pinkish purplish bluish

The colors of this runner make me think of The Pinkish, Purplish, Bluish Egg by Bill Peet.

"Drew the egg - colored it pinkish purplish bluish- and printed the title under it, and then wondered for a few years what could be in the egg. (I) went on to other things. I thought at first there might be a dragon in the egg, but then I thought, well, there have been so many dragon stories and I thought I could find something a little different. Finally I decided it would be a griffin." Bill Peet in an interview with E. Edwards, post 1970
  
" Soon all sorts of birds began flocking around
To see the big egg that Myrtle had found-
Blue jays and redbirds and noisy magpies
And a big stuffy owl who was worldly and wise.
'It won't hatch, said the owl. 'That egg is stone-cold.
Why for all we know it's a thousand years old.'
"If it does hatch,' a jay said, 'I'll bet it's a turtle,
For, after all, you are a turtledove, Myrtle.'
But the dove didn't listen to what the birds said;
She was bound and determined to go right ahead."
Bill Peet from the book The Pinkish, Purplish, Bluish Egg 

live up to

My little granddaughter and I sat side by side in the shade, telling each other a story.
Little Red Riding Hood.
I supplied a few words and she filled in the details.
It was a revelation.
Apparently, Little Red picked apples in the forest. Green ones.
So THAT was what she had in her basket. 
I was startled to learn that she planned to make a smoothie with them.
And the grandmother, well, she had things under control.
She got on with her life.
She made cookies and smacked the wolf.
I felt so pleased.
That grandmother sounded like someone you could count on.
Someone brave.
Was I the inspiration?
The little author set me straight.
"That wasn't you grandma," she said. "That was the other grandma. The one in the story."
Oh.
Ahh.
Of course.
Yes.
The one in the story.
That grandma smacked the wolf, dusted off her hands and whipped out the freshly baked cookies.
Now that is a woman to live up to.

poor bartholomew

I always viewed Dr. Seuss with suspicion as a child. We owned a large hardcover copy of The Five Hundred Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins but I felt scared every time it was read to me. The executioner was large and burly. Did I just say executioner? That story should have been rated PG seven or eight at least for violence don't you think. Poor Bartholomew. He was supposed to take off his hat and he really did try. It's just that there was no end to the hats hidden under hats hidden under hats. I found that disturbing too. Couldn't he have just snatched them all off at once?
The artwork of Dr. Suess added to my unease. Thing One and Thing Two looked strangely like The Cat in the Hat and for that matter, the fish had the same face as the Zizzer Zazzer Zuzz and that can't be right.
Time heals they say and perhaps it's true in measure.
One of my favorite books to read my own little girls was the Dr. Suess ABC book. I had it committed to memory in time and could probably still chant it out if I had to.
A...a....what begins with a.....Aunt Annie's aligator....a...a....a
B....b....what begins with b....Barber, baby, bubbles and a bumble bee.....

his whole attention

E.B.White, the author of Charlotte's Web wrote this description of himself as a child.

"He lived a life of enchantment; virtually everything he saw and heard was being seen and heard by him for the first time, so he gave it his whole attention."

finding

I gazed in admiration at roses spilling over a fence yesterday.
Red, red roses.
Fairytale red.
The color of Snow White's lips or a Prince's tunic.
It has made me ponder fairytales.
It has made me think of the power of myth.
The enduring potency of story.
For centuries, philosophy and fact were carefully crafted into story and passed along, and eventually down to the next generation.
The brothers Grimm gathered the stories that were still circulating in their day, and the fragments of stories and compiled an anthology of sorts. There were common themes but they added and embellished as is the way of the story teller. How glad I am that those ancient myths still remain.
I loved fairytales when I was a girl.
And fables.
There is an excitement in finding the gems; the glittering truth that lies obscured.
In Sleeping Beauty, a child is blessed with every blessing in the world by the fairies, and then cursed with death by a malevolent crone. The curse was softened from death to sleep and Beauty was reawakened by the kiss of true love. G.K.Chesterton saw the story of mankind contained within that ancient tale. The story of mankind being blessed with every blessing imaginable and then cursed by everlasting death. The curse of death was softened to sleep in that we die but may live again, immortals reawakened to everlasting life by the death of God Himself in our place, a divine kiss of love.
The story of Cinderella is another ancient tale rich in gems.
It contains the universal truth of transformation. Cinderella's supporting cast, the footman and coach and horses and driver were really the most ordinary things, the most mundane and even humble things; A vegetable and vermin and a mangy dog. They were elevated to a place of great usefulness, great purpose and honor. They needed only the masterful touch of the supernatural. Cinderella herself is humble, toiling unnoticed and unappreciated. But of course, the universal truth is that she was not unnoticed at all. She was a princess undiscovered. She was made ready for the Prince, who loved her at first sight and who searched for her until she was found and who then claimed her forever as his own. If you are familiar with the stories liberally sprinkled through the gospels, told by Jesus, you will see common themes. We toil in poverty of soul, in despair even. But transformation is possible. The Prince loves us and seeks us. He longs to claim us as His own forever. Transformation is His specialty. 
1 Corinthians 1:27-29
"But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. God chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are, so that no one may boast before him."

friends in waiting

There are books in every room of my house.
They stand in stacks on the fireplace hearth and lean toward the light on side tables.
Some are old friends and some are just old.
Friends in waiting.
I idly opened one the other day and stared at the inscription on the fly leaf.
Almost one hundred years have passed since my great aunts presented it to my grandfather as a Christmas gift.
All We Like Sheep by Nellie McClung.
She was quite an author, and quite a woman.
It doesn't surprise me that my grandmother's sisters chose that book for my grandpa.
He was quite a man.

goats and other gifts

"Maybe we should give him a goat," I suggested. My co-worker looked startled. "A goat...." she said hesitantly. "I've always wanted to give someone a goat," I enthused. My co-worker nodded slowly.
"You know....a goat from World Vision. "You've heard the ads on the radio haven't you?" I asked.
She hadn't. "I thought you meant for his yard." she sputtered laughingly.

World Vision has given faces, so to speak, to donations, making it a very personal way to give.
Their catalogue is inspiring. Such photographs. So many gift ideas. Our boss has coached soccer for many years, so soccer balls for children seemed an obvious choice. Pharmacy supplies were another perfect fit and our shopping was done.
We needed a way to present the gift; to let him know what we had done, and why.
Poor Clement Moore. Twas the Night Before Christmas is such a lovely poem. It was the perfect one to rewrite, so recognizable, but that's why parody works I guess.
( a few adjustments have been made so that identities remain shrouded in mystery.)

Twas not long before Christmas and all through the store,
The phones lines were ringing with orders galore.
Decorations were hung in the window with care,
In hopes that rich shoppers soon would be there.

The staff were nestled all snug at each table,
With visions of Bethlehem, stars and a stable.
And a party was planned,  what fun we will share.
A party for all, now what should we wear?

And what should we give to our boss, we all chatter,
We want it to be something BIG, that will MATTER.
Away to the catalogues we flew like a flash,
Tore open the pages and gathered the cash.

World Vision has gifts to make any heart glow,
And give the lustre of heaven to objects below.
Now, what to our wondering eyes should appear,
But a gift, picture perfect for those we hold dear.

We could give soccer balls, so lively and quick,
That’s the very first thing we easily pick.
More rapid than eagles the next choices came,
And we whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now pills, now injections, now ointments, and potions!
Some bandages, pain relief, eye drops and lotions!
To the top of the list! to the top of them all!
We’ll send a whole store full, now Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
World Visions has cargo and mounts to the sky.
So up to the house-top the airplanes they flew,
With bundles and boxes and packages too.

And then, in a twinkling, it was party night,
We headed for Newlands, with eyes shining bright.
As time came for gathering, and milling around,
Down the hall came our boss and his wife with a bound.

They were dressed for success, from their head to their feet,
And their clothes were all lovely for Christmas and neat.
A stack of gifts they had flung at the back,
And they looked like St. Nick, just opening his pack.

Their eyes-how they twinkled! Their dimples how merry!
Their cheeks were like roses! Their nose like a cherry!
Our boss and his family we honour tonight,
With a gift in their name, it feels somehow right.

The ripple effect of a generous man,
Can encircle the globe like a strong, helping hand.
When we think of this family, and what they all treasure,
A gift to World Vision is a gift you can’t measure!

So we wish you the merriest Christmas in sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

ghost of Christmas Past

Some mornings I begin work quite early. The neighborhood I work in, and darkness of that hour tend to make me look over my shoulder, and keep doors locked. As businesses open one by one, a trickle of staff enter the building.
This morning, a voice some distance down the hallway called my name.
Three times.
I opened the door and called out, but no one answered.
"Did you hear that? Did you hear my name called," I asked my coworker.
We stared at each other.
He had heard it too.
"Maybe it's the ghost of Christmas past," he suggested.
I gasped with delight, "I'm being given a chance to change and do some good." I laughed.
The chance to change and do some good is so appealing. It must be universally so because A Christmas Carol, propelled Dickens into the limelight.
What has always amazed me in the story, is not Scrooge's transformation, but the fact that he was so readily forgiven. Forgiving and being forgiven. Good starting points for change, and doing some good.

Longfellow and Archery

"I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth I know not where." H. W. Longfellow wasn't in my archery class in college but he summed up my experience perfectly. Just like high school before it, college required that I choose a phys. ed. course each semester. As a child I had romped and climbed and galloped and ridden and hopped. Somehow though, puberty and high school had collided and there was a casualty. I did manage to struggle upright, knobby kneed and uncertain, but the easy, carefree confidence and joy in the physical seemed down for the count. Needless to say, I was dismayed to discover that some form of P.E. would be required as I began my freshman year. At least choices were available and I finally settled on Archery. It seemed a romantic choice at the time, so Robin Hood and Maid Marion. Skinny and weak are adjectives that seem to go together, and I just couldn't pull back that string and hold the bow steady long enough to squint down the arrow and sight the target. I did a little better when we switched to clout shooting. Here, we shot an arrow into the air and it arched gracefully through the sky landing with a whistle in a large circular target on the ground a field away. In a perfect world, the reward for effort would be the same as the reward for ability. Sadly, zero ability in Archery equalled a D on my final report. My instructor suggested that I take Weight Training the next semester. I couldn't salvage my grade point average, but I could buff up my self esteem. Working out with a room full of very fine masculinity wasn't so bad either. I found that my flagging interest in things physcial recovered rapidly and completely.

Bird Song

I stumbled upon a great book this spring. Birdsong by Don Stap was completely captivating. Questioning why birds sing and how they learn their songs, has led him on extensive field research. The book, in turn, becomes a tribute to Don Kroodsma, a scientist and storyteller. Unconventional and brilliant, his passion for birds illuminates the pages of this very inspiring work. I am looking forward to reading his book as well, The Singing Life of Birds.

( hard cover, love that, and large print, really love that )

math and muffins

If books reveal secrets about their owners, my Betty Crocker Cookbook has more clues than a police crime scene. It is no mystery which recipes were featured on the menu. Like Hansel and Gretel, one need only follow a trail of crumbs..... and splatters, and smudges. A few pages have become bonded for life. My favorite muffin recipe has a portion of the opposing page added to the instructions. I learned to cook from this book. And, I came to understand that there is as much math as there is science and art in cooking. Certain ratios of dry to wet ingredients must be respected but can be endlessly adapted in muffins. A cup of liquids to two cups of dry offer plenty of "scope for the imagination." I even remember one of the very first times I made my favorite muffin recipe in the Betty Crocker Cookbook. It was thirty years ago and my brother was visiting with his family. I could tell as I stirred the batter that all the forces of the universe had converged and that these muffins would be perfection. The batter began to rise under the spoon and continued to rise in the oven into golden domes. The perfect tender crumb. A dollop of glistening ruby jam. My brother asked what kind they were and I glanced at the (spattered) page and said, "They're just called Popular Muffins," and he said fervently, "I can see why." Thankyou Betty for giving me such a warm and golden memory.

bookmarked

Don't you hate it when people fold over the corner of a page to mark their place? Don't they know we're surrounded by bookmarks in waiting? They could use a twenty dollar bill, or a newspaper clipping, a pressed flower, or a photo; all things I have found at one time or another in books preread by someone else.
I don't like it when people write in books either.
Or, in a moment of madness, tear out a picture or instructions.
Books have always held something of the sacred for me. 
They can literally change our lives,
comfort and heal.
Surprised By Joy, by C.S.Lewis is on my list of "books that have changed my life."
He wrote of longing.
And the intimacy of the garden of Eden where man walked in the cool of the evening with God.
His words made a difference.

I guess it's important to mark our place, and write down our insights and save what we fear we'll forget.
And if it means you have to fold over the corner of a page, or scribble a note in the margin, so be it.

sorting and polishing memories

It's interesting that all the senses are involved in memory. In my collection of "childhood in Blue River" memories, I recall a warm summer afternoon. Golden light has seeped into the cedar log walls causing the room to take on a burnished glow. Sweet scents of waffle and blueberry have infused the air. Ahhhhh, lunch at Grandma's house, the original aromatherapy. We three cousins have lit on whatever perch seems handy and Grandma is settled by the open window in the big chair. She is reading from the Borrowers and I am fascinated with the name of the main character, Arrietty. It sounds so foreign to my ears, as foreign as the idea of Borrowers themselves that it lends a breath of plausibility in my mind. My Grandmothers steady voice reading, reading, the silver tinkle of distant voices rising and falling on the breeze through the open window over her shoulder. Surely there could have been a girl named Arrietty, isn't my cousins name so like it. Thus is the combined power of fiction and ambiance. Thank you Grandma.........

Zane is Grey!

You've almost reached your limit, the librarian said kindly. Are you returning any books today? My limit?! How could I have sixty books out already. Mind you, I had staggered out to the car with a slipping, sliding stack several times in the last few weeks, but limiting out at the library!! I always have a joyous sense of limitless choices awaiting me when I step through those doors.
In the 1920's and early 30's my Father was growing up in Drumheller and he remembers library cards costing ten cents. You could fill both sides with stamps before you had to buy another and he eventually read the entire children's side of the library. He yearned to read Zane Grey but alas, Zane Grey was on the adult side of the library and therefore, unattainable. This past year, almost eighty years later, he is working his way through a friends huge Zane Grey collection. More than sixty titles....no cards to stamp, no limits.