Quote du jour/Fred Rogers

Parents are like shuttles on a loom. They join the threads of the past with the threads of the future and leave their own bright patterns as they go, providing continuity to succeeding ages.
Fred Rogers

Quote du jour/Sophie Kinsella

If everyone could just wear new clothes everyday, I reckon depression wouldn't exist anymore.
Sophie Kinsella, Confessions of a Shopaholic

My new clothes, all from Woolrich!

Today's picture/Raindrops on honeysuckle

Garden

I think about the word "garden" a lot. When I was a girl, and even into young adulthood, when someone around me said garden, I knew they were always referring to a vegetable garden. When you went out to "work in the garden" it was always planting, weeding, or harvesting tomatoes or cucumbers. People had flower "beds" or just flowers, but they were rarely called gardens. And I never heard anyone call themselves a "gardener" in those days. I think it was Carol, over at May Dreams Gardens who once asked if we called ourselves gardeners. It's such an interesting question.

In all the British books I've read over the years, they always say garden for what I call lawn or backyard. It also seems that the word garden is used to describe the whole of an estate, an umbrella term which covers the flowers, vegetables, lawns, and wood(s). I've puzzled over this because my land is spread out. It isn't like a town garden which might be a front lawn full of flowers and a beautiful path leading to the front door, or one of those wonderful Groundforce gardens in the back of the house, surrounded by a high fence which blocks the closeby neighbors.

My front yard is divided by a dirt road which used to go by our house and continue up to the next house, .2 mile up the hill. Now, we own that land, and the house is gone, and the road stops here (except when it is used for logging or walking). I've kind of taken on the broad term of garden, meaning the whole land, and naming each little area; the terrace garden, the vegetable garden, the patio garden, the fence garden, the lawn garden. I don't go out to "the garden." I go outside to a specific garden. I don't have big, complicated gardens. I am a simple gardener, and grow what does well in my zone 2, 3, or 4 garden, depending where it is on the farm. I have had to give up a lot of plants I used to grow at my former house eight miles away. No more evening primrose, no more bee balm, and definitely no roses except the hardy rosa rugosa. I grow a lot of what I love, like daylilies in many colors, iris, mallow. As the spring and summer go on, I'm hoping to highlight the different gardens and what is growing there.

Today's poem - With Nighttime Falling by Iva E. Reed

Iva Reed is an old friend of mine. Though I do not like milk toast, I have fond memories of my mother eating it. I love this poem.


With
Nighttime
Falling

You know
what I'd like?

I'd like
some milk toast
like my mother used to make

And perhaps
to hear the woodthrush
calling

with
nighttime falling
at the edge of the wood

Iva E. Reed

November 2000

Today's picture/Pause

Any idea what this is? :<) Well, it is an image on the television. Last evening we were watching a dvd of the second season of Murder In Suburbia and I paused it. This is what showed up on the screen. They are lights at a wedding.

Today's picture/Plum blossoms

I wish there were a way to share the perfume of these blossoms.

Quote(s) du jour for Mother's Day

Being a mother is the only "job" I ever wanted, and because I feel it is such important, meaningful, and necessary work I am offering many quotes du jour, many different ways of looking at this blessing of being a mother. And on this day, my heart is full for two mothers I know; one my friend since childhood, another my internet friend of ten years, both of whom have lost a child, the very worst sorrow in this world.


Becoming a mother makes you the mother of all children. From now on each wounded, abandoned, frightened child is yours. You live in the suffering mothers of every race and creed and weep with them. You long to comfort all who are desolate.
Charlotte Gray

A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.
Agatha Christie

The greatest love is a mother’s;
Then comes a dog’s,
Then comes a sweetheart’s.
(20th century) Polish Proverb.

A mother should give her children a superabundance of enthusiasm, that after they have lost all they are sure to lose in mixing with the world, enough may still remain to prompt and support them through great actions.
Julius C. Hare

A mother is a person who, seeing there are only four pieces of pie for five people, promptly announces she never did care for pie.
Tenneva Jordan

A mother's example sketches the outline of her child's character.
Mrs. H. O. Ward

Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.
Elizabeth Stone

A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials, heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.
Washington Irving

With my mother's death, all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of joy, but no more of the old security. It was sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis.
C. S. Lewis

Book Report/American Bloomsbury

Reading American Bloomsbury felt very much like sitting in my kitchen with Susan Cheever, listening to her tell me stories of all these talented people in Massachusetts in the 1800s. I could "hear" her voice, and I occasionally wanted to respond or ask a question. It was a unique reading experience for me. She wrote about a group of people, rather than one person. There are many shortish chapters devoted to one author or personality, but others always creep in. The reader learns about an incident in Emerson's chapter, and gets a different slant on the same incident in Alcott's chapter. There isn't chronology as such, and surprisingly this didn't bother me. I could go to the back of the book, and look it up if I really needed to know the year, but mostly the narrative simply flowed around about these amazing people. They are presented, warts and all. No one is "perfect", and not a few are selfish or self-absorbed or poor husbands (or all three at once). But we also see their goodness, at least the good they tried to do, and quite often failed. Hawthorne living for years in his family home, writing away upstairs, hardly seeing anyone after the death of his father. Bronson Alcott, really the most irritating of them all. A terrible husband, father, provider, but still we see the idealist, the man who hates slavery, who can never get it just right when it comes to living a life. Thoreau who was so very ahead of his time that no one really understood him.

Each of them produced extraordinary works which are still revered today. Among these folks, there was genius after genius. Louisa May Alcott, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Margaret Fuller, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, Henry David Thoreau. And they all wanted to change the world as it was. They tore against the bonds of propriety, Puritanism, and slavery. Some promoted the abolition of slavery, some promoted women's rights, some promoted nature over societal mores. Some had money, some had no money. They were all different yet were all entangled with one another, some romantically, some intellectually, some philosophically.

The poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow often dropped by the Emerson House from his house in nearby Sudbury for a cigar and some brandy, and Emerson, Longfellow, and Hawthorne and his friend Melville talked a lot about who would write the story of Evangeline - they decided that Longfellow was the one.

The book's energy comes from a fierce yearning, a longing to have had the fictional experience instead of the real one. Little Women, as many great books do, hovers in the gap between art and life- just alive enough so that we can recognize ourselves in its pages, just artistic enough so that we can find the lives we read about completely satisfying.

My feeling is this book will serve as an introduction to all these authors, and any reader who is interested will go on to read more about the individuals and/or to read their books. It was a very pleasant and enjoyable reading experience for me. I knew very, very little about the Alcotts, Hawthorne, and Fuller, and just a bit about Thoreau, so it was a book-lover's delight to read about their lives and their books. I definitely recommend it, even if you don't care for some of the authors.

Reposting/Today's (May 7) poem - From The Borough by George Crabbe

A blog entry I did on the 7th seems to be missing the photos. I know they were there at first, so I have no idea what happened. I'm going to try it again because the entry meant a lot to me. If it works, I'll delete the earlier post.



This is from the May page of my Pug calendar.
from The Borough by George Crabbe, 1810.


With eye uprais'd, his master's looks to scan,
The joy, the solace, and the aid of man;
The rich man's guardian, and the poor man's friend,
The only being faithful to the end.


In memory of a good, good dog.
Little Ann
May 7, 1993 - October 20, 2006

A walk on nature's wild side

Do you suppose if Wordsworth had written about a host of golden dandelions, this lowly flower might be better loved?



Trout-Lily or Adder's-Tongue. I love both these names.




Ferns unfurling. Don't they look like some kind of pods in a horror movie?



This is called Juneberry, Shadbush, Serviceberry. Around here when we see the blooms it means the arrival of black flies.



Yellow bedstraw. Another great name. A bit on the weedy side but the leaves and the flowers to come are beautiful.

Today's cd/Gordon

Barenaked Ladies/Gordon/1992

My favorite album by one of my favorite bands.

Quote du jour/P.G. Wodehouse

There is no time, sir, in which ties do not matter.
Jeeves, in Very Good Jeeves by P. G. Wodehouse

Farm life/Pullets-er Prize

Their new home -





And this is what they will grow up to look like -



Today was arrival day for the new chicks. They were born on Monday, packed up into a box, and mailed from a hatchery in Missouri. I let the Post Office know they were coming, and a fellow called this morning saying they were there. They are living in a big box in the cellar, with a heat lamp, a feeder, and a waterer. In a few weeks, they will move out to the barn. We have Dominique chickens, a breed which was rare just a few years ago, but now is coming back. In Bailey White's Quite A Year For Plums, there is a character who does a painting of them which is exhibited at a big show. They are said to be America's oldest, original chicken. You will sometimes read of them referred to as Dominikers. Our girls are delightful creatures, very good layers, long-lived, hardy, and just plain cheerful. We only get hens, also known as pullets. We had a rooster once, but he was a mean one. He scared the kids, and would go after us if we went near. We gave him away to someone who was duly warned. That rooster went after his daughters, and the man shot him. Occasionally we are asked if we can get eggs without a rooster, and the answer is yes. They aren't fertile, that's all.

Today's song / Morning Has Broken

This is the song playing in my head and heart on this most perfect of mornings. Beautiful sunshine, temperature in the low 70s, and the lovely new green color coming on the trees and plants and lawns. The air is full of birdsong. The bubbly voices of the swallows, the incredibly lovely music the plain brown song sparrow sings, the spring song of the chickadee. "God's re-creation" indeed.



Morning Has Broken

As sung by Cat Stevens (now known as Yusuf Islam)
Words: Eleanor Farjeon
Music: Bunessan, Gaelic melody

Morning has broken like the first morning,
blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing fresh from the Word!

Sweet the rain's new fall sunlit from heaven,
like the first dewfall on the first grass.
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden,
sprung in completeness where his feet pass.

Mine is the sunlight! Mine is the morning
born of the one light Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's re-creation of the new day!

Morning has broken like the first morning,
blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing fresh from the Word!

Bloglist is back!

Those visitors with a keen eye :<) may have seen the bloglist is back on the sidebar. Not only back, but with many additions. I just got to thinking that it should be here. I have discovered many wonderful blogs from reading bloglists, and thought I should offer the same opportunity to you who drop by here. Each one brightens my life.

Today's picture(s) / First violet and first Johnny Jump Up

Both species in the plant genus Viola. The Johnny Jump Up is also known as Heartsease. Isn't that a wonderful name?

Supper on the patio

Who says vegetarians can't have a cookout? :<) Last night we had the best potatoes. We used one of those foil bags, and filled it with peeled, chopped potatoes, garlic put through the press, and melted butter. I know, I know, it should have been olive oil, and I did add a little, but the original recipe called for butter, and it is just so good. :<) Our daughter was over, and she and Tom grilled veggie burgers as well. This summer when the zucchini comes in, I'll chop some up and add it to the mix. I've heard that grilled peppers are good, too, and will try them when they're available at the farmers' market.

Garden Song

Garden Song
by David Mallett

Inch by inch, row by row
Gonna make this garden grow
Gonna mulch it deep and low
Gonna make it fertile ground

Inch by inch, row by row
Please bless these seeds I sow
Please keep them safe below
'Til the rain comes tumbling down

Pullin' weeds and pickin' stones
We are made of dreams and bones
Need a place to call my own
'Cause the time is close at hand

Grain for grain, sun and rain
Find my way in nature's chain
Till my body and my brain
Tell the music of the land

Inch by inch, row by row
Gonna make this garden grow
Gonna mulch it deep and low
Gonna make it fertile ground

Plant your rows straight and long
Season with a prayer and song
Mother Earth will make you strong
If you give her loving care

Inch by inch, row by row
Gonna make this garden grow
Gonna mulch it deep and low
Gonna make it fertile ground

Cinco de Mayo, 2007

On this Cinco de Mayo, we have the first Los Lonely Boys on the cd player.





And Margaritas for cocktails. There are lots of recipes, but my favorite is:

2 oz. Tequila
2 oz. Triple Sec
2 oz. lemon (my choice) or lime juice



And for supper, Bean and Potato Tacos.

I cook pinto beans in the crockpot or on the stove until they are soft. I then cook an equal amount of peeled, chopped potatoes.
In a large cast iron fry pan I sauté some chopped onions in olive oil. I add the beans and potatoes, and cook together at a low temp. I serve them in taco shells or on tortillas with lettuce, chopped tomatoes, salsa, and sour cream. You may grate cheese on top, if desired.



And for dessert, I made Chocolate Fudge Pie from my Heirloom Baking cookbook.

It begins:

We had to include this recipe in this chapter because we found it written on the back of a bridge tally. We were amused to see the columns labeled "We" and "They." After tasting this pie, we're sure that "We" and "They" must have liked it. Simple, fudgy, and great with vanilla ice cream, this is a pie that makes its own crust. A homey little dessert, it's easy to make, and seductively chocolate.

1/2 cup flour
1/8 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup melted butter
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1 oz. bitter chocolate, melted and cooled
1 teaspoon vanilla

1. Set the oven rack in the middle position. Preheat the oven to 325º F. Cut a wax paper or parchment paper liner to fit the bottom of a 9-inch ovenproof glass pie plate. Coat the plate with vegetable spray, insert the liner, and spray again to coat the liner.
2. Sift together the flour and salt.
3. Cream butter and sugar in the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Add eggs, one at a time, and beat until thoroughly mixed. Add sifted dry ingredients. Add chocolate and vanilla and combine.
4. Pour batter into pie plate. Bake approximately 30 minutes, or until tester inserted into center of pie comes out clean. Pie will have cracks on top. Cool pie on rack. (Pie may collapse slightly while cooling.) Serve slightly warm at room temperature with vanilla or chocolate ice cream. Store loosely covered with wax paper in the refrigerator.



Every part of this evening was perfect, and perfectly delicious!