The Wind in the Willows

 

The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame. Published in 1908, this book is a great literary treasure.  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.

This 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.    

 

 

The Wind in the Willows 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:

"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 sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.”  

Mole then meets Rat, who invites him to go boating on the river and share a picnic.

“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.”

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.

“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.”

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 "chasing, chuckling," "gurgling, glints and gleams." The words are truly bewitching. We are entranced by them.  Our senses "a-shake, a-shiver” as we become alive to his gorgeous passages of prose.

"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."

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 Wind in the Willows.’

New Light

Introducing our newest family member, my beautiful new baby granddaughter, born November 8th, 2014, weighing 6 lbs,14 ozs.

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.

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.

By the Light of the Moon

(Walking in Moonlight, by Nicole Wong)

 

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.

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.

“When I am a hundred years old, I will catch up with the moon?” the little boy said.

“What will you say to her?” said his Nana.

“Moon, do you ever get tired of shining?” replied the boy.

“What do you think she will answer?” asked his Nana.

“No, because I will shine forever and ever.”

“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.

Voice and Heart

 

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.

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.

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.

Zaanse Schans

The Letter Z.

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 Zaanse Schans which is a fully inhabited, open-air conservation area located just a few miles north of Amsterdam. Zaanse 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 Zaandam, near Zaandijk in the municipality of Zaanstad in the province of North Holland.

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.

                          My granddaughter and I by one of the many windmills.

It is a place often referred to as an open-air museum because of its extraordinarily well preserved architecture and traditions.

We wandered around drinking in the beauty and peace of Zaanse Schans for several hours.

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.

The grasses don't hide Papa quite so well.

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.

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.

A was very excited to see a swan for the first time. We watched his graceful swimming and preening for a long time.

We will always remember the sound of the rushing grasses and the abiding peace of Zaanse Schans.

Strange Fruit

STRANGE FRUIT

 

To you dark blackberry succulent dreamer,

I bring you my strawberries of romance,

My blueberry stained fingers,

My bitter lemons of transcendence,

My red cheeked apples of exultation,

 

My purple laden vines of the night,

 

My crushed raspberry hopes

My pungent lime ecstasies.

 

My consummate deliciousness

And juicy tender lips.

 

Strangely desirous to know

 

The earth is a good earth.

 

  



A Matched Set

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.


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.

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.

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.

The sixties were in full swing and I yearned for the psychedelic patterns and bright colours that my friends wore.


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.


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.

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.
Alas, I was never able to convince my mother about those Gogo boots!

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.

(This is a Sepia Saturday post.)

A Father's Promise

 

As Father’s Day approaces, I want to write about an extraordinary father who made a promise to his daughter. The Reading Promise: My Father and The Books We Shared, by Alice Ozma, is a magical, and beautifully written, biographical tribute by Alice to her father.

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!

 "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."

 

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.

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.

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… “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.”

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, '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.'

 

                                                           (Alice Ozma and her father, Jerry.)

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!  

Purple Lines

The Mag               (The Promenade, 1918, by Marc Chagall )

 

                               
                                                          PURPLE LINES

There are days when

all I want to be

is the sky surrounded by the sea.

There are days when

all I want to be

is a dancing wind above a tree.

There are days when

all I want to be

is a lavender song floating free.

There are days when

all I want to be

is a purple line of poetry.

 

Smoke Screen

The Mag 174

 

 

                            Stanley Kubrick, for Look Magazine, 1949.
   

Smoke Screen

 

Fortune flashed in his hair,

in the dark of his eyes.

Summer skimmed the surface

of her thoughts.

She wondered what it would be like

to dance in his wind.

The stars drew his name

in clusters of burning points.

She wished on them.

She battled the air for knowledge.

She burned incense.

She dreamed of orange blossom

and spices on the altar of his being,

And she played the part of everyone

but herself.