tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5754041087694567612024-03-13T20:09:17.226-07:00Of Books, Beauty and BeingNana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.comBlogger89125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-54261018829175581462015-03-21T15:01:00.001-07:002015-03-21T19:08:21.429-07:00Places of Your Heart<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9L413spYbiWyYww_EcVa0jq38EIISrjc0gQXzzlcFWTsEfhmwg-k-fx7YzuZ46DEGtXAlxOfuCs9ZgT8SVBj8nRNrqjccW3kIAqxsf76t3iuNQXCiP6yiGuduN5a1v-O0WpEXHR9u14Wr/s1600/Corey+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9L413spYbiWyYww_EcVa0jq38EIISrjc0gQXzzlcFWTsEfhmwg-k-fx7YzuZ46DEGtXAlxOfuCs9ZgT8SVBj8nRNrqjccW3kIAqxsf76t3iuNQXCiP6yiGuduN5a1v-O0WpEXHR9u14Wr/s1600/Corey+2015.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<a href="http://www.coreyprimus.com/about/"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Corey Primus</span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> was married to my beloved sister for
many years and is the father of their four amazing children. Although they
have been divorced for a long time now, he is much respected and loved by our
family. </span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Corey is an award winning song writer, musician and
performer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As long as I have known him,
which is thirty-five years now, he has belonged, like a child lost in wonder
leaping in leaves, to music. His songs, which possess a unique clarity all his
own, shine with benediction and transformation. Just as a dancer prays by
dancing and a painter prays by painting, I think Corey prays through his music, his
songs, and his voice. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Please listen to his </span><a href="http://www.coreyprimus.com/releases/"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">original creations </span></a><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> including the beautiful
'Places of Your Heart', and also to the wonderful music on his sound cloud:</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="color: #515151;"><a href="https://soundcloud.com/coreyprimus" title=""><span style="color: blue; font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">https://soundcloud.com/coreyprimus</span></a></span><br />
<span style="color: #515151;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrii6HFg5C8ZJygxDHHfloEAJhthTqOtpkGfRXsflpthhZOzuYHupBuISe8cE4fGb24FlrVZerrGoRwpTtH6RmwGiIItTpg1Xa5qWqG3SfKSTvGTyoXz2-pNzuryKmtnLhW2GKIAEjAopV/s1600/music1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrii6HFg5C8ZJygxDHHfloEAJhthTqOtpkGfRXsflpthhZOzuYHupBuISe8cE4fGb24FlrVZerrGoRwpTtH6RmwGiIItTpg1Xa5qWqG3SfKSTvGTyoXz2-pNzuryKmtnLhW2GKIAEjAopV/s1600/music1.png" /></a></div>
</div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-46305078719710646912015-03-17T17:38:00.000-07:002015-03-21T15:38:39.461-07:00Green, Greener, Greenest<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIlV_ZjGUF3eGfExhKafp-sDmKRj7kD23ssHZ2FQTdV1A1pJoyWvc98XXfmkHBtKRWUbFgkKG5U7nKL_RuWDfKsPlwGX_w325SP6VKTIsgW4BHgide_aJV61Ihm8lDAN2UhLlnPuT7EpT/s1600/Frog+&+Toad+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnIlV_ZjGUF3eGfExhKafp-sDmKRj7kD23ssHZ2FQTdV1A1pJoyWvc98XXfmkHBtKRWUbFgkKG5U7nKL_RuWDfKsPlwGX_w325SP6VKTIsgW4BHgide_aJV61Ihm8lDAN2UhLlnPuT7EpT/s1600/Frog+&+Toad+1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="color: #333333;">Are
you wearing green today? <br />
<br />
I wore a green shirt to work today. Gem wore a tie emblazoned with shamrocks.
Neither of us has any ancestral connections with Ireland, of which we’re aware,
anyway. However, when it comes to St. Patrick’s Day, we’re delighted to
celebrate with the Irish. Many of the children taking part in the
Spring break activities at my book store were also clad in a bit o’ green.</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Perhaps the greenest of green children’s books are the “Frog and Toad”
series, written and illustrated by Arnold Lobel. Frog And Toad Are Friends
(1970), Frog And Toad Together (1972), Frog And Toad All Year (1976). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These ‘I Can Read’ early readers are winners
of both the Newbery for distinguished writing and the Caldecott for excellence
in illustration. They are classic works of children’s literature. Filled with
wisdom and laughter, friendship and silliness, these stories possess a gentle
magic. Frog and Toad fly kites, take long walks, ride bicycles, read to each other, swim and cook,
and clean Toad’s very messy house. They dream and imagine, are brave and
hopeful, and goad and tease each other with an old-fashioned courtesy that is
nonetheless still amusing today.</span> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_miyWBejvAXO-iWbHbY8zG8i4D1_RBY920WkUlmU-xIdsIgInAJR_yWqF5F3CGFlRrq7jKRm1OYBGcwMB9PTUevy3fOg8YubK12uX786Az1HcHwYxJSNm_5w5AuK7T4pjgEbhhD7C_Ag/s1600/Frog+&+Toad+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_miyWBejvAXO-iWbHbY8zG8i4D1_RBY920WkUlmU-xIdsIgInAJR_yWqF5F3CGFlRrq7jKRm1OYBGcwMB9PTUevy3fOg8YubK12uX786Az1HcHwYxJSNm_5w5AuK7T4pjgEbhhD7C_Ag/s1600/Frog+&+Toad+2.jpg" height="320" width="145" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And, they’re green. Well, of course, you may be thinking. After
all, frogs and toads, by their very nature, are green. But the illustrations in
these books take that greenness to another level; everything in them is tinted,
shaded, coloured and imbued with every hue of green imaginable. This includes the walls of
their houses, their furniture, their clothes; the food they eat, the very air
they breathe on the pages. Green, greener, greenest. How this is achieved is a
remarkable feat of artistry.</span> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhELe_DoWAt5cCSh7nscefbcIZTC6bqRbKOZJV1whMiN_bqhks8DF2MSU3pejQTPvhUwnnVd1_2RB77v3xvLKFrqFfo36aStHfC1rGcsO9klHyTFiNICCy13qFf07VZyww63pWoIWA4k1EZ/s1600/frog+&+toad+3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhELe_DoWAt5cCSh7nscefbcIZTC6bqRbKOZJV1whMiN_bqhks8DF2MSU3pejQTPvhUwnnVd1_2RB77v3xvLKFrqFfo36aStHfC1rGcsO9klHyTFiNICCy13qFf07VZyww63pWoIWA4k1EZ/s1600/frog+&+toad+3.png" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Apparently, these characters were inspired by boyhood summer holidays
when Arnold Lobel spent much of his time observing frogs and toads in a nearby
pond. He found the creatures beautiful, interesting and comical, and years
later they would form the basis for his lovely tales. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You can keep your willpower, Frog. I am going home to bake
a cake.” <br />
― Arnold Lobel, <em>Frog and Toad Together</em> </span></div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Actually, cake
sounds rather good right now. I think I shall do likewise, and ice it
with a little greenish butter-cream, by way of adding<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>some Froggish- Toadish (and Irish) charm.</span> </span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNsBuedigtIgwCAdEWcDw0Iod-6nLIX8k3BVowc1oHEBBpG5igcAz7bH8fiLPgqx0kSoERtEdqzmdqdtMHKq5Svz7Phyi4KjNgikTe-eNcFOZiWREpzY1CFfFEXJQJ9-3OTFr4XkxnBpm/s1600/green+cupcakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdNsBuedigtIgwCAdEWcDw0Iod-6nLIX8k3BVowc1oHEBBpG5igcAz7bH8fiLPgqx0kSoERtEdqzmdqdtMHKq5Svz7Phyi4KjNgikTe-eNcFOZiWREpzY1CFfFEXJQJ9-3OTFr4XkxnBpm/s1600/green+cupcakes.jpg" /></a></div>
<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"></span><br />Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-42039054984420139242015-02-14T11:56:00.000-08:002015-03-12T12:10:37.214-07:00Valentine Roses<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUEFE4roVIZTMVZEqrX8Alu9Uw-lu0Alqn3APLZqshtrf1rfM05eE1B0Roc-Yt9lMoo2jM6n9GkH6r9mKmq72jpPdIm-dMf4DykmMdqiBUmQUog53BZ7dBpPKgphwg-0-ZU8LcoHGSSkw/s1600/roses+in+the+rain.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUEFE4roVIZTMVZEqrX8Alu9Uw-lu0Alqn3APLZqshtrf1rfM05eE1B0Roc-Yt9lMoo2jM6n9GkH6r9mKmq72jpPdIm-dMf4DykmMdqiBUmQUog53BZ7dBpPKgphwg-0-ZU8LcoHGSSkw/s400/roses+in+the+rain.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566963929321460162" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
I would like to share a moment of Valentine heart with you.<br />
<br />
My husband comes from a Dutch immigrant family. His mother, whom our children called Oma, was a tall, robust woman with a big heart. Loud voiced and opinionated, her actions sometimes surprised me with a gentleness that belied her more usual stance. <br />
<br />
Once, many years ago, she took me with her to visit an elderly Dutch lady from her church. This venerable woman, in her mid-nineties, was wonderfully spry. In addition to keeping a small vegetable garden and attending her flower beds, her little house was meticulously clean. That day, as I got out of the car, I saw a tiny, white-haired creature busy painting her fence. <br />
<br />
My mother-in-law admonished her a little, "Minnie, you shouldn’t be doing that. Can’t your son-in-law do it for you?"<br />
<br />
The little, stooped figure straightened up, made a dismissive gesture, and said something in Dutch, which was translated to me as, "He who has butter on his head, should stay out of the sun."<br />
<br />
I must have looked baffled, because she attempted an explanation, "Da son-in-law be only 70, but he be tired all da time. Och!"<br />
<br />
As she motioned us into the house, we passed the rose bushes which had been the especial love of her husband, Henk, who had passed away several years ago. Minnie took a pair of scissors from her apron pocket and snipped two blooms. <br />
<br />
Perched on an aged wing chair in the living room, I watched as she placed the richly red roses in a vase next to a picture of a smiling old man holding a small dog. For a moment, her hand trembled against the velvet labyrinth.<br />
<br />
"Yah. Old fool love da roses.", she said. <br />
<br />
My eyes met those of my mother-in-law, who was unloading the almond cookies she had brought with her, and putting the kettle on in the adjoining kitchen. She was smiling, and her eyes were full of an unaccustomed softness.<br />
<br />
Later, as we drove home, she told me that Minnie had once told her that several months before he died, Henk, fearing a heavy rain storm would destroy his last roses of the season, had gone outside to cut them. "Minnie told me she followed him out into the rain and held an umbrella over his head while he did this." <br />
<br />
I was nineteen and passionately, newly married. I couldn't imagine anyone old being romantic. That is, until that moment, listening to my mother-in-law's words. <br />
<br />
That benediction of late roses lives in me, still. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTPNlV9ZcPTiaXwxRqVY36uYVGBu0fe45mjOPeF4uztFdka2-3Jfyz3AL-Unwki3QfbQyy3LkvlHL1Xy9OPbwbdzjzBSBdH2M8KUGJP3JRGP0f7yspAHkiTF3fj0sGU95wyUPG7iGKeg/s1600/red+roses+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTPNlV9ZcPTiaXwxRqVY36uYVGBu0fe45mjOPeF4uztFdka2-3Jfyz3AL-Unwki3QfbQyy3LkvlHL1Xy9OPbwbdzjzBSBdH2M8KUGJP3JRGP0f7yspAHkiTF3fj0sGU95wyUPG7iGKeg/s400/red+roses+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566964065140639298" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 168px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
May each of you seek always to discover the joy and beauty of your own Valentine moments. Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-60388414367191283292015-01-28T07:30:00.000-08:002015-01-28T12:01:50.992-08:00Xander's Panda Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsSFKwKcRYIEoBPuvGkDOwcOMjxVZp0IsFILcCqkqEODA-rzgD2Unqa-Tj_j9SlqDMxQteuRmnT8y4ty4jT-7WofYH5S_bvEEg4X5hjM2AcacuKKyXaYWd9355EHYVQqSOhd4ijWf1N_S/s1600/xander7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTsSFKwKcRYIEoBPuvGkDOwcOMjxVZp0IsFILcCqkqEODA-rzgD2Unqa-Tj_j9SlqDMxQteuRmnT8y4ty4jT-7WofYH5S_bvEEg4X5hjM2AcacuKKyXaYWd9355EHYVQqSOhd4ijWf1N_S/s1600/xander7.jpg" height="277" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: red;"><strong>X</strong></span>ander’s Panda Party,
by Newbery Award winning, Linda Sue Park, and illustrated by Matt Phelan is a
little gem of a book. Written in wonderfully mesmerising rhyme, it is a delight
to read aloud. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Xander’s original idea is to plan his birthday party for pandas
only, but he quickly realizes that would make it a party of one. So ....</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhezNoLyb5IQ7V4XWa4ozu58XuMlWCMZ9oVZOy90TPeIUwKCxX0ICAwuQxFiNRFEKJXA1nL5039k1MMV1a_AYuHMzwaSd5NGdGMefYgDLKO5xVbTzY9wurKuRGtY78IzVXXnQxXv33HD-WW/s1600/xander4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqWai1Qpj6uU8jTlOEzsIwtiVEN5bZ_dAigN6Tz9e6ZFDj3x7_Ws3zcLHS2CYM8Eu64UdQBNvIyBhwImu585_GLIhlsTtjWVMWqYH75Dc4wFKeZEPD7KF7umJZ-Dxxn5GpOWTNb6sjtj8/s1600/xander5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRqWai1Qpj6uU8jTlOEzsIwtiVEN5bZ_dAigN6Tz9e6ZFDj3x7_Ws3zcLHS2CYM8Eu64UdQBNvIyBhwImu585_GLIhlsTtjWVMWqYH75Dc4wFKeZEPD7KF7umJZ-Dxxn5GpOWTNb6sjtj8/s1600/xander5.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Xander adds
all the bears to the list … but … Koala protests. She’s a marsupial! Does that
mean she isn’t invited? This leads to his expanding the guest list to
include all of the mammals in the zoo. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But then:</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>"Soon Rhinoceros
sent word:</strong></em></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /><em><strong>
<span class="readable">'It may sound a bit absurd, </span><br />
<span class="readable">but I won't come without my bird.'"</span></strong></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong><span class="readable"></span><br /></strong></em>
<em><strong><span class="readable">'Xander felt a little blue. He chewed bamboo, a stalk
or two. He fidgeted</span><br />
<span class="readable">and paced the floor, then scratched an itch and paced some
more.</span><br />
<span class="readable">Finally, a firm decision: Xander's brand-new party vision.'</span></strong></em></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZ8nNPYPR3jZdjhUpPjuAkJcuPw-f051dg_rlNJN8bhqWtK8j7PQLpgkZ7HMfarAhY1D8EpojJOFCS6OHB1jmwVvK2xDEd68yjvSNCEeKPJ5-RHjCKLScePxY68MxfF8nunl0DjTh6OT7/s1600/xander6.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZ8nNPYPR3jZdjhUpPjuAkJcuPw-f051dg_rlNJN8bhqWtK8j7PQLpgkZ7HMfarAhY1D8EpojJOFCS6OHB1jmwVvK2xDEd68yjvSNCEeKPJ5-RHjCKLScePxY68MxfF8nunl0DjTh6OT7/s1600/xander6.png" height="167" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span class="readable"></span><em>(The double page wordless spread of Xander delivering invitations to all the animals in the zoo is wonderful. )</em></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The essential mathematical and scientific
concepts of identifying, sorting, grouping and classifying are introduced in a
very clever, engaging way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is also a
story about inclusiveness and diversity shown in a format which is gentle, amusing and appealing.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>"What a party!
What a ball! Lots of new friends, tall and small! Every creature at the
zoo…"</strong></em></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5cPKV-vyVfprKYD9nEiH31KdEX4oCefDThzdUvbZXEZjkJc6Z6QGemgbMXOFchOJliAUWtqurVyZHgVf-9TcwCGT-DLeVd0U2rPpKBwaE1RJIBwTznGPlio2bdsMG4Hy9tFdDWO2Dy-VR/s1600/xander3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5cPKV-vyVfprKYD9nEiH31KdEX4oCefDThzdUvbZXEZjkJc6Z6QGemgbMXOFchOJliAUWtqurVyZHgVf-9TcwCGT-DLeVd0U2rPpKBwaE1RJIBwTznGPlio2bdsMG4Hy9tFdDWO2Dy-VR/s1600/xander3.jpg" height="166" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As folk singer Bill
Staines sang, "All God's critters got a place in the choir!"</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">.<span class="readable"> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As ‘”<strong>Xander's party
plans went from grand to even grander</strong>”, this story has got me thinking about
the trend in children’s birthday parties in general. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When my children were growing up, these were
simple affairs by today’s standards; cake, balloons, presents, games like pin
the tail on the donkey. We generally adhered to the one guest per child’s age
idea. My sons both celebrate their birthdays in mid-August so their parties were always held
outside in our back yard; apple bobbing, the slip n’ slide, three legged races,
sack (pillow case) races and the like. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple times we had a piñata; kids adore
candy raining down from above. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My daughter is a January baby so her parties
were held indoors, but consisted of some similar activities, games and also
crafts like creating friendship bracelets. The party she remembers best is her seventh,
which featured dressing-up. For this, I merely placed a huge box filled with an
assortment of old clothes; primarily ladies’ dresses, shoes and hats for the
girls to dress up in, in the center of our rec-room, alongside a basket filled with costume jewellery. I also set up a large standing
mirror so they could see themselves, and preen and prance before it. It was a
huge hit, and Sarah-Beth remembers it with delight. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In those days my
children felt that McDonald’s parties were the ultimate in sophistication and were
thrilled to receive an invitation to one. Our family didn’t visit McDonald’s
often, so for them, this was a real treat and a novel idea. Gradually, children’s
birthday parties seem to have become elaborately themed galas with custom
cakes, expensive gift bags and party favours, solar powered bouncy castles, petting
zoos, and over-the-top activities. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Parents feel a lot of pressure and competition
to provide the ‘perfect’ experience. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Last year we were invited to a first
birthday party for the one year old granddaughter of a friend. It was princess
themed and there were at least sixty people in attendance. At one point, the
sweet little thing was dressed in a multi-layered, frilly tutu and tiara and placed on a plastic sheet
by herself with a large whipped cream cake especially made for her to attack
and ruin while a professional photographer took pictures. The amount of gifts
was unbelievable, and the food fabulous enough for an Oscars Party! By the end
of the event, the little princess was in tears and her parents looked frazzled.
</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The cake below is a far cry from one of my own</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">typical kids' birthday cake efforts which usually consisted of a home-made slab cake
of some sort, slathered in icing and decorated with smarties. </span></div>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEief6VW8zSu_QC9l3FNV6qVQa0dBniAiUGxRwgqh6dIIwFW79PU8wWszDhJDAEX5noKAdVqY6RWJ28FB65o4cM2Hlqm2mgWSxthLvdFe9pcnDJtuMH2suxp2SkO4I2Am5_jHYBacHhcd1qP/s1600/cake2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEief6VW8zSu_QC9l3FNV6qVQa0dBniAiUGxRwgqh6dIIwFW79PU8wWszDhJDAEX5noKAdVqY6RWJ28FB65o4cM2Hlqm2mgWSxthLvdFe9pcnDJtuMH2suxp2SkO4I2Am5_jHYBacHhcd1qP/s1600/cake2.jpg" height="320" width="254" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> <em>(from Google images.)</em></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I pray the day will
prevail that this trend will reverse and simpler birthday parties become in
vogue once more. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In <span style="color: red;"><strong>X</strong></span>ander’s words:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span class="readable"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><em><strong>“A celebration
invitation – food, fun and conversation!”</strong></em> </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix2ezU_hd6C41ARL4VFMCJ-Kt5gRof5ciuBngEX4Kz7n39HLSmZ_4RVqLjMs4h0PB9X2G68PCZO5gQmHYAll18mxi-AhfqGuy8g-zZlwyEoC0IHJcX36ZQ7UDMZPrih-ISHf0RsA2sB6Hh/s1600/xander2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxxqQnQB2b5iSRYBwZKcVxHNUhBWVod39Jxh0K3HheFP1so3lK4P8Jw1nOZJNEnJia3ym4xBDomp0_BBnAtIpos8dQss20ByOvOEVFe3Yem2m9GRcGIdYT2GlKOWciDKp-Z_yuR5FFY0G/s1600/DSC04687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqxxqQnQB2b5iSRYBwZKcVxHNUhBWVod39Jxh0K3HheFP1so3lK4P8Jw1nOZJNEnJia3ym4xBDomp0_BBnAtIpos8dQss20ByOvOEVFe3Yem2m9GRcGIdYT2GlKOWciDKp-Z_yuR5FFY0G/s1600/DSC04687.JPG" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-3558283891265662192015-01-26T06:51:00.000-08:002015-01-28T12:02:20.103-08:00The Wind in the Willows<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_iEKEAsrkWhtF8WQ4uNJkC_DBx4XFC4LasgjVMbGrN8W75at2Ieu1xoyPYUD0jqVxmrvqcwHbiyCASOFbZJ6yk-7Y_-hkEY2i-W4wlWm8mvOJlxSC3TeY8afgRmAiFy0tWrkPMfI9gxu/s1600/windwillows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_iEKEAsrkWhtF8WQ4uNJkC_DBx4XFC4LasgjVMbGrN8W75at2Ieu1xoyPYUD0jqVxmrvqcwHbiyCASOFbZJ6yk-7Y_-hkEY2i-W4wlWm8mvOJlxSC3TeY8afgRmAiFy0tWrkPMfI9gxu/s1600/windwillows.jpg" height="320" width="258" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: #464646; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;"><strong>The Wind
in the Willows</strong>, by Kenneth Grahame. Published in 1908, this book is a great
literary treasure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I first
became entranced by its gorgeous prose and imagery when I was eleven years old,
and my teacher, Mr. Ballard, read it aloud to our class. Nominally a children’s
book, it actually continues to grow in depth and beauty as we age. Indeed, it
is one of those rare books that grows with the child into adulthood.</span> <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.8pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span style="color: #464646;">This</span><em> </em>is a book
which speaks to that place within us which can be defined as holy. Its sense of
the mystical, the unnamed, the unknown, that in us which responds to beauty and
deep, unfettered joy, permeates the whole of the book. Gradually
we come to know that when awe, reverence and beauty defines our lives, we
possess the transcendent ability to overcome limiting margins. There is also a
delicious humour throughout which delights all the senses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.8pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_qmdboHVVG-H92UySU1jChWn07IWUeEcQynekbD_JDR7_SorFEVs2qjkMVL7QlZZ7FU3uM4c8svjxGj4HjOCdZ9nN8rrNf7Xmz3l2i-h0uDzCLyrmNV4bGXREXuensea_IjW93Ac2R2sJ/s1600/The-Wind-in-the-Willows-001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_qmdboHVVG-H92UySU1jChWn07IWUeEcQynekbD_JDR7_SorFEVs2qjkMVL7QlZZ7FU3uM4c8svjxGj4HjOCdZ9nN8rrNf7Xmz3l2i-h0uDzCLyrmNV4bGXREXuensea_IjW93Ac2R2sJ/s1600/The-Wind-in-the-Willows-001.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 16.8pt; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">The <strong>Wind in the Willows</strong> is a tale of
seeking the meaning of happiness, of friendship, of honour and of peace. Mole,
bored with spring-cleaning and infected with humdrum, decides to go on a holiday. He encounters the River:</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">"Never in his life had he seen a river before -- this sleek,
sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a
gurgle and leaving them with a laugh ..... All was a-shake and a-shiver --
glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble. The Mole
was bewitched, entranced, fascinated. By the side of the river he trotted as
one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by
exciting stories </i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">sent
from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.” <span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTImKZDQ5xrl4zfeH5kbk-vDH_D-0dTVkvAYKyDis8GDZFUyM8wPx4CB8rQO9mr8DtHyxDq5hmJJQY8t7VYoyWMLNkegojg8P6S7ML_89Xx8s1svIWS_5MFkWDH3g4zBwkZDYfWbqTP3Df/s1600/wind+in+willows3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTImKZDQ5xrl4zfeH5kbk-vDH_D-0dTVkvAYKyDis8GDZFUyM8wPx4CB8rQO9mr8DtHyxDq5hmJJQY8t7VYoyWMLNkegojg8P6S7ML_89Xx8s1svIWS_5MFkWDH3g4zBwkZDYfWbqTP3Df/s1600/wind+in+willows3.jpg" /></a></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">Mole then meets Rat, who invites him to
go boating on the river and share a picnic. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">“There
he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering
the stranger's origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long
French bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay
down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled
sunshine shed and garnered on far Southern slopes.”</span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqD-PLBJOlQyO8R8BJeqzbIJMpnb6HCO_3ECfRxWnJX0xFClU0ArN1XQFCjCDFW9wXTdIHqHgsXLSJL_7nAA57Jg0sN4o-5j9f3_4B2z8nTsch3sLjxGZWZ44h-FHp4Y4YFYiRixwQKyJq/s1600/willows.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqD-PLBJOlQyO8R8BJeqzbIJMpnb6HCO_3ECfRxWnJX0xFClU0ArN1XQFCjCDFW9wXTdIHqHgsXLSJL_7nAA57Jg0sN4o-5j9f3_4B2z8nTsch3sLjxGZWZ44h-FHp4Y4YFYiRixwQKyJq/s1600/willows.jpg" height="192" width="320" /></a></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">Along the way they encounter Badger,
Toad and Otter. Each character is gradually honed and distilled and refined
through their conversation, actions and the way they experience every aspect of
the day’s adventures. Toad’s manic search for happiness is a foil for the others
who each define and seek it differently. What constitutes sanity, happiness,
peace? There are so many layers of redemption, forgiveness, fulfillment and
transcendence in this tale. </span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;">“All
this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky;
and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.”</span> <o:p></o:p></span></i><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Kenneth Grahame is the grand master of alliteration
and word play. His coupling of words is brilliant; “chatter and bubble”, rustle
and swirl” as they meander along the river</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">
"chasing, chuckling," "gurgling, glints and gleams."
The words are truly bewitching. We are entranced by them. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our senses "a-shake, a-shiver” as we
become alive to his gorgeous passages of prose. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;">"This day was only the first of many similar ones for the
emancipated Mole, each of them longer and fuller of interest as the ripening
summer moved onward. He learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of
running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at intervals,
something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them."<o:p></o:p></span></span></i><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">All you who love the art of the word,
whether it be written, spoken, composed, sang, painted, sculpted, photographed,
prayed, eaten, danced … please read the wonder that is ‘ The <span style="color: black;">W</span>ind in the
<span style="color: black;">W</span>illows.’</span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE_wsVumF3BraHH60ltz6MSinCTwk_pDOx0wmii_Av9vGz9QwpWSBqsp0VmqumDjB7ZqtI4wiaEsTvQp_cOaUnReDr4GSf7qQkOGTN_Ixd83LJvqRHs_ljnh4c-FTTU1scU3wlwFJQJejG/s1600/wind-in-the-willows1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE_wsVumF3BraHH60ltz6MSinCTwk_pDOx0wmii_Av9vGz9QwpWSBqsp0VmqumDjB7ZqtI4wiaEsTvQp_cOaUnReDr4GSf7qQkOGTN_Ixd83LJvqRHs_ljnh4c-FTTU1scU3wlwFJQJejG/s1600/wind-in-the-willows1.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-45342182380976016272014-11-10T20:36:00.000-08:002015-01-28T11:41:46.301-08:00New Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jkoizbN_mLQBKvwLawte_8vqJJ7KYbfgyj_IB0ghxa7bnyteGhRODKECGGgr0u_9oeQ_FZ37uEqb0FmQrAzx3ZI3gtB8VY9uI8I2QpqMZiDzN03I42VCwRqTTH30KNi7Dkp_uVM-trZL/s1600/Eva+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_jkoizbN_mLQBKvwLawte_8vqJJ7KYbfgyj_IB0ghxa7bnyteGhRODKECGGgr0u_9oeQ_FZ37uEqb0FmQrAzx3ZI3gtB8VY9uI8I2QpqMZiDzN03I42VCwRqTTH30KNi7Dkp_uVM-trZL/s1600/Eva+6.jpg" height="320" width="179" /></a></div>
<br />
Introducing our newest family member, my beautiful new baby granddaughter, born November 8th, 2014, weighing 6 lbs,14 ozs.<br />
<br />
At this darkening time of the year, we celebrate her birth as a bringer of light, and much joy. I feel awash with a passion of tenderness.<br />
<br />
It's a subtle change like the scent of new snow, but I know the world has changed since the birth of this new little girl. I wonder what textures baby E will make of the mosaic around her. Right now she is the heart of life, around whose centre everything else is peripheral. The source of that love is divine, and gathers each of us into its blessedness.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidUbgdR9942fA-_dLkZCTpJNAcj_MAOpYp-yF4sW2WMsSqby2do19xQ_APWBH5sdW4FK46pRbGXIStuq9qijJ5v16nRFk159aRCzbF4DAper0jztDedIFuWmT-2dB2dZfKyx7Ok4zYPgK/s1600/Eva10-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjidUbgdR9942fA-_dLkZCTpJNAcj_MAOpYp-yF4sW2WMsSqby2do19xQ_APWBH5sdW4FK46pRbGXIStuq9qijJ5v16nRFk159aRCzbF4DAper0jztDedIFuWmT-2dB2dZfKyx7Ok4zYPgK/s1600/Eva10-1.jpg" height="320" width="246" /></a></div>
<em></em>Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-74283720969815347462014-10-21T09:44:00.000-07:002015-01-27T18:21:37.006-08:00By the Light of the Moon<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXSNsURgP4XoCaS8NZNwYezZMYun6wG2JM4eH_ajCyZ70RtRxfC0yHL6Cov6lofJeznUqKQ0EPeSEOy8TclgbQDsKYO3crseouf8ZYQ8DXjsmJ8GUx5WhQTtkABidOczH-7Gw9O-dOIE/s1600/walk_in_moonlight_nicolewong.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGXSNsURgP4XoCaS8NZNwYezZMYun6wG2JM4eH_ajCyZ70RtRxfC0yHL6Cov6lofJeznUqKQ0EPeSEOy8TclgbQDsKYO3crseouf8ZYQ8DXjsmJ8GUx5WhQTtkABidOczH-7Gw9O-dOIE/s400/walk_in_moonlight_nicolewong.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em>(Walking in Moonlight, by Nicole Wong)</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I read somewhere that “To say to anyone, ‘I love you’, is tantamount to
saying, ‘You shall live forever’. Immortality; I think there is a passionate
human desire right now, especially among children and young people, to feel a
connection and sense of belonging to the mystical.</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">A very real little boy went for a
walk with his very real Nana one silvery spring evening. A huge, full round
moon filled the night sky with light as his warm little hand pressed hers. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“When I am a
hundred years old, I will catch up with the moon?” the little boy said.</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“What will you say to her?” said his
Nana.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“Moon, do you ever
get tired of shining?” replied the boy.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“What do you think she will answer?”
asked his Nana.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">
</span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“No, because I will shine forever and ever.”<br />
<br />
“And then”, said the little boy, his arm gesturing upward, “the moon will give
me a tiny piece of her light, and I will keep it always.</span>
</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnXeR-xBb5bh0AG1LX0gG4ghME-NeLQ6iDh2WsQf-5MMgyPrzWKYZ-A-p7XY5imqG5xEnp-hQ3rp-3J9Cb5wNsJZYGVDIjNTWvpk2ho7grQkDfurHU3A6ruoiYJ4N90LyUC-EJcsdVe4/s1600/moon+and+boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnXeR-xBb5bh0AG1LX0gG4ghME-NeLQ6iDh2WsQf-5MMgyPrzWKYZ-A-p7XY5imqG5xEnp-hQ3rp-3J9Cb5wNsJZYGVDIjNTWvpk2ho7grQkDfurHU3A6ruoiYJ4N90LyUC-EJcsdVe4/s320/moon+and+boy.jpg" height="292" width="320" /></a></div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-63356379734869286052014-09-14T11:18:00.000-07:002015-01-27T18:26:35.438-08:00Voice and Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58OMvy2OOPk-u1TcZ4XOYeXlo9irTxTnmlFlW8tgm7YFq0ib8OodYhn97hkwpsuLNl0wRjAakqWZmV-yCujCVrADENGEc1FH7JPAj52sLIY9kSgxgs25d8xialTvMyZlEjU2DEtIIM5o/s1600/North+Sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi58OMvy2OOPk-u1TcZ4XOYeXlo9irTxTnmlFlW8tgm7YFq0ib8OodYhn97hkwpsuLNl0wRjAakqWZmV-yCujCVrADENGEc1FH7JPAj52sLIY9kSgxgs25d8xialTvMyZlEjU2DEtIIM5o/s400/North+Sea.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
When I was a little girl, I was painfully shy. It seemed I couldn’t work my voice and heart together. My tongue often felt stranded, hidden behind a fearful, ardent inability to verbally express myself fully. Thoughts and ideas seethed within me, often fueled by the books and poetry I read avidly for hours every day. I felt as a ship exists in fog, my real self there, but hidden. <br />
<br />
I slowly began to realize that what you think and what you say is often not the same thing. Once when I was three years old, and seeing the ocean for the first time, I stood by the edge of the water and said to my mother, “What a lot of wetness!” She laughed, and I said, “Why are words too small sometimes?” I don’t remember this, but the sentiment behind it has often defined me.<br />
<br />
When I have words to name the inscrutable; when the unknown appears known in words, these are the times when I feel my most seraphic, authentic self. Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-89880371701228252542014-07-17T08:47:00.000-07:002015-01-28T01:27:45.640-08:00Zaanse Schans<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PiNzRxqAl4NeKhcyRW_PiRdqDO1yvzSIiFa-NlWsSHgjx5e1B58ULBslPtkT6R3IbinKEhXdTblz0c93ZQ6II9-fcwxwOlLUH797v9MCK2uSbQKZ-FF5HdSMo92ppXk0R7r7S5AtgECz/s1600/abc15-1-300x191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PiNzRxqAl4NeKhcyRW_PiRdqDO1yvzSIiFa-NlWsSHgjx5e1B58ULBslPtkT6R3IbinKEhXdTblz0c93ZQ6II9-fcwxwOlLUH797v9MCK2uSbQKZ-FF5HdSMo92ppXk0R7r7S5AtgECz/s1600/abc15-1-300x191.jpg" height="126" width="200" /></a></div>
<b><a href="http://abcwednesday-mrsnesbitt.blogspot.ca/">The Letter Z.</a><br />
</b><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUH0SJvgLFJ1vNgfs8FvgFJuJd1jgbsurSMLLq-V-sm0xVvbVroSZ8dWzMUNZgb01rk-_mjQYXr03A94DlyGYLutryN5-SK2RZd7BxIHlpCb1Z_AIi3TbiCxRIwL4auwJkZKBZLVrJuYm/s1600/Zaanse+Schans2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyUH0SJvgLFJ1vNgfs8FvgFJuJd1jgbsurSMLLq-V-sm0xVvbVroSZ8dWzMUNZgb01rk-_mjQYXr03A94DlyGYLutryN5-SK2RZd7BxIHlpCb1Z_AIi3TbiCxRIwL4auwJkZKBZLVrJuYm/s320/Zaanse+Schans2.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
My husband, Gem, immigrated to Canada from the Netherlands with his family when he was nine years old. A couple years ago we had a wonderful three week holiday there. We brought our granddaughter, A, who was nine years old at the time, with us. One day we took a day tour to the countryside to an area known as <b>Z</b>aanse Schans which is a fully inhabited, open-air conservation area located just a few miles north of Amsterdam. <span style="color: orange;"><span style="color: #e69138;">Zaanse</span> </span>Schans was named in 1574 when a Dutch Governor by the name Diederik Sonoy built it to prevent the Spanish troops from invasion. ‘Schans’ actually means Fortress. It is located in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zaandam" title="Zaandam"><span style="color: #e69138;">Zaandam</span></a>, near <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zaandijk" title="Zaandijk"><span style="color: #e69138;">Zaandijk</span></a> in the municipality of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zaanstad" title="Zaanstad"><span style="color: #e69138;">Zaanstad</span></a> in the province of <span style="color: black;">North Holland.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLacdoy5XEzCRFTPSibsPaQFhh3lvjHydMI_D1XyN-kzCeZ_6ARDbPI2TB0Qf_rOrP827HR9tZ_rBlA9rMHZIDtCABGL7KvueVRR_CF1x52MRcuqpUmlvQCSvRyQlrCzXTQOx5C8usvTt/s1600/Mills.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLacdoy5XEzCRFTPSibsPaQFhh3lvjHydMI_D1XyN-kzCeZ_6ARDbPI2TB0Qf_rOrP827HR9tZ_rBlA9rMHZIDtCABGL7KvueVRR_CF1x52MRcuqpUmlvQCSvRyQlrCzXTQOx5C8usvTt/s1600/Mills.jpg" height="277" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
At Zaanse Schans you get a vivid impression of the Dutch way of life in the 17th and 18th centuries. There are authentic houses, a historic shipyard, a cheese and dairy farm, an old fashioned grocery store, and above all, many windmills. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAs106M6LrDpIolv4k2Rf6gpvr8EPp4_l2cinuFnBqTG2ZUDYpUVnOxPXTDp2As1nc2aam5hix85Rtl4J8z_qK_BEyszWpC0pAVVu1YSriuVlPSCw3ltZ-jTEGFXBTUONEwAnoCyw2Nx7Y/s1600/262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAs106M6LrDpIolv4k2Rf6gpvr8EPp4_l2cinuFnBqTG2ZUDYpUVnOxPXTDp2As1nc2aam5hix85Rtl4J8z_qK_BEyszWpC0pAVVu1YSriuVlPSCw3ltZ-jTEGFXBTUONEwAnoCyw2Nx7Y/s320/262.JPG" /></a></div>
My granddaughter and I by one of the many windmills.<br />
<br />
It is a place often referred to as an open-air museum because of its extraordinarily well preserved architecture and traditions. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19vU302R5HHH-Rkfvl3ToIYAu_fiQG7JGgLbp_jLub9sv5reSYLNC0-8S3GttuS6r2M87eegrg9R_fdejFR_cimhPa-RrEYPKf5xYDNSNsAdvmonHTE376QEHF5QSwu7inwYtxWE4SHC_/s1600/zaanse_schans_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi19vU302R5HHH-Rkfvl3ToIYAu_fiQG7JGgLbp_jLub9sv5reSYLNC0-8S3GttuS6r2M87eegrg9R_fdejFR_cimhPa-RrEYPKf5xYDNSNsAdvmonHTE376QEHF5QSwu7inwYtxWE4SHC_/s320/zaanse_schans_4.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hWXMZ9l9LbmPe0V49UCdd-e3CJpJULaL2HchvTH91hnQDRMdaDZ4PRXkv0cK98QorhP_Uu4OxGVkvgfVHr_-vefdaZz_xoU-BA2EHQIkhyphenhyphenJQIu9-YGCJLvhUN78LWoc4eY8-0rVnBgCW/s1600/zaansschans3.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_hWXMZ9l9LbmPe0V49UCdd-e3CJpJULaL2HchvTH91hnQDRMdaDZ4PRXkv0cK98QorhP_Uu4OxGVkvgfVHr_-vefdaZz_xoU-BA2EHQIkhyphenhyphenJQIu9-YGCJLvhUN78LWoc4eY8-0rVnBgCW/s1600/zaansschans3.png" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
We wandered around drinking in the beauty and peace of Zaanse Schans for several hours.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURSQ4ddQ0RCVdtPzs44F4OEYFYdb92XPwbaGqxiTQldPDho9HChZLu3WImGcRTzI0u9wDxEa7pw-w4EF3eaA6RBcb26NVVob9JyvT7MYJT2HGxLcIbw-zNAdqD7ubBFr917cGwVaUGtMR/s1600/Zaanse_Schans5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiURSQ4ddQ0RCVdtPzs44F4OEYFYdb92XPwbaGqxiTQldPDho9HChZLu3WImGcRTzI0u9wDxEa7pw-w4EF3eaA6RBcb26NVVob9JyvT7MYJT2HGxLcIbw-zNAdqD7ubBFr917cGwVaUGtMR/s320/Zaanse_Schans5.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7fQcPV2v3OSbO1HcY4cfeETCU2_Zc2BOips1mc96I_2JGa93nut11gvNY72SGEV46fdonwGbQeHe-HillsfOAlWl3C8CIqCI4NsoZon8pxyMBTB1DBhzm-fHk_bbjWSeNyLAAZ3Z-57YN/s1600/269.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7fQcPV2v3OSbO1HcY4cfeETCU2_Zc2BOips1mc96I_2JGa93nut11gvNY72SGEV46fdonwGbQeHe-HillsfOAlWl3C8CIqCI4NsoZon8pxyMBTB1DBhzm-fHk_bbjWSeNyLAAZ3Z-57YN/s320/269.JPG" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
A litle girl hidden by grasses almost as tall as she is. A loved the freedom. The melody of the wind making constant rush-rushing sounds as it blew through the waving grass was lovely. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXJkDs7_NPK7eK2gKWEIopKiTivzMRvYmqv6H3sNed097hKezynbPaVaAScnGg05d5om5VvuFrDRHXjpVEI3kHZ19VlG6VEzglj6YT-u9xe2GnlkO-ANHJSs1-tG5uryOJq9VMOAUwnHU/s1600/272.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsXJkDs7_NPK7eK2gKWEIopKiTivzMRvYmqv6H3sNed097hKezynbPaVaAScnGg05d5om5VvuFrDRHXjpVEI3kHZ19VlG6VEzglj6YT-u9xe2GnlkO-ANHJSs1-tG5uryOJq9VMOAUwnHU/s320/272.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
The grasses don't hide Papa quite so well.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmNNeQ7f0xWJR40aUYnWpKF8U6K0fX9OLpAU53ePQb2w0PGrf8bS7u2m3eFa5jjZrf9pojODry5FoyNK0VK3YEvlL961p7XMoAzAIkFuWk16UdrFI7JgA_I34siRNrfokPsIFLwemXSdVT/s1600/ZaanseSchans_8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmNNeQ7f0xWJR40aUYnWpKF8U6K0fX9OLpAU53ePQb2w0PGrf8bS7u2m3eFa5jjZrf9pojODry5FoyNK0VK3YEvlL961p7XMoAzAIkFuWk16UdrFI7JgA_I34siRNrfokPsIFLwemXSdVT/s320/ZaanseSchans_8.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
It was very interesting to see the group of people dressed-up in traditional Dutch clothing. Gem remarked that they were dressed just as his own grandparents and great-grandparents would have been. He explained this to A and she thought they looked cool, and expressed her desire to own a pair of wooden shoes. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHmxP1fzcpGb7f9EUhriS0uVVQ3cq8rrFz2NUx5X4Tf0MuN4MW3YHnD_vQnbktADRHpy9DksNtvaHCW5LeubpPZOXaS_4Ee6KD_NMDPr3nP1GrdtMKIjBbsppBz8pLfgTvdBlfKuX37JP/s1600/zaanse-schans2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeHmxP1fzcpGb7f9EUhriS0uVVQ3cq8rrFz2NUx5X4Tf0MuN4MW3YHnD_vQnbktADRHpy9DksNtvaHCW5LeubpPZOXaS_4Ee6KD_NMDPr3nP1GrdtMKIjBbsppBz8pLfgTvdBlfKuX37JP/s320/zaanse-schans2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The black and white Friesland cows were charming. They must lead an idyllic life for a cow, free to roam the countryside with an abundance of fresh, green grass. No wonder they produce such delicious cheese and creamy milk.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgkS9anEPqu8cdq2BZ8khw8gutbCk5wVGYb7R2tby9OokEkmyEGCEKl48A17luXGltZ_40JifLVFwbMVaPWhrV4SwVi4GMQkY7qzhttuaCmhcJPH5Z7TQowlHgImYQQNXS5ex1x_pBQeO/s1600/ZaanseSchans_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQgkS9anEPqu8cdq2BZ8khw8gutbCk5wVGYb7R2tby9OokEkmyEGCEKl48A17luXGltZ_40JifLVFwbMVaPWhrV4SwVi4GMQkY7qzhttuaCmhcJPH5Z7TQowlHgImYQQNXS5ex1x_pBQeO/s320/ZaanseSchans_9.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></div>
A was very excited to see a swan for the first time. We watched his graceful swimming and preening for a long time. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkGpy7pA3XMPpOzavPHvWWB94KetDzUMKAEOW3OvHfZi4H_QmD4RSxCVx71Lwlcl-yg1UAQ4Me8NXlcFlcDEMj4rUSoFAYlbsJBEbRTR87_KjIsLtryNjakP-739qNoUFC3bKdkBI-XuX/s1600/275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCkGpy7pA3XMPpOzavPHvWWB94KetDzUMKAEOW3OvHfZi4H_QmD4RSxCVx71Lwlcl-yg1UAQ4Me8NXlcFlcDEMj4rUSoFAYlbsJBEbRTR87_KjIsLtryNjakP-739qNoUFC3bKdkBI-XuX/s320/275.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
We will always remember the sound of the rushing grasses and the abiding peace of Zaanse Schans.
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F-mAzYoOO_StU%2FU76v6QI4QmI%2FAAAAAAAACpI%2FdNGyy4hSLVM%2Fs1600%2Fabc15-1-300x191.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0PiNzRxqAl4NeKhcyRW_PiRdqDO1yvzSIiFa-NlWsSHgjx5e1B58ULBslPtkT6R3IbinKEhXdTblz0c93ZQ6II9-fcwxwOlLUH797v9MCK2uSbQKZ-FF5HdSMo92ppXk0R7r7S5AtgECz/s1600/abc15-1-300x191.jpg" -->Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-63846615339208740482014-07-07T01:24:00.000-07:002015-01-28T12:04:34.238-08:00Strange Fruit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdIfrIFFfcBv_RToljtQHE6XEEoALrXn7FHtZWfSmnd2Wvw-hnA1YsRwMxnkpRKysKajlHe03_iVYnDl8EwKmqA0jIEXX0lz8qO2ZPd4rPYwYtE-aLSEh_ugE7gCaH3o2oQoMxgNV7bme/s1600/basket-fruit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZdIfrIFFfcBv_RToljtQHE6XEEoALrXn7FHtZWfSmnd2Wvw-hnA1YsRwMxnkpRKysKajlHe03_iVYnDl8EwKmqA0jIEXX0lz8qO2ZPd4rPYwYtE-aLSEh_ugE7gCaH3o2oQoMxgNV7bme/s1600/basket-fruit.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div align="center">
STRANGE FRUIT</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div align="center">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">To you dark blackberry succulent dreamer,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I bring you my strawberries of romance,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My blueberry stained fingers,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My bitter lemons of transcendence,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My red cheeked apples of exultation,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My purple laden vines of the night,</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My crushed raspberry hopes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My pungent lime ecstasies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My consummate deliciousness<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And juicy tender lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Strangely desirous to know</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The earth is a good earth.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQod3tHs3dUttnmqQ2h0-jd_Wd4T0hu50VOFcYsDO2t4C0qasOLbTbN7aGTwmL7f1zOn3lrybcOxYrsRZh8yQRdasfL5prSB477UEnoxVLu9j8DAJwmfI3gIAQg8AVz60-5ulm4bBT_3c5/s1600/blackberries1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQod3tHs3dUttnmqQ2h0-jd_Wd4T0hu50VOFcYsDO2t4C0qasOLbTbN7aGTwmL7f1zOn3lrybcOxYrsRZh8yQRdasfL5prSB477UEnoxVLu9j8DAJwmfI3gIAQg8AVz60-5ulm4bBT_3c5/s1600/blackberries1.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div align="center">
</div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-57517384953303177922014-07-05T01:00:00.000-07:002014-07-10T08:57:15.940-07:00A Matched Set<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60Bdc32T6h7K3RNiXTOGmlV_LFGbtaWbuXuMEAbJCPYOvby4TeXDszFzFb0lsi5rHpHQ60S1Ktk0oVxqyyW8kd_pjt-myTr5aspRaWPZE5uLUcONR-zy8i3Y9sxfNctdPxUa77TJciWs/s1600/Jo+%26+Connie+May+1958.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg60Bdc32T6h7K3RNiXTOGmlV_LFGbtaWbuXuMEAbJCPYOvby4TeXDszFzFb0lsi5rHpHQ60S1Ktk0oVxqyyW8kd_pjt-myTr5aspRaWPZE5uLUcONR-zy8i3Y9sxfNctdPxUa77TJciWs/s400/Jo+%26+Connie+May+1958.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523247177691787890" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 282px;" /></a><br />
The above photograph taken in May, 1958 outside our Wandsworth, London house, is of my mother, me, and my new baby sister, Connie. I was sixteen months old and wearing a new red and white organza dress sent to me by my Canadian grandmother. Note the tiny white gloves. Apparently by that age I was already quite capable of putting them on myself, although it took me a long time to accomplish the task. As we only lived in London for the first two years of my life, I have no memory of that house or its environment. My mother tells stories of how I loved to feed the ducks at Wandsworth Common, and would try and make sure each received its fair share, admonishing certain bolder ones "not to be greedy." The dress in that picture was to be the last I had individually for a very long time.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbY4OyhuKV871TOsNH-nriEqcltt7z1HFee5IVr6rzVydKKXn9AxUlQ1dV8gXlyGgx39S4YHuoQoYl3zqiNMz5rd3a3OMpWpjnXB1WarK6Ao8l1g86tOULiyk0wgwswha8HmWVPsofoLQ/s1600/Jo+%26+Connie+Sept+1959.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbY4OyhuKV871TOsNH-nriEqcltt7z1HFee5IVr6rzVydKKXn9AxUlQ1dV8gXlyGgx39S4YHuoQoYl3zqiNMz5rd3a3OMpWpjnXB1WarK6Ao8l1g86tOULiyk0wgwswha8HmWVPsofoLQ/s400/Jo+%26+Connie+Sept+1959.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523247278712056674" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 276px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
The second picture was taken about a year later, of Connie and I at the ages of two and half and one. The dresses were red with white lace trim and we wore red leather shoes to match. This was the beginning of a trend that would see us dressed identically all through childhood until we were about eleven and ten, when a rebellion of sorts took place. <br />
<br />
I am the oldest of six girls and my mother generally dressed us in matched sets; Connie and I, and then the next three sisters (Amanda, Suzanne and Alice) born five, six and eight years after me. My youngest sister, Hannah, arrived much later, when the rest of us ranged between fifteen and seven, and thus she was spared the years of identikit clothing. On special celebrations, such as Christmas and Easter, we girls were often dressed five-of-a-kind. I especially loathed these occasions. Reminiscing once with my sister Alice about this, she told me, "You think you had it bad! What about me? I had all the other dresses to grow into! I wore that green velvet Christmas dress for about ten years!" I hadn’t considered it from that point of view before, and she certainly deserves sympathy. <br />
<br />
The matched sets of clothing didn’t stop at just the dresses. It applied to coats, shoes, cardigans, and even nightgowns. We were allowed more freedom with our play clothes, but for every other activity, we left the house starched and ironed and clad alike.<br />
<br />
The sixties were in full swing and I yearned for the psychedelic patterns and bright colours that my friends wore.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFW8NsWjfkixYL78UUMb5asvFA1JJtSwiQhNVzfG1ABSh_oihJjqpDEgkg3x3Nb_ynvht5GDeg9SkoU3a5VEXxC1hJgaLpWt8vknuZKgaRLcWAZnIiX7eQKTpI2LsV4fuRxTYxA5bKANg/s1600/60s+dress.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFW8NsWjfkixYL78UUMb5asvFA1JJtSwiQhNVzfG1ABSh_oihJjqpDEgkg3x3Nb_ynvht5GDeg9SkoU3a5VEXxC1hJgaLpWt8vknuZKgaRLcWAZnIiX7eQKTpI2LsV4fuRxTYxA5bKANg/s200/60s+dress.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523249140912762018" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 166px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a><br />
Perhaps what I yearned for the most, though, was a pair of shiny, white Gogo boots. I envied my friend Linda, proud possessor of a pair. However, my mother thought Gogo boots were ’unseemly’ or ’crude’. In fact, she once referred to them as “prostitute boots’, a term my sister Connie and I didn’t understand, even after we had looked it up in the dictionary. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gLL3jrJ-FpVWs-gYBCyMGlx5PIuvhzwH7ehuZZ-4B8NVR7nkSUZue-wWrodcbpj7cZMRP0V1dQiTF1AjLLx2cCIkIVHpA1N017rOvX4BNgiShnZ1J1ZlwSwke43-ugtyl_uORbMg1I4/s1600/Gogo+boots.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7gLL3jrJ-FpVWs-gYBCyMGlx5PIuvhzwH7ehuZZ-4B8NVR7nkSUZue-wWrodcbpj7cZMRP0V1dQiTF1AjLLx2cCIkIVHpA1N017rOvX4BNgiShnZ1J1ZlwSwke43-ugtyl_uORbMg1I4/s200/Gogo+boots.gif" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523249358806243090" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 177px;" /></a><br />
My mother was decidedly old-fashioned. We girls wore smocked dresses with sashes, or pleated skirts with frilly blouses. Our footwear was leather or patent-leather buckle shoes. I didn’t own a single pair of trousers until I was thirteen. For my twelfth birthday I asked for something I had never had before … an outfit of my own choosing, modern, and exclusive to myself. My mother granted that wish. She took me to London for a shopping trip, and I have never forgotten the joy of that special day. I can close my eyes and still see the dress I chose … navy, yellow and white swirled in a psychedelic pattern with trumpet sleeves and a belt around the middle. It came with a little triangular matching head-scarf of the same fabric. <br />
<br />
I wish I had a photo of me wearing that dress. It was styled something like this, but not as short and with a higher neckline.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQSgBrl_D-8pPxuIZZEjdSUf7ZaUR34zuJ_yqExnNtix6NNvYmflt3jWlCYj3hoVNDqSdkpp5Ayr1uicnEpWIzXOOLnvDIJnvFyfPhTXdhhwvo4FsrtdALItORvFJpmaL9v_EelPcOBU/s1600/60s+dress+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQSgBrl_D-8pPxuIZZEjdSUf7ZaUR34zuJ_yqExnNtix6NNvYmflt3jWlCYj3hoVNDqSdkpp5Ayr1uicnEpWIzXOOLnvDIJnvFyfPhTXdhhwvo4FsrtdALItORvFJpmaL9v_EelPcOBU/s320/60s+dress+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523249756993496002" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 202px;" /></a> Alas, I was never able to convince my mother about those Gogo boots! <br />
<br />
Oh, the thrill I felt when wearing that dress; the first awakening consciousness of the power of my femininity. Many years later when watching my own daughter make her first foray into a style of clothing not chosen by me, I became fully aware of the bittersweet act of letting a child go. I knew then what my mother felt that day as I preened before her in the kitchen. It is a peculiar ache, the mingled emotions of love and regret. Yet, together they create a whole and balanced beauty. A matched set, as it were. <br />
<br />
(This is a <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://sepiasaturday.blogspot.com/">Sepia Saturday</a></span> post.)Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-32690972408276290552014-06-15T00:04:00.000-07:002015-01-28T11:56:27.936-08:00A Father's Promise<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yOH3pwVcCRTKysxkPxpzvItnBHhVesKvLiNkgP_eizw3g6E8La7SBFVsWtWO-XmZgRchPHFyeQTFFlXSW6JMoLa9AGi0tRkK_2NIL9b2UzZsGNEW2srH25mRWpIwbop4tbvtjyxqqK0/s1600/reading-promise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8yOH3pwVcCRTKysxkPxpzvItnBHhVesKvLiNkgP_eizw3g6E8La7SBFVsWtWO-XmZgRchPHFyeQTFFlXSW6JMoLa9AGi0tRkK_2NIL9b2UzZsGNEW2srH25mRWpIwbop4tbvtjyxqqK0/s320/reading-promise.jpg" height="320" width="215" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">As Father’s Day approaces, I want to write about an
extraordinary father who made a promise to his daughter. <b>The Reading
Promise: My Father and The Books We Shared,</b> by Alice Ozma, is a magical,
and beautifully written, biographical tribute by Alice to her father. <br />
<br />
When she was nine years old, Alice’s father, a school librarian, promised her that he would read
aloud to her for the next one hundred nights. When that goal was reached, they
celebrated with a pancake breakfast, and Alice proposed that they extend the
project for another one thousand nights. Thus began an odyssey that continued
for a further 3218 nights, finishing on the day Alice started university, at
the age of eighteen!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p> </o:p></span><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">"We called it a Reading Streak,
but it was really more of a promise. A promise to each other, a promise to
ourselves. A promise to always be there, and to never give up. It was a promise
of hope in hopeless times. It was a promise of comfort when things got
uncomfortable. And we kept our promise, to each other."</span></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"></span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">It certainly wasn’t always easy, and Alice doesn’t shy away from discussing the
difficulties. What they termed, the "Reading Streak", was kept
up during some extremely tough times; during the heart-wrenching weeks after
Alice’s parents separate and her mother moves out, during the sad days
following her grandfather’s death. There are nights when her father reads over
the phone when she is away at sleepovers or school trips, and one memorable occasion in the school parking lot as Alice leans
sullenly against the car door. There is also a very touching description of a father reading
to a daughter, all decked out in her Prom gown finery. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">The main thread of the book is the nightly ritual between father and
daughter, and the books that they share. They keep a meticulous list of these
which appears on the ”List of Books from the Reading Streak” at the back of the
book. As various books and characters are discussed, analyzed, some mentioned in
depth, others in mere passing, they are woven throughout the real life fabric of
Alice and her father’s lives. Gradually, Alice’s father’s deeply eccentric,
quirky, lovable nature is revealed. She paints a picture with amazing
precociousness and sensitivity, of not just the words they shared but also the
spaces in between.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">During times of anger and awkwardness, embarrassment and teenage angst,
still he reads and she listens: sweetly sleepy, sad, joyous, anxious, silly, pensive, thoughtful
moods in turn. Father and daughter giggle and whisper, laugh and cry together.
Sometimes after a day spent in angry silence, the only spoken words between
them are the sound of his voice reading to her… </span><span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We read like
we always did. My father and I, together, sharing words that weren’t our own
but were still a part of our secret language.” <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Alice's father's boundless belief in her created a young woman with rare self-possession and confidence. This is a mature book about a father/daughter relationship. It is about faith and trust, passion and
compassion, about a deep, abiding love and belief in each other. And in Alice's
own words,<i> 'But more than that, it was a promise to the world; a promise to
remember the power of the printed word, to take time to cherish it, to protect
it all costs. He promised to explain to anyone and everyone he meets, the
life-changing ability literature can have.'</i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><o:p><em></em></o:p></span> </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A6m8AOKgTwg3HZmtqYWIVtGg9dvWzxKjJDkrCVXdBNqFfefkyc_UBQ2FaoX5NRToIsa05ccVQuyrde3mluHehpHw6IfoePxEVHvktcv7HnuBGQFF4oi2MN_-LFz5gBOO4-jMDVHVZ50/s1600/alice-ozma-and+dad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A6m8AOKgTwg3HZmtqYWIVtGg9dvWzxKjJDkrCVXdBNqFfefkyc_UBQ2FaoX5NRToIsa05ccVQuyrde3mluHehpHw6IfoePxEVHvktcv7HnuBGQFF4oi2MN_-LFz5gBOO4-jMDVHVZ50/s320/alice-ozma-and+dad.jpg" height="235" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-family: Times New Roman;">
</span><em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">(Alice Ozma and her father, Jerry.)</span></em></span></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></em></span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Happy Father’s Day to all you
magnificent fathers out there, and especially those who read to your children and grandchildren, including
my own darling husband, our two wonderful sons, and our terrific son-in-law! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></o:p></span></div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-20690353203900318622014-06-12T07:39:00.000-07:002014-06-14T08:56:57.194-07:00Purple Lines<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The Mag <em> (The Promenade, 1918, by Marc Chagall )</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mGoou7QsTSteb784khmMR8pSSZRbOnSIA8WFeMl-mYBJdjQXF_SGm5DfjBISEN2zexpXcUmIQUqFdID0up48oyN-6NHI8gErtrGiCxC0ahyphenhyphenF3qWMPI_gGghqJYvwl4JxZm5cMb-Qltc/s1600/Magpie+Chagall-la-Promenade.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_mGoou7QsTSteb784khmMR8pSSZRbOnSIA8WFeMl-mYBJdjQXF_SGm5DfjBISEN2zexpXcUmIQUqFdID0up48oyN-6NHI8gErtrGiCxC0ahyphenhyphenF3qWMPI_gGghqJYvwl4JxZm5cMb-Qltc/s320/Magpie+Chagall-la-Promenade.jpg" height="320" width="307" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="color: purple;">PURPLE LINES</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>There are days when</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>all I want to be</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>is the sky surrounded by the sea.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>There are days when</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>all I want to be</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>is a dancing wind above a tree.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>There are days when</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>all I want to be</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>is a lavender song floating free.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>There are days when </em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>all I want to be</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>is a purple line of poetry.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-26527484844682905452014-05-08T16:49:00.000-07:002014-06-14T08:49:41.794-07:00Smoke Screen<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.magpietales.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">The Mag 174</a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWaaifc0AXA-Q4mjs-v8tTFyrwBfjnKZRY1j42zA7tHUdl-Vx5UlifmnnHEGaDneO4_UMuXH5u_75AyZr1UPKNm7mtqvochqkV67ps7sTb2daYb8w4FyZQ8WjaNvSlSdF-QEh9eGPTO4/s1600/Stanley+Kubrick+Mag+174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWaaifc0AXA-Q4mjs-v8tTFyrwBfjnKZRY1j42zA7tHUdl-Vx5UlifmnnHEGaDneO4_UMuXH5u_75AyZr1UPKNm7mtqvochqkV67ps7sTb2daYb8w4FyZQ8WjaNvSlSdF-QEh9eGPTO4/s400/Stanley+Kubrick+Mag+174.jpg" height="265" width="400" /></a></div>
<em>Stanley Kubrick, for Look Magazine, 1949.</em><br />
<em> </em><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Smoke Screen</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fortune flashed in his hair,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
in the dark of his eyes.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Summer skimmed the surface</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of her thoughts.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She wondered what it would be like</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to dance in his wind.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The stars drew his name</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
in clusters of burning points.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She wished on them. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She battled the air for knowledge.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She burned incense.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She dreamed of orange blossom </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and spices on the altar of his being,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And she played the part of everyone</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
but herself.<br />
</div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-53061442125291118462014-04-30T17:02:00.000-07:002015-03-21T20:49:23.708-07:00Xanthe <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj91Hvz4xjvFFC7hJ5cEAKol1pZLRl_guBLDpd41OGzVlZWQHQ3lpAE4v44a_9Ezf-1Jxu3zje8fOEHLJiShetnaCPuyTIvq5izrnG2_lPVapYdzDdPu-QuQmUzZatblCBXTDqQjised40/s1600/ABC+Wed-X.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj91Hvz4xjvFFC7hJ5cEAKol1pZLRl_guBLDpd41OGzVlZWQHQ3lpAE4v44a_9Ezf-1Jxu3zje8fOEHLJiShetnaCPuyTIvq5izrnG2_lPVapYdzDdPu-QuQmUzZatblCBXTDqQjised40/s200/ABC+Wed-X.jpg" height="173" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="http://abcwednesday-mrsnesbitt.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">An ABC Wednesday</a> Post: The Letter <strong>X</strong><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFUYTrI1MprM7PJ8c5oNpPgXxfrpHIZTe9Tr9yM50COIBR0ehe9tsVBJ1mR3cYcnUP65vOKlRpozm856i8MSmUd1bWL92xjKptmEkucj9qzkLFRRY8L02yY7LkJ72b2PBA6Zugz9tm1yM/s1600/xanthee5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFUYTrI1MprM7PJ8c5oNpPgXxfrpHIZTe9Tr9yM50COIBR0ehe9tsVBJ1mR3cYcnUP65vOKlRpozm856i8MSmUd1bWL92xjKptmEkucj9qzkLFRRY8L02yY7LkJ72b2PBA6Zugz9tm1yM/s400/xanthee5.jpg" height="400" width="310" /></a><em></em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em>(Xanthe, daughter of Oceanus, by Barbara Cooney.)</em></div>
<br />
Last year I received a birth announcement from a friend's daughter announcing the arrival of her new baby girl; <strong>Xanthe</strong> Alexandria. The correct pronunciation of this is Zanthee, which I only discovered after a conversation with my friend. <br />
<br />
In Greek mythology, Xanthe was a sea nymph, one of the Oceanids, the daughter of Oceanus and Tethys. In ancient Greek, Xanthe means 'golden one', which has also been interpreted as blonde-haired. More likely than not, little Xanthe will be the only child in her class with a name beginning with X. So too, by the time she starts school, she will probably be used to telling people how her name is pronounced. <br />
<br />
The Romans had an expression <em>nomen est omen,</em> or "name is destiny." A name is part of a person's legacy. It will be recorded in history. You will say it thousands of times during the course of your life. It will be written on class lists, read out loud amongst throngs of others at graduation, spoken with portent on your wedding day, printed on business cards. Above all, rightly or wrongly, a name often conveys an image, an assumption about the person. It creates an impression. <br />
<br />
Psychology professor, Albert Mehrabian, tested a host of names to see how people viewed them. Some names immediately aroused images of beauty or intelligence, others of popularity or kindness. Yet others were seen as artistic, nerdy or odd. On the whole, people judged to have more traditional names such as Rachel and Robert did extremely well. More alternative names scored badly. Breeze, for example, was viewed as being a poor student and business risk. Mehrabian feels that parents who choose or create bizarre names for their children are ignorant, arrogant or just plain foolish. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Q1c_D7sWeN1-LCh8XvdanUjtAjL1PSfxsTIYCy2I-H7SK2HpECTju6sioVsic9P4JwB-DdM6Xk2XxLMkezZ5l4bJEwicCE88kPmrcQm0O0gk2iNxbuzYWoltqPSH3b8gNm4bocRbrrs/s1600/baby_name.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Q1c_D7sWeN1-LCh8XvdanUjtAjL1PSfxsTIYCy2I-H7SK2HpECTju6sioVsic9P4JwB-DdM6Xk2XxLMkezZ5l4bJEwicCE88kPmrcQm0O0gk2iNxbuzYWoltqPSH3b8gNm4bocRbrrs/s200/baby_name.jpg" height="200" width="177" /></a></div>
<em> (from Google Images.)</em><br />
<br />
Some celebrity offspring names are perfect illustrations of this case in point: <strong>Moxie Crimefighter, </strong>daughter of Penn Jillette and Emily Jillette, and <strong>Spec Wildhorse, s</strong>on of John Cougar Mellencamp and Elaine Irwin, are but just two of a whole litany of bizarre names created by celebrities. The newest to add to the weird and wacky list are Kim Kardashian and Kanye West, whose newborn daughter faces the world with the moniker, North West. Poor wee soul ... it's all south from there.<br />
<br />
Alaska's Sarah Palin, that Western avatar of traditional values, rather paradoxically named her children, Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper, and Trig. Perhaps there is a hidden part of her which yearns to be more artistic, less conservative, that is solely reflected in the names she chose for her children. <br />
<br />
For many parents, picking out a baby name is like choosing the perfect nursery décor or baby accessories. It comes with a great deal of thought, reflection and personal taste. Some choose to name after beloved family members, sports legends, or heroic figures. (I named my oldest son, Nicholas, after my much loved maternal grandfather.) Others pick names which are trendy, popular, current. Some go the biblical route, or take a page from their favourite novel, movie or historical era. Yet others give nod to family tradition or their ethnic roots.<br />
<br />
My four grandchildren have fairly unusual names. It is my personal policy to never get involved in any way in the naming of grandchildren. I had my turn. Now it is my children's right, and their joy to choose names. The agreement between my second son and the mother of their children was that he would choose the boys' names and she would pick the girls' names. They have two sons. My son picked both their names from the NHL (National Hockey League) roster. (Seriously!) Regardless of my own private personal opinion, my response to the announcement of each grandchild's name has always been the same, "That's lovely! I really like it. You've chosen something unique and strong/beautiful." And so it is, as I have grown to love each child's name as part of them. <br />
<br />
I think that names perhaps have a greater significant influence when that is the only thing you know about a person. In time, people give personality and definition to their own names, good and bad. As Shakespeare said in Romeo and Juliet:<br />
<br />
<em>What's in a name? That which we call a rose,</em><br />
<em>By any other name would smell as sweet.</em><br />
<br />
Xanthe's relative obscurity (not ranked in the top 1000 names), will take a bit of determination to make it work. She will stand out in a crowd of little girls named Emma (top girl's name in Canada for the last five years in a row), and among those bestowed with the tendency towards ever-more tortured, innovative spellings such as Mackenzie (McKynzee), Ava (Aayvah) and Taylor (Taelyr), all of which I have personally seen. In time, though, I have a feeling little <strong>Xanthe</strong> will come to define her name as a distinctive, interesting, spirited appellation.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjehc_r83ySm8XbQ446CgWIJErJd-3abYGcxvASR4egDUM434Dz43u0cmmkdYlZm8gaEVUH2J2065DwKnIfzszzk3xJJv4Ih42M71OXxq3eZIzgGzng9n30krDn5TiJ4YVtOLgmLkjyblk/s1600/Wondrous.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjehc_r83ySm8XbQ446CgWIJErJd-3abYGcxvASR4egDUM434Dz43u0cmmkdYlZm8gaEVUH2J2065DwKnIfzszzk3xJJv4Ih42M71OXxq3eZIzgGzng9n30krDn5TiJ4YVtOLgmLkjyblk/s320/Wondrous.jpg" height="313" width="320" /></a></div>
<em>(Small Possibilities, by Maggie Taylor.)</em><br />
<br />Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-81606582778014185752014-04-24T10:58:00.000-07:002014-06-21T08:39:52.732-07:00The Culture of Play<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZu2jhQmKMYenkzkr-ptKJKN9Iuh8141CaKz8t3e1rEvxpWv34l0uYMMJWWdv-TjDa925VenO4c6-uYJ4Yzs-WxKr-T7wD4JqfQZcuRommCrTnXhsDzw_ast9P69wzJXZoESeyUkZTZ78/s1600/Nick+%2526+friends+playing+Ninja+Turltles+1987+003.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><em><span style="color: black;"></span></em><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZu2jhQmKMYenkzkr-ptKJKN9Iuh8141CaKz8t3e1rEvxpWv34l0uYMMJWWdv-TjDa925VenO4c6-uYJ4Yzs-WxKr-T7wD4JqfQZcuRommCrTnXhsDzw_ast9P69wzJXZoESeyUkZTZ78/s400/Nick+%2526+friends+playing+Ninja+Turltles+1987+003.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561757425436306994" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 259px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">(My children playing Ninja Turtles with a group of neighbourhood friends one summer afternoon. Nicholas, aged 9, is the boy in the middle wearing the aqua-green shirt. Son, Joshua, aged 5, stands next to him in the yellow shorts. Daughter, Sarah-Beth, 3 years old, is the little girl in the red dress. They had made their own masks, shields and swords.)</span><br />
<br />
This past spring break, I found myself immersed and fascinated by my grandchildren’s play. One afternoon, the two youngest, gap-toothed eight and nine years olds, sat side by side with hand held video games. "They’re interactive", my son said. <br />
<br />
In what language do they construct their inner worlds, their utopian places and sites of belonging, I wondered? <br />
<br />
My mother had a rag doll. Literally. It was made of pieces of material from her mother’s rag bag. It had button eyes, woolen hair and a sewn on smile. She rocked it, sang lullabies to it, loved it with all the fervour of her burgeoning mother-heart. My sister, Amanda, eschewed all girly toys and played with meccano and lego, constructing the elaborate houses and castles of her dreams. My daughter, Sarah-Beth, composed with the magnetic coloured letters of a plastic alphabet. I can still her now, on her knees before the fridge, creating a litany of words. She also rarely went anywhere without at least one of her garish plastic 'My Little Ponies'. She was forever combing their tangled manes and arranging them in colourful rows and formations. My sons lived in an alternate universe of Transformers and leaping Ninja Turtles. <br />
<br />
Something stirs in me from the well of my own childhood play. Besides my own well-loved baby dolls and my adored paper cut-out dolls, I remember the magic of marbles; crystals, peewees, King cobs, steelies. A many coloured collection of treasures kept in a drawstring bag, it might have been unearthed from some pirate’s cache. Mostly we girls just watched the boys play, but I had my own little stash, thrilling to the feel and look of the round weights in my palm.<br />
<br />
I knew the rhythmic geometry of the yoyo, spinning globes with string inviting me to "walk the dog, rock the cradle, go around the world". I also recall with enjoyment the all girls' games of Jacks and hopscotch, and the large group games of 'Mother, Mother May I?' and 'Red Rover, Red Rover". <br />
<br />
The virtual world of today’s games seems to make the earth miniscule and children giants. Yet, they are able to draw new boundaries, make reality oscillate in a new dimension.<br />
<br />
Toys and children’s joy; inimitable, personal.<br />
<br />
As a little girl, I knew the poetry of the jump rope. The rope coming round would invite me to risk a jump into the split second of – NOW. Here is the truth of playing. Enter the narrow gate of now, for there is no other time. <br />
<br />
Need we ever go far beyond the poetry of children playing?<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUSrRB7rLCVSCxNxN7Lz8N5Yk7_Fy9VRR34Y_dl1C5F3_GlOsNZHRezEzvlscaA54c4Ip9suNYoBwreUD5Tc4_JcVqN2nIW3T_rozas9fihloUoahI5KVQguTWEFhGFp4eXwhWBm7gxO4/s1600/Jump_Rope.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUSrRB7rLCVSCxNxN7Lz8N5Yk7_Fy9VRR34Y_dl1C5F3_GlOsNZHRezEzvlscaA54c4Ip9suNYoBwreUD5Tc4_JcVqN2nIW3T_rozas9fihloUoahI5KVQguTWEFhGFp4eXwhWBm7gxO4/s200/Jump_Rope.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561763001726918210" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 200px;" /></a>Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-86565256029493236462014-04-18T08:19:00.000-07:002014-06-14T12:10:46.191-07:00Door as Diary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Magpie </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNtrArk5gwFlVh_kx71ZILhp-Ivk3JBvrzn_paARxlrfpOPihLO9311F9xxI7unr5a4oUgAyd_Uy6zkyLGI9gLZHiDUYN33Lo60Gggmq5RZADD7xveUZkYTVxzpd_B0GS_mfhy5kMOtw/s1600/charlestondoor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmNtrArk5gwFlVh_kx71ZILhp-Ivk3JBvrzn_paARxlrfpOPihLO9311F9xxI7unr5a4oUgAyd_Uy6zkyLGI9gLZHiDUYN33Lo60Gggmq5RZADD7xveUZkYTVxzpd_B0GS_mfhy5kMOtw/s320/charlestondoor.jpg" height="312" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<strong>DOOR AS DIARY</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>A door as diary<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>Locking out the world<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>Inviting longings loose<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>Upon its panels. <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>A door as place<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>Where keyhole dreams<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>In patterns amplifying<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>What eyes can’t see.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>A door as barter<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>Beckoning to open<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>The woman who <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt;"><em>Writes her words.</em> </span></div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-41037858242431598092014-04-09T08:56:00.000-07:002014-06-14T10:22:19.812-07:00Morning Witness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZM7kKcMCzCemxaPXLxDD_wWs6m1QtYCMaE1_W57hyphenhyphen_uyLiU3ERztMOz-xBvHZRZ1kfs965yQqh38Zy_d4UtsO9MG8mql5P9h8Khiq53wZ4KZbmT2-VToD1-lpNk-XcO2yWE_1aOxKkc/s1600/sunrise+Kamloops.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZM7kKcMCzCemxaPXLxDD_wWs6m1QtYCMaE1_W57hyphenhyphen_uyLiU3ERztMOz-xBvHZRZ1kfs965yQqh38Zy_d4UtsO9MG8mql5P9h8Khiq53wZ4KZbmT2-VToD1-lpNk-XcO2yWE_1aOxKkc/s400/sunrise+Kamloops.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480808485192895666" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
I am given a moment every morning that lights me from head to foot, charges my batteries, and makes my senses dance. What did I ever do to deserve this? <br />
<br />
Most days I awaken around 6:30 and amble to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. The world outside my windows is still in darkness, the features nebulous, bosky and undifferentiated to the early morning eye. A gentle silence reigns. The stillness which is draped over everything is the perfect companion to begin the day. <br />
<br />
I usually sip my first coffee standing by the window. As the sun rises over the horizon, the day's first light peers through the trees, pokes its way through the iron railings on the patio and paints the walls with rosy fingers and a wide brush. A delicious warmth creeps over my body. It is a mixture of the fragrant, the visual, and the embraced. <br />
<br />
I find often the most beautiful stories are written in darkness, exposed by the sun, augmented by shadows, then gone. Each sunrise is different, and every single one is a gift. Ready or not, here comes another day. Here I come too, perhaps not as filled with light as the morning sky, but working on it in my own peculiar fashion. <br />
<br />
I wonder how our ancient kin would have described such luminosity? There may have been a paucity of descriptive terms and expressions for such experiences in the long ago, but we are united across time and space in the unspoken language of wonder. In my mind, I can see them standing somewhere quietly on a summer morning long ago, as entranced and comforted by the deep glow, as I am here today.Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-9150861531367537992014-04-05T12:58:00.000-07:002014-06-14T09:02:08.125-07:00Raspberry Songs <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjt65FonT_C3q7NAkCQMnmduUFmCXAVgmaCv9WR2ggEA7sO8EVWf2DbLXhg0Ge_UCkJkMmf62qIHbuh58SHqq-7I6cmbVBqTJhyphenhyphenabx_mikWZpFczs894lJyQ2G3nMk6C00XHszdisYmhk/s1600/Graves,+Morris+waking-walking-singing-in-the-next-dimension-1979.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjt65FonT_C3q7NAkCQMnmduUFmCXAVgmaCv9WR2ggEA7sO8EVWf2DbLXhg0Ge_UCkJkMmf62qIHbuh58SHqq-7I6cmbVBqTJhyphenhyphenabx_mikWZpFczs894lJyQ2G3nMk6C00XHszdisYmhk/s320/Graves,+Morris+waking-walking-singing-in-the-next-dimension-1979.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<strong> RASPBERRY SONGS - Magpie Tales </strong><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>I sip raspberry wine <o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>Exhale rose-tinted songs<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em> Eliminate words</em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>Add new endings<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>Pause notes<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>Fill in the glistening<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>Heady spaces</em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>With juicy self singing</em></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>Winged raspberry tongue.</em></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLt0vNOblr1sMV6GfI_lm03zZDZlkBaMEAobdAJtxTSb3D_uzUNwVmVxe02LwSJZxF6UxKs2JabXHLuIQTxIdShaXIdIFjPobn4JLFWPa2O5-FnNEkecImiCfrxdthNozrBizpeT5EcM/s1600/raspberry+wine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVLt0vNOblr1sMV6GfI_lm03zZDZlkBaMEAobdAJtxTSb3D_uzUNwVmVxe02LwSJZxF6UxKs2JabXHLuIQTxIdShaXIdIFjPobn4JLFWPa2O5-FnNEkecImiCfrxdthNozrBizpeT5EcM/s1600/raspberry+wine.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
</div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-72696494508951432162014-01-21T22:23:00.000-08:002015-03-21T20:51:57.467-07:00Let Me Call You 'Weetheart<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzD64xNNvbvN2tV6_ohYwUwu-S1ssTlomdLIT6nzTd7GfGf-BAtq_4zpj65_T0y_QwSOBiHTo19a5NVv_QJOtD8e96u0nJEWVXE2OlACRmpz2VtxiRt_XJ41gHYpgjRfX-JHksjSQr5A/s1600-h/Sarah,+1+year.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFzD64xNNvbvN2tV6_ohYwUwu-S1ssTlomdLIT6nzTd7GfGf-BAtq_4zpj65_T0y_QwSOBiHTo19a5NVv_QJOtD8e96u0nJEWVXE2OlACRmpz2VtxiRt_XJ41gHYpgjRfX-JHksjSQr5A/s320/Sarah,+1+year.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446153723953768690" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 294px;" /></a><br />
I find I can often be wrenched by love. I can pick up a stone from the beach and feel myself wholly in love with the tallow striations in a bit of agate, the blood in a polished shard of jasper. I can love the purple-blue ripeness of blueberries. I can love the thick slices of a red ripe tomato. I can love the silence of my house in the stillness of the very early morning. I can love the hands of my husband tearing fresh herbs to scent dinner. <br />
<br />
There is a little mental exercise I have done since childhood. I make a list of the people in my life, my loved ones, and mentally tick off their whereabouts. I place them safely, one by one, where my brain knows or imagines them to be. All are safe within the bell jar of my mind. <br />
<br />
When my daughter, Sarah-Beth, was eighteen months old, I went into her room one morning. There she lay, grinning at me through the bars of her crib. "Hi 'weetheart!", she said distinctly and unexpectedly. It was an echo of my own usual morning greeting, spoken before I had a chance to form the words. My body still retains the exact memory and impact of that ‘weetheart. A moment of gut-wrenching love that can never lessen or diffuse in time. It’s a powerful thing, a pouring, a zap of love; uncontained, spilling forth in wild, sweet jabs. <br />
<br />
Today my Sarah-Beth is twenty-seven years old. We shared our after dinner coffee this evening, on the phone. The curves and arabesques of our beating hearts fed each others’ hunger, my 'weetheart and I.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ytyCFH7ATWCFqkP8vrJC9T5WhncFlfGMAl6-4BxSTK4MIgl4v5vyZd64lUzj4fpJj4Guq9BUvsKkiQFgB4MUxfJnjEjTwifxEEBAFtYVZVGsAGnd-g5FxcnDkDTXPlRANDK1we5VxyU/s1600-h/Sarah+summer+2009.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ytyCFH7ATWCFqkP8vrJC9T5WhncFlfGMAl6-4BxSTK4MIgl4v5vyZd64lUzj4fpJj4Guq9BUvsKkiQFgB4MUxfJnjEjTwifxEEBAFtYVZVGsAGnd-g5FxcnDkDTXPlRANDK1we5VxyU/s320/Sarah+summer+2009.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446153513102843426" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 299px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-4690345864708620652014-01-16T12:11:00.000-08:002014-06-14T09:39:00.670-07:00Magpie Tales: The Lost Skaters' Sonnet<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_RyTw4qEBZtSwJxueo20z23I68FeFvHi1vYWx8KEOJpeapS0f1i8ykzJA55zNyrfeEsR-TDph5q_jHbUjfE7v9tpOvPWbt97ULbzSEhUA1XTEU-ep3ewDsWgKdMej6tKJqXkDJC44bFE/s1600/snow+trio+.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_RyTw4qEBZtSwJxueo20z23I68FeFvHi1vYWx8KEOJpeapS0f1i8ykzJA55zNyrfeEsR-TDph5q_jHbUjfE7v9tpOvPWbt97ULbzSEhUA1XTEU-ep3ewDsWgKdMej6tKJqXkDJC44bFE/s400/snow+trio+.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564364453863587682" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 280px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">The Lost Skater's Sonnet<a href="http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/"></a></span><br />
<br />
There is none more elusive than pale hued<br />
January. Lost skaters' kin. None more<br />
Beautiful. The wool and fur do sustain<br />
Their silver wings over ice-blue domain.<br />
These winter flights are such rare surprises<br />
Of maiden joy, we feel them speak again.<br />
They do not know they are graced to fashion<br />
Voices from sepia and blood, to sing<br />
That thin place in air, muted lyric’s length.<br />
Half ghost, ephemeral spell we recall<br />
Past music of such ethereal strength.<br />
Our later time on earth does lend enthrall<br />
To magic echoes, poised reliquary<br />
Trio of recollected January.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFzaKofafzFD574Ca22dhZ54oBxUQW-ETkJaHzRTH_oVFneZLInJW5jsLJof3bnSfQam0VaCRkkT_3j8ClaSYmlhDUKEUV2bNM1Nl6N_rAQKZ45LC-cZAy9Qn86iq2wGZtC0TPfoV9Ws/s1600/old+ice+skates+4.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFzaKofafzFD574Ca22dhZ54oBxUQW-ETkJaHzRTH_oVFneZLInJW5jsLJof3bnSfQam0VaCRkkT_3j8ClaSYmlhDUKEUV2bNM1Nl6N_rAQKZ45LC-cZAy9Qn86iq2wGZtC0TPfoV9Ws/s200/old+ice+skates+4.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564375711496410162" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 98px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 107px;" /></a><br />
(Visit more <a href="http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Magpie Tales</span></a>.)Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-47499076986820029532013-12-19T10:28:00.000-08:002014-06-21T08:49:19.779-07:00The Spirit of Christmas<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsF2ddDG9420YwTMDtLSCe_IUsb8acO9YKPOGHhHubWnPD6zGBNREIuknn8L74DrYWipVj-wzfae3AMI1mxgWx1RyOtr26IAGYP45B12BmC75DP9hh7uTa1HlTB_3wtElrMeJAD7YZJA/s1600/A+Christmas+Carol+3.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsF2ddDG9420YwTMDtLSCe_IUsb8acO9YKPOGHhHubWnPD6zGBNREIuknn8L74DrYWipVj-wzfae3AMI1mxgWx1RyOtr26IAGYP45B12BmC75DP9hh7uTa1HlTB_3wtElrMeJAD7YZJA/s400/A+Christmas+Carol+3.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677897614063004258" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 365px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 267px;" /></a><br />
<div>
Every Christmas season my preparations begin with a reading of Charles Dickens 'A Christmas Carol'. There is something about Dickens which makes me yearn to curl up by a fire. I want the scent of game pies and thick meaty stews, mulled wine and tangerine oranges. I want to sip egg nog and break off bits of rich, buttery fruit cake with my fingers and pop them into my mouth as I read.<br />
<br />
A Christmas Carol is a moral lesson in miracles. It teems and seethes with life. Sadness, fear, danger, loneliness, sacrifice, perhaps none of these are impossible to cope with, but bleak hopelessness, and the cynicism that comes with believing in nothing, are soul destroying.<br />
<br />
Dickens hated sham and humbug. False feelings and false friends are endlessly exposed in myriad ways in his work. It's difficult sometimes, with all the rampant consumerism raging around us, to push the trivial aside, and connect with something deeper. The truth of my own intrinsic vitality and vulnerability cry out for hope, for communion, for miracles. 'A Christmas Carol' enfolds me in a mystery and compassion which stretches far beyond my own heart.<br />
<br />
Christmas, of all celebrations, is a time for real feelings, real friends, real food, and real memories. It is a time to celebrate the birth of Christ, a time for charity and compassion, a time of giving and receiving, a time of love. Scrooge discovered it through the agency of a benevolent spirit. For me, its joy and good will are heralded by the company of a good book. </div>
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS64rB8nhEyEBdKeOp5VTvnpj6bqse6sokn3ylNnTA4q6MJ-7Xnw7edR5jSk1cUWa_QJXEtVCxL8TAoaSyFOS3V_FT5-ACCeVxOBlxd4dT3Ak3KGf-wcfx_O8qWdIZ-2ndgBr8bk1jGWw/s320/fruit+cake.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5677897312261414098" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 238px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" />Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-3228518534696063002013-10-20T18:16:00.000-07:002014-06-14T09:16:03.745-07:00Emily and Me<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9G_HZ9xd1eYYfz8YmGYzrKTifNQULegU3gJpNdJxlNTznkoOkpj5EtH6c4bMZVg0EuYNAjmUAsPN_DqwQegdGR7QQ6w5fFY3YGqdwJNTuoqd0Qx_wOzeeKI3ntlXMnLiafH0hwf6LWk/s1600/Mt+Peter+%2526+Mt+Paul2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU9G_HZ9xd1eYYfz8YmGYzrKTifNQULegU3gJpNdJxlNTznkoOkpj5EtH6c4bMZVg0EuYNAjmUAsPN_DqwQegdGR7QQ6w5fFY3YGqdwJNTuoqd0Qx_wOzeeKI3ntlXMnLiafH0hwf6LWk/s400/Mt+Peter+%2526+Mt+Paul2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666872976052930018" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 112px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
Through an aisle of waving grasses and woodland wildflowers, I approach the high bench where I plan to sit quietly for an hour or so, gathering scattered pieces of myself. Resting at the crest of a hill I sit overlooking Mt. Peter and Mt. Paul, twin mountains guarding the Thompson River which floats like a curled blue ribbon on the earth. <br />
<br />
I carry with me only a pen, a journal, a bottle of water, and the buzz in my head. I sit with my back against the bench and my face to the east, where the yellowing grasses are hazy in the afternoon sun. I draw in a deep breath. Not for the first time, I think of how fortunate I am to live only a short five minute hike from this stunning vista. <br />
<br />
Although I can’t let go of language entirely, I do manage to sit for a long spell in a wakeful hush. I keep my eyes open because I wish to see the stillness, not escape from it. The panorama I see is hardly wilderness, and yet every blade of grass, every bird and twig courses with a wild energy. The same energy pours through me. Although my body grows calm from sitting still, I rock slightly with the slow pulse of my heart. My breath and the clouds ride the same wind. <br />
<br />
I think of the way humpback whales breach the sea with a snort from their blowholes and a wave of their flukes, and I remember how the water erased all signs of their passage moments after they dove again. Is that how it is for us? Do we slip crying breath into this world only to disappear, all traces lost when our time is done? <br />
<br />
Physically gone, yes. But what about the soul? The heart? The essence of the beloved. Memories float in and out of consciousness; now gentle, now raging, now yearning. Images of an old wooden boat which has slipped away from its moorings and come to rest against a green and purple shore ... of a water lily climbing serenely toward the surface of a pond ... of a fallen leaf turning round and round on the river ... of a rippling wave dancing its way into existence and spreading out in slow circles until it kisses the shore. <br />
<br />
There is no absolute stillness in death. Even the dead yield their substance in the stories of who they were, in the love bestowed, in the bone-memories of those they touch. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC6jMYg7YpWzdTCdl3NLhnKnKI-XnQaMiuzv7-5v5C1AwTwaGnZZgkdAOTx4x2xGDuCy2nSlDO22Grux0UOtznYbSqScabYEVGGLhtU21L65uyV4o3bz0DSC351a4E-xUyJpj1Tjj3sU/s1600/Emily+Carr+grave.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCC6jMYg7YpWzdTCdl3NLhnKnKI-XnQaMiuzv7-5v5C1AwTwaGnZZgkdAOTx4x2xGDuCy2nSlDO22Grux0UOtznYbSqScabYEVGGLhtU21L65uyV4o3bz0DSC351a4E-xUyJpj1Tjj3sU/s400/Emily+Carr+grave.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666873825462549650" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
My thoughts drift to my recent visit to Ross Bay Cemetery in Victoria where I knelt in the grass next to Emily Carr's grave. A much loved Canadian artist and one of my favourites, my visit was a pilgrimage of sorts. The impact of her work is still plain to see today as her gravesite is scattered with sketch pencils and paintbrushes left by adoring lovers of both her paintings and her prose. Nearby rises a stone marked with these words of Emily's, written almost a century ago:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">“Dear Mother Earth, I have always specifically belonged to you. I have loved from babyhood to roll upon you, to lie with my face pressed right down onto you in my sorrows. I love the look of you and the smell of you and the feel of you. When I die, I should like to be in you, uncoffined, unshrouded, the petals of flowers against my flesh and you covering me up.”</span><br />
Me too, Emily. Me too.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHJAkcmYFb-tsuEbvZRA3Y9Z1_Hd8J3mem6vdQMvN3jlFms08d7ESv7QzGEYb-slZ7GlH0D4OLIWTBpgiSw77pck3S2dMHRNinofSNDzznALQ5xI06bW4_RO6NmKyMTbgOrtUlXGol1A/s1600/Emily+Carr+grave+2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOHJAkcmYFb-tsuEbvZRA3Y9Z1_Hd8J3mem6vdQMvN3jlFms08d7ESv7QzGEYb-slZ7GlH0D4OLIWTBpgiSw77pck3S2dMHRNinofSNDzznALQ5xI06bW4_RO6NmKyMTbgOrtUlXGol1A/s400/Emily+Carr+grave+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5666874046080731778" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 268px;" /></a>Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-60385138751584467932013-09-05T14:30:00.000-07:002014-06-14T09:23:08.462-07:00Magpie: Greening<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8h8tEHpYYW2TXzqvMEYMRdU-ZJcrlgAcRqG0cxoOvRcjsSDHfAYEp0nNcFdb_zIAB-ICRl2kYOUKgXv63Qt_e7N6Bkh3dGGkONPca97eyUoNdUh60HqZ-shrn8duA4o8deUEeKFkO20/s1600/Magpie+54.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib8h8tEHpYYW2TXzqvMEYMRdU-ZJcrlgAcRqG0cxoOvRcjsSDHfAYEp0nNcFdb_zIAB-ICRl2kYOUKgXv63Qt_e7N6Bkh3dGGkONPca97eyUoNdUh60HqZ-shrn8duA4o8deUEeKFkO20/s400/Magpie+54.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5576648638236200322" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span"><u>Greening</u></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The empty spaces </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wear a green</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Mist as thin as a </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hummingbird’s wings.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I stoop in verdant garb</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Shaped for bones</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Far more elegant</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Than mine,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Placing pieces</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of greening shapes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Imperfectly.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Still, poetry doesn’t</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Make substance</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of devotion</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Without a flaw</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
In the dance. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">(Please go here for more <a href="http://magpietales.blogspot.com/">Magpie Tales</a>.)</span>Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-575404108769456761.post-71857085623235389942013-07-14T10:24:00.000-07:002014-06-14T08:47:49.319-07:00Wonders from the Sea<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sNFoz5OnaRiUjLLCiE7JfWHGaB6uZS6Q12VeQDj_YTJPjs3t4gU6LqKKT9JcamAqMplbPMsccmf7wS3WgI4mTppm29SNZcEdIybP7UYcvzRBnzjXJoIvqCZr1I24j3SPoq24gXmuUGMu/s1600/DSCF0871.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sNFoz5OnaRiUjLLCiE7JfWHGaB6uZS6Q12VeQDj_YTJPjs3t4gU6LqKKT9JcamAqMplbPMsccmf7wS3WgI4mTppm29SNZcEdIybP7UYcvzRBnzjXJoIvqCZr1I24j3SPoq24gXmuUGMu/s400/DSCF0871.JPG" height="323" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
When we stepped aboard our ship, the overwhelming feeling was one of expectation and delight. Minutes before we had given our grandsons the news that shortly we were to sail on a Disney cruise. Two totally different reactions: D, ten years old, responded with his entire body. He jumped, pumped the air with his fist, exclamations and queries spilling from his heart to his lips. "Really?! You're not joking?! Right now?! On that ship out there ... the Disney one?! Really? Right now!" He hugged us, perpetual motion, joy on every line of his body. <br />
<br />
M, who is seven years and three months old, stood still, quiet, solemn, his eyes huge with disbelief. He needed time to assimilate the news as his brother tried to explain, as did we, in merry words that took several minutes to penetrate his shock. After some silent minutes, he pointed towards the ship, "Are Chip and Dale on there?", he asked. The reactions were a mirror of their personalities; the gregarious, outgoing boy, the quiet, thoughtful boy. <br />
<br />
My first impression was of dazzling blues and whites. Everything shone in the sun, reflecting a great surge of humanity, an aura of universality, an ingathering of energy, action and happiness. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEcEFPo9yVj7a0LJsbexrR5IS6Y-qFiVbxZenGDze79UEE8iELH9MYcNO-1Ae1dwqAn5p5DsVM6RKFzk9UTKZLeDgH6Yt1FX_imCs-pxOSDTlhNY6J7YnYmssgLVRT3FNIBfqwFuaX7C6/s1600/DSCF0904.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEcEFPo9yVj7a0LJsbexrR5IS6Y-qFiVbxZenGDze79UEE8iELH9MYcNO-1Ae1dwqAn5p5DsVM6RKFzk9UTKZLeDgH6Yt1FX_imCs-pxOSDTlhNY6J7YnYmssgLVRT3FNIBfqwFuaX7C6/s640/DSCF0904.JPG" height="423" width="640" /></a></div>
<em> (The Launch - Sail Away Party.)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Thus began a ceaseless exploration of our ship.The Disney Wonder is a marvel of steel and glass, of polished wood and shining marble, of beautiful art work and vivid patinas. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVf4nyeSXgthaH-_zu8P9X24Spg1jAJyXNo8Npmtx8ixDonnljk2cSLtwUmUk1RlGD1Pfim1Q7EEMhpubPslh9QB1ju095flb3Nyz_KwT0-fvDdqvgh6ITivkk5A2y8wXk0illd_80gH7h/s1600/DSCF0940.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVf4nyeSXgthaH-_zu8P9X24Spg1jAJyXNo8Npmtx8ixDonnljk2cSLtwUmUk1RlGD1Pfim1Q7EEMhpubPslh9QB1ju095flb3Nyz_KwT0-fvDdqvgh6ITivkk5A2y8wXk0illd_80gH7h/s400/DSCF0940.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<em> (One of the glowing marble hallways, along Deck 5.)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDEW8UdV9yngh_BKLmPRFuBqtv3Ayr4cuvtNV_9NRqJRzoB4xeuFnxOv6Pq9gdccKIXtT-Uwb4AoI098ImhliQ60DMl2fHtxPGPqmISWEBTzO7I8pBWLWkFt8ysrWc_ohMChyZoxrrapc/s1600/DSCF0929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigDEW8UdV9yngh_BKLmPRFuBqtv3Ayr4cuvtNV_9NRqJRzoB4xeuFnxOv6Pq9gdccKIXtT-Uwb4AoI098ImhliQ60DMl2fHtxPGPqmISWEBTzO7I8pBWLWkFt8ysrWc_ohMChyZoxrrapc/s640/DSCF0929.JPG" height="640" width="360" /></a></div>
<em> (A view of the Grand Lobby.)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
The boys explore their bunks in our stateroom:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZV5Ule4dHBu9hNnkQLbh_3p-TU21_piviBxyGI_lbTlNBZLU3dSv37SGWq81WWcnGrZ4qLxF7PwdsRK7PXSn99FGJ9Hqvjmn9XJwL7UWyR9-Sa68Z-REcEKVyUXlnkjvc597YB_Yq7tk6/s1600/DSCF0923.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZV5Ule4dHBu9hNnkQLbh_3p-TU21_piviBxyGI_lbTlNBZLU3dSv37SGWq81WWcnGrZ4qLxF7PwdsRK7PXSn99FGJ9Hqvjmn9XJwL7UWyR9-Sa68Z-REcEKVyUXlnkjvc597YB_Yq7tk6/s400/DSCF0923.JPG" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigiRWHR1T1lCCFMzusO6Cw7mV5VyRA5w9Jl_2nabqJLo9-hHCM3UQrK4fUwh6jXVRSHaFjF_k-5917QfO3EUjGajClzcOggg14SncN6JqUaUJNp3iohlkrpvNE1sLrf0FN6oCmwbkvJmms/s1600/DSCF0922.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigiRWHR1T1lCCFMzusO6Cw7mV5VyRA5w9Jl_2nabqJLo9-hHCM3UQrK4fUwh6jXVRSHaFjF_k-5917QfO3EUjGajClzcOggg14SncN6JqUaUJNp3iohlkrpvNE1sLrf0FN6oCmwbkvJmms/s400/DSCF0922.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
During the day, the upper bunk folded discreetly against the wall while the lower converted into a comfortable couch. <br />
<br />
Our seven days cruise was a whirlwind of multiple activities, of fabulous food, of rainy shore excursions, of spectacular views, of wonderful stage shows and family dances, of late night walks on the deck, of joyous meetings with fabled Disney characters, of ocean dreaming from endless portholes. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMMsAXilCwvy72Rw9nllQ75zJlvyJTU1XpiWJzbmisBWLqW4BF-ewrMRwySDSO8SQrl0DKdMHtwNbChiepvflW0JwnsQsg29VtXRC7NZQtHiL1UDtsGa1AyYCG_WHLpkDmN31H-SJd_U6/s1600/DSCF1020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdMMsAXilCwvy72Rw9nllQ75zJlvyJTU1XpiWJzbmisBWLqW4BF-ewrMRwySDSO8SQrl0DKdMHtwNbChiepvflW0JwnsQsg29VtXRC7NZQtHiL1UDtsGa1AyYCG_WHLpkDmN31H-SJd_U6/s640/DSCF1020.JPG" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
<em> (The magnificent glacier at Tracy Arm, Alaska, as seen from the upper deck of our ship.)</em><br />
<br />
These tales will unfold individually with time, but for now, it is enough to say that we engaged in adventures of the body and spirit with people from many countries, who as varied as they were, all shared one thing in common, the love of family. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfdLzbusS5bbSdhMnk8-KkZcpNvmKNmxFmYnMsSk0AyCijCfUwxqGyeJgZQzjS55TONddcO4Qsoc-Xeti98YHNlLliUvn4qv0ER8s3Utrb2vVNT6NWwy4SRiyrMVxc0moFK2J_undkduYq/s1600/DSCF1206.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfdLzbusS5bbSdhMnk8-KkZcpNvmKNmxFmYnMsSk0AyCijCfUwxqGyeJgZQzjS55TONddcO4Qsoc-Xeti98YHNlLliUvn4qv0ER8s3Utrb2vVNT6NWwy4SRiyrMVxc0moFK2J_undkduYq/s400/DSCF1206.JPG" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
Nana Johttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11433490728933321152noreply@blogger.com1