day: Pictures and Homeschool Ideas

When the shearer arrived, I was still sweeping the dining room floor after supper, so I didn't get out to see the beginning of the shearing.  The shearer is Willard Malwitz.

Thank you, thank you to Mr. Malwitz.

This is the ram.  He is being done on our driveway, in front of the garage.

When a sheep is plopped on its hinder, it will instantly settle down.  I've heard tell that a sheep, if stuck on it's back, will soon die because of some sort of breathing issue.  I wonder if this is part of why they seem so calm in a sitting position.

The shearer held the ram's head between his legs when necessary.  It was getting quite windy by this time.  The wool would blow across the area Mr. Malwitz was working, somewhat impeding his progress.

The kids gathered any loose wool and put it in the box before it could blow away.

Done with the difficult belly area, and now on to the sides.

And then the back.  Look at that thick fleece.

He looks pretty naked.

This is the "after" shot of the ram.

And the "before" of the ewe.

They moved into the garage for her.  She looks like she's wearing a thick scarf.  She is tamer than the ram.  She nipped Mr. Malwitz once on his chest.  He said that often the tamer sheep are harder to shear because they are not afraid.  They remain a bit more frisky even in the sitting position.

I wish I could have better captured how nice and soft the large pieces of fleece looked as they fell loose.  Even though the two sheep looked the same to us, Mr. Malwitz said the ewe's wool was much different.  A different clumpiness to it and much oilier.

I didn't stay for the finish of the ewe.  The kids were getting wild and it was getting pretty chilly after our nice 70 degree day.

This morning it's very cold and wet.  I feel bad for the naked little sheep. But then I remind myself that most other sheep are sheared before lambing starts in March.  That means there are still days of below zero weather, with snow and even blizzards.  If the sheep survive that, I am sure they can live through low 40s and wet.

The sheep newly shorn

Look so forlorn

Out in the wet and the cold dreary day.

But they'll be alright

They will live through the night

And frolic once more when the sun comes to stay.

There are a great plenty of homeschool ideas to use with sheep.  There are stories on shearing and wool; spinning and yarn dying; weaving and crochet and knitting.

After Joe tried to spin a hemp bowstring using a piece of dowel and a plastic sour cream lid as a drop spindle, I ordered a couple of wooden drop spindles for our family along with a few bundles of wool.  I got them from Pacific Wool and Fiber, in Newberg, OR.

We haven't used them much, but we've lent them out, so they have been used, at least.  We still hope to have a chance (make time?) to figure them out one day.

A New Coat for Anna, by Harriet Ziefert
In post WWII Eastern Europe, Anna needs a new coat.  But there is no money to be had even for necessities.  Anna's mother barters the few remaining family treasures to first get wool, then spinning, then weaving and tailoring done for Anna's new coat.  She and Anna pick Lingonberries to dye the spun yarn a lovely red before it's sent to the weaver.

An accomplished homeschooler who keeps the wonderful Bugs, Beetles, and Barefoot Days blog posted on her fieldtrip to the Worcester Museum, Worcester, MA, and its sheep shearing demonstration.

Charlie Needs a New Cloak, by Tomie DePaola
Charlie is a shepherd whose cloak is in tatters.  When he finally decides to address this problem, he does the shearing, carding, spining, dying, weaving and finally even the sewing.  His labors yield a beautiful and warm cloak in time for the coming winter.

A creative homeschool mom has done a unit study based on this book.

There is also a social studies unit using Sheep Shearing as the center point at Hot Chalk Lesson plans.

Other books I've seen recommended, but have not read or used myself:
Farmer Brown Shears his Sheep, by Teri Sloat
Farmer Brown Goes Round and Round
The Thing That Bothered Farmer Brown
This series, done in cute rhymes, traces the entire wool to sweater process.  These books appear to be out of print, but check your library.

Phoebe's Sweater, by Joanna Johnson
Phoebe's mother is knitting a sweater to help Phoebe get ready for a new sibling.  Although I've not read this, it's become a favorite among knitters for both the sweet story and the knitting patterns included.  The author keeps the Phoebe on the Road blog to celebrate the many things fans love about Phoebe.

The author of the Step into my Thimble blog has a list of children's books that present knitting in some capacity.

The Weaver's Gift by Kathryn Lasky is a lovely photo journal of the process from baby lamb to woven blanket.  It's out of print, but definitely worth finding used or through your local library.

There is another story I would have loved to include, but it's name and author elude me. I believe it is a beginning reader, such as a Step Into Reading book.  I believe it is about an old Scandinavian fisherman who knits all winter.  Can anyone help me out here?

Cleansing the Gunk of Winter

This poem was inspired by the rain on the window panes, the dirty snowbanks outside the windows, and Val F's comment on Faceboook that "the rain washes the gunk away."

Spring Cleaning

gray sky

gray snow

gray mood

rain

pattering

pattering

dripping wetness

washing winter gunk from my windows

washing winter tired from my soul

peaceful sound

soothing

soothing

I wake to spring

I wake to joy

clean windows

on my house

and in my heart

Original Poems by John and Me

With all the sickies around here, there is much vying for the spots on my lap.  And although my lap is somewhat more extensive than I'd like, it still cannot always accommodate the lap requirements of the feverish multitudes.

As I asked everyone to be still so I could sneak in a sip of coffee this morning, John's muse overcame him and he spouted the following

If you sit still

You will not spill.

I, still having a hard time totally letting go of the homeschool mentality, grabbed the "teaching moment" to talk about haiku poetry.

Kids on lap sit still

Hot coffee, cocoa, or tea

Will not spill on me

John said it didn't sound like good poetry.  Apparently my muse was insufficient.

Purple Literary Silliness

While I was preparing today's post for my Poems and Paintings blog, I found a plethora of interesting information about Gelett Burgess's well-known poem, Purple Cow.  You all know the one I mean,

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.

According to Wikipedia, the poem was originally 8 lines; and Mr. Burgess added an additional four lines at a later date when he was sick of the poem.  I found several sources that included the preceding two lines that I have included in my other blog,

(Reflections on a Mythic Beast
Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least.)

 I found one source that included a third preceding line,

The Purple Cow's Projected Feast:
Reflections on a Mythic Beast,
Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least.

But I didn't find any source that included an eight line original.

Karen's Poetry Spot includes a parody of Purple Cow by Burgess's contemporary, O. Henry.

I never beat a rotten egg,
I never hope to beat one;
But this you'll understand, I beg,
I'd rather beat than eat one.

Purple Cow Parodies includes several parodies that people have done in imitation of famous poets, such as this one by Susan and David Hollander, in imitation of an Edgar Allen Poe original.

One lonely, gloomy, windswept eve
A mournful sound did I perceive.
I cast my eyes beyond the pane
And to my horror down the lane
Came a sight; I froze inside
A spectral cow with purple hide.

Project Gutenburg has a wonderful digital copy of the original periodical in which the poem was featured.  The illustrations are wonderful.  If I had money to spend collecting rare books, I think I'd want to possess some of this ilk.

And finally, the later four lines that express Burgess's frustration of the constant use of his original lines,

O yes, I wrote the Purple Cow,
I'm sorry now I wrote it.
But I can tell you anyhow,
I'll kill you if you quote it.

Poems and Paintings

I'm once again starting a new blog, Poems and Paintings: Day by Day.  One of my long term plans is to edit a poetry book that includes a daily poem and coinciding painting or work of art.

I plan to be adding to this blog little by little.

Hope you enjoy it!

A poem of my own devising

We have an orange mama cat;
She's round as round can be.
She's big as a pumpkin;
Will she have kittens?
Maybe two or three.
Or even twenty-three.

The Year's at the Spring (and the chimes are on their hook)

It's still a little chilly here for a front porch cup of coffee. After getting up and making oatmeal for my Public Schooled kids this morning, I got dressed, threw on a fleece pullover, grabbed my book and my coffee, and wrapped in a fleece throw.

I perched on the edge of my tumble-down porch furniture and decided to not-read. It was a little chilly and a little too breezy to cozy into a book. Matt had come out with me to wait for the bus, so we visited a little. I asked how he liked Public School and we talked about the different classes. It was nice.

I also concentrated on listening to the sounds of spring. The meadowlarks were calling. My wind chimes were gently chiming.

I got my chimes for Christmas many years ago from my mom. They are bronze pipes and they are of lengths that blend into a pleasing harmony. When we first moved here, I had them out on our front porch and they drove Joe nuts with their constant clanging. And truly, they did clang and gong and bong. It is very windy here. The clanging of the chimes was beyond the pleasant harmonies one expects of wind chimes and would more accurately have been described as a cacophony.

Joe would bring the chimes in for a few moments of silence when their stridency got to be too much to bear (stri·dent adj. Loud, harsh, grating, or shrill; discordant. I'm using the loud, harsh and shrill definitions here, not the grating or discordant, mind you). After a few days respite, I'd stubbornly hang the chimes back out. At some point during the summer, the little wooden paddle at the bottom broke off, from the blustery assault to which it was constantly subjected. I tried a few times to fix it in one way or another and eventually gave up.

We brought them at the end of summer and put them in the closet on a shelf. Where they sat for several years. I guess knowing they drove Joe nuts, I didn't want to plague him. Eventually, during a cleaning rampage, I discovered the chimes on the closet shelf and was overcome with a desire to hear their mellow tones. I suppose the intervening years had softened my memory of what the local winds did with the pipes.

After I once again hung them from their hook on our front porch, I made a pleasurable discovery. Without the wooden paddle hanging from the center (yes, the very paddle I tried numerous times to reattach), without this paddle, the chimes were very pleasant. As they were designed to be in any less windy domicile. The remaining string with it's little knot at the end provides just the needed resistance to gently knock the musical pipes together in the pleasing harmonies they were intended to produce. What a discovery!

And so our paddle free wind chimes are the perfect addition to our summer enjoyment. Their dinging is pleasant in all but the most aggressive northwest Minnesota winds. We can hear them gently calling their songs throughout our days, but they no longer rattle our brains.

And so this morning I was out on my front porch not-reading. But listening. And feeling the cool breeze. And just drinking in, along with my coffee, thoughts of spring and the coming summer and the end of another winter's hibernation.

The Year's at the Spring
by Robert Browning

The year's at the spring
And the day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hillside's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn:
God's in His heaven-
All's right with the world!

A Poem for our Condition

Considering the last three weeks' worth of illness through which we've been wallowing

My Frog Is a Frog

by Jack Prelutsky

My frog is a frog that is hopelessly hoarse,

my frog is a frog with a reason, of course,

my frog is a frog that cannot croak a note,

my frog is a frog with a frog in its throat.

Becalmed

My friend, Char, has been doing poetry with her kids in their home school this year. She recently sent me a link to e. e. cummings poem, [in Just], in celebration of the season. I then, sent her Carl Sandburg's, Fog, in celebration of being done with the thick fog of the recent weeks.

But tonight, while I was reading with my kids, I found one by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow that really seems to capture my mental state by this time of night.

Becalmed

Becalmed upon the sea of Thought,
Still unattained the land it sought,
My mind, with loosely-hanging sails,
Lies waiting the auspicious gales.

On either side, behind, before,
The ocean stretches like a floor,--
A level floor of amethyst,
Crowned by a golden dome of mist.

Blow, breath of inspiration, blow!
Shake and uplift this golden glow!
And fill the canvas of the mind
With wafts of thy celestial wind.

Blow, breath of song! until I feel
The straining sail, the lifting keel,
The life of the awakening sea,
Its motion and its mystery!

Of course I had to quiz the kids a little while reading; I always try to keep them on their toes. Tonight I asked Matt for Longfellow's full name and he got it handily.

In a similar vein, Matt's Knowledge Bowl team got first place tonight at the Thief River Falls meet. Great job, guys! They've had a great season. The junior high team only has three meets, but they came away with fourth place in the first meet in Grygla, and then second at their second meet in Bemidji. Perhaps it bodes well for the high school team when these three ninth graders move up to the high school team next year.