For Reading Out Loud

A recent radio program spoke about sharing books and asked what were the criteria one used to choose which books to share with others and which to just quietly read, enjoy, savour, and replace on the shelf without comment or recommendation.
I  rarely recommend a book to another and  conversely, if someone recommends a book for me to read I rarely do. 
Having said that, I do believe that the absolutely best way for someone to really share a book with another is by reading it out loud .  My fondest memory of having someone share the written word is when my Dad would get the coloured comics from the newspaper and we would listen to the radio station together as the comics were being read.  Ogo Pogo, The Bumstead's and Lil'Abner were read in animated voices by radio announcers every Sunday morning. If we somehow missed the show then Dad would pitch in and read them to us much to our delight.

BUT, the very, very, very best book sharing that I have ever experienced was when my sister read me stories from Thornton Burgess that were at first printed in the weekly edition of the Western Producer.  The tales of Peter Rabbit, Chatterer the Red Squirrel, Reddy Fox,  Old Man Coyote  and all their friends, describing their antics in the Green Forest with Old Mother West Wind bounded off the page, unto my sister's lips, and  were forever imprinted upon my then four or five year old brain as  we sat in a quiet corner of the house or a shady place on the grass. 

The  Thornton Burgess Bedtime Story books were later collected by myself and my friends with as much frenzy and jealousy as any group of children today have for the possession of action figures, video games, or electronic gadgetry.

  The arrival of Longlegs the Heron and Lighfoot the Deer to the limited library of our rural school house caused a panicky lineup amongst the reading crowd to see who would get to be the first to read these coveted writings.

I tried to pass my love for this series to my school students and later to my own children with limited success.  

 But for myself , whenever I see Jimmy Skunk,  Sammy Jay, Jerry Muskrat's house, or hear Grandfather Frog croaking in the Babbling Brook I recall a warm summer day laying on a blanket while listening to my sister's voice as she read with all the skill that an eight year old could muster to bring the story to life.

 I guess she did a pretty good job of it. 

 

Childhood Survived!

I have been a parent for over 30 years now.  My mother has been a mom for over 66 years. My grandmother has been a mother for 89 years. Over these years I suspect parenting skills, at best, have improved in some ways, and no doubt have at least changed in many others depending upon the mode of the day and technology.

For instance, the use of 'Mother's Milk' which was probably used in Grandma's day changed to using corn syrup and canned condensed milk warmed up in a glass bottle in my Mother's time of feeding infants. This was accompanied by the practice of putting soothers into the sugar bowl  before being offered to a colicky crying infant (which is in stark contrast  to the more primitive calming method of rubbing vodka or home brew on its soft spot).   Some of these maternal practices, along with the  use of the softest of pillows and placing them at the bottom of the baby carriage in dry cleaning plastic to keep it clean , have thankfully gone by the wayside and have been replaced with more sanitary, safer, and saner maternal practices.  

Diapers in those days were flannelet and were held in situ with safety pins which sometimes were not so safe.  No plastic cap snap pins in those days, nor were there Velcro closing fasteners for cloth diapers either. Paper diapers weren't hardly even a choice 30 years ago.

As toddlers grew the use of walkers with wheels were the common toy--allowing the youngster to whiz around the kitchen and/ or down stairways at speeds not otherwise experienced by a small child until they at least learned to ride a two wheeled bicycle.

Car travel held its own perils during my childhood years.  The most obvious danger in cars at the time was that they  were made of  an all metal exterior and interior. They  weren't even equipped with turn signals or seat belts. The closest thing to car seats for children on the market would have been a metal pet carrier. 

The then solution for many a family?

                               The large shelf under the back window of the car.

  This kept the child out of the way from unbelted sibling car antics and within sight of the driver in the rear view mirror.

BTW--being 'belted' in the car had a whole different meaning in those days to an errant child who asked once too often , "Are we there yet?"

The importance of being 'belted in'  has always been a priority for me with  my own children as I hearken back to the  'pre belting' day of my childhood when, as we were traveling down the road with my mom at the wheel and I in the back seat , I noticed that the  door  on the passenger side of the front seat  was rattling.  I distinctly remember telling mom as I leaned over the front seat to grab the door handle, " I'll close it for you Mom.....".

A lesson in Physics thus commenced as it was at the precise moment that I grabbed said door handle  that Mom turned a  sharp corner (there was definately (I am almost certain) an actual sharp corner in the otherwise flat, straight prairie farm road) and due to the law of Physics called inertia the door swung wide open with my hand and me attached to it.   The prickliness of the grassy ditch and the rolling rolling rolling that was accompanied by my surprise arrival outside of the car did not phase this then five year old.  The calling out  of , "Mom wait for me." as I climbed out of the ditch, was quickly heeded as the car stopped about a 2 minute walk further down the road and I reentered, and our journey continued.  As I think back to this happening,  I have just realized why I can't remember Mom ever referring to this incident again. Nope there is no recollection of her recounting the tale to either my dad or any of her friends.  The more I think of that and being a Mother myself I think I may know the reason.

Living in a rural area, with a Grandma just 2 miles away it was very tempting for a 4 year old to ride her tricycle along the dirt road all the way without telling anyone.  (I distinctly remember Grandma standing on her step waving to me and saying that Mom had just called on the phone looking for me.  I turned the tricycle around and pedaled home as fast as I could.)   The next time I rode that far I told my Mom and she wisely tied a pink ribbon onto the right hand handlebar so I would know which side of the road to drive on both coming and going to grandma's.  She did this especially because there was a road construction crew building the road up and she wanted me to be safe (I'm almost certain of it).

 Using mustard plasters for congested chests,  placing socks covered in Vick's around a child's neck for a sore throat, as well as the placing of a glass mercury laden stick into a sick child's mouth, along with the stern warning of "Do NOT bite on this."  to determine fever level have pretty much gone by the wayside.

 I wonder how many 'new fad' ideas of allowing children to or not to have video games, watch television, or cell phones will be considered blase and dangerous 50 years from now?
 
Perhaps all things will become Cyber such as travel, feeding, playing,  and exercise. Perhaps the need for motherhood traditional care will have gone by the wayside and all the conundrums and traditional methods will be lost and replaced by FINALLY the correct and most logical answers to Child Raising ever to be devised never to be challenged again.

 

Gossipy Geese

I returned to my 'old stomping' grounds this last weekend and had a great time.  I saw friends and visited with people I hadn't seen in years.  I exchanged news and information about children, jobs, and vacations.  Bygone memories of times long past but surprisingly still fresh were recounted and enjoyed again. 

Yes, indeed, the evening was almost too perfect, and as all too perfect evenings are there was that inevitable little mar that just gave one that bit of reality reminder that not only can one not 'go back' but that in some instances one does not want to.

I had taken along a friend for company, and it was out of her mouth that this life truth was illustrated.  We hadn't been in the hall which was full of my hometown crowd  more than five minutes when my friend turned to me and said, "There are two women sitting over at that table to the left and they are talking about us."  I had actually been aware of these two 'ladies' with heads down and eyes glancing at us as we walked in but I had chosen to ignore it and looked away, but the spoken recognition of the fact by my friend, a complete stranger to the people and hall, impressed upon me just how blatant, open, and lengthy this discussion of myself and my  friend must have been.  It was almost as if these two people thought they were in a little one way bubble visually. Perhaps  they thought they could see us but we couldn't see them so they could stare and talk without shame or fear of retribution.

So what does a lady such as myself do  in an instance such as this?

She does this:

As she knows the name of one of those of no couth or candor, she writes the following on her Social Network Status the next morning:

You know what is really interesting is when one walks into a hall full of people and you get a sense that 'someone' is talking about you. You look over the crowd and can immediately spy out who it is...almost like having whispers behind covered hands becoming coloured. LOL!

THEN she invites the Lady of the Tongue (who she has previous has had same lady Social Networkly blocked) to suddenly become her friend on said Social Network, hoping that the Lady of the Tongue would accept and see the first status ever of the One That Has Been Gossiped About being the above.

AND  ...she did
   AND.... she  did read
                  ...she must have.


The Lady of the Tongue will be Re--blocked after the mandatory 48 hours has passed.

This  is  a far far better method I think than walking over to the table and saying, "Hello.  Is there anything you would like clarified?"  Less risk of confrontation.
 The next time I see them I will just smile and wave.

I am not pretending that I never gossip. But what I am saying is that because I don't pretend not to, I know that one has to be discreet about it. I

know   that people can actually see me talking about them so I take precautions..I carry either a paper bag to cover my head or I simply write and exchange notes with my co-gossiper--chewing and swallowing the evidence afterwards. 

An Open Letter to Rachel Anne

An open letter to my long missed and absent daughter, mom to my first and only grandchild (as far as I am aware), who is dearly thought of and sorely longed for,

It has been almost five years since we have had much contact other than those few times that were too short and too strained to be considered any real contact other than visual and a cursory acknowledgment of our been in the same room physically.

I know you must have some pretty valid reasons for why we have not heard from you and I just wanted you to know that I know for a fact that   there have been without a doubt things that I have done to contribute to your decision to not include myself or your dad in your life.   I know there are many things we could have and should have done differently and better.  I know that I made some bad  choices in parenting and I truly truly apologize for the hurts that I have caused you in the past.

This letter is my way of openly and publicly acknowledging that you were wronged and that I was, as your Mom,  responsible for wrongs done to you and I am publicly asking and hoping  that you may find it in your heart to help me make amends to you for the hurts and wrongs that I have caused to happen to you so that we may slowly and safely resume our relationship in a new way and form.

Much love,
Mom

A Little Bit of Lawnmower Goes a Long Ways

I have always enjoyed that Lawnmower commercial where the guy is showing off all the stuff he has owned over the years and which he still uses. 

  "See this shirt..had it for 15 years.  See this car..had it for 20 years.  See this tool belt...it was my Dad's."

 The presentation ends, of course, with the reliability of the chosen and aged lawnmower --a selling feature in today's culture of built in obsolescence.

Actually that line "See this (whatever article chosen)..I've had it for 30 years" has been used by myself to tease my husband who loves the idea that many of the items in his possession are well used and still functional.  He treasures the first set of tools he ever owned, wears every pair of slippers until the developing holes become a danger on stairs and floor alike, and still crows over the sound and size of his stereo speakers which he bought 35 years ago.

I, too, have come to realize the value of keeping and using things as much as possible.  As I think of my  31 year old electric stove, the 'newer' 15 year old refrigerator, and the pine table and china cabinet set that have served the family through 4 children, at least 60 birthday party celebrations, 33 Xmas dinners, as well as several games of cards, Easter Egg decorating, along with sausage making episodes and homemade pasta making afternoons; I realize that perhaps that 'use it till it falls apart and then make a rag out of it philosophy' may apply to myself as well.

We still use the quilt my mother-in-law sewed from used clothing 40 years ago, the hooked rug I made while still a single teacher, as well as  the paint worn and handle bent wheelbarrow that we bought for use in our first garden. 

I feel a sense of pride not only in our thriftiness, but also our ability to appreciate and utilize the things we have to the fullest.   

One can, however , take things just a little too far  in terms of keeping items  just in case one might need it, as I found, much to my surprise, in my laundry an item that mysteriously had decided to 'float' to the top and make itself known once again after many many years of even the remotest usefulness.

A Nursing Bra!

Lambing

It's that time of year again.  

The time of year when one dons the traditional black and red rubber boots, loads up the wheel barrow with knapsack or whatever else one wishes to have carried 'out to the car' and proceeds to walk about a city block out to the the top of the road where the vehicle is parked for the duration of the melting and mudding process that takes place every year in our yard.  It is only with great trepidation and dire need that we will drive closer to the house until the snow, water, slush, and deep sinking mud have disappeared for fear of tearing great ruts in the lane as well as  risk having to be pulled out with a tractor.

This little night walk outside in the dark down our lane and around a corner into the persistent and ever present wind reminds me of the days when we had goats and sheep out in the barn and the trips in the spring every hour or so during lambing/kidding season.

 The air has a special quality to it late in the evening and into the early hours of dawn .  There is a  stillness and even an unexplained unique smell in the air which does not exist any other time of the day.  I would even bet that if one were to blindfold me and deny me access to what time it was in the day and walk me outside at 3:00 am I would be able to  determine within a couple of hours the time on the clock by the stillness and aura  in the air. 


I wish I could find a poem or a piece of prose that adequately describes the process that a farmer  must go through  when checking on domestic animals on the verge of giving birth in the middle of the night.

Some of the words used would be the following:

Sleeping fully clothed.
Alarm ringing.
Quietly putting on boots, coat, and hat and  opening the creaky outside door.
Cool Fresh Air awakens the senses.
Stars above and flashlight in hand.
Crunch of snow and ice underfoot.
Dog panting along side.
Startled momentary rustle as barn light is flicked on.
Smell of hay, manure, and animal scent.
Quiet gazes exchanged as scene is observed for unusual stance or isolation since the last visit. 
 Hushed accounting  and quick glance at exits to ensure all are present. 
Light flipped off...flashlight clicked on.
Quiet walk back to the darkened house.
Chilled air returns to pinch the face.
Coat, boots, flashlight deposited by door.
Soft steps back to the bed.
Alarm set for two hours hence.
Cold cheeks on soft pillow.