About Last Night

I remember one time when I was about five or six years old, my mother was putting me to bed.  I asked her, "How do you go to sleep?"

"You just lay down and close your eyes, and go to sleep,"  my mother replied. 

"But how?"  I asked.  "How do you go to sleep?"

I never did figure that out.  Even as a child, I'd lay in bed for hours with my eyes closed and not go to sleep.  I still do it.  

I was doing it last night at 2:00 AM ish, and that memory immediately sprang to mind.   Lots of other things sprang to mind, as well, but I really felt like I needed to re-run this for those folks up in New York City.  All of the photos in this post were taken my yours truly in the local Walmart back during COVID.  

This will be NYC soon.  And no, you better not move down here.  You voted for this mess.  You stay there and live in it. 

 The Gods Of The Copybook Headings

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race

I Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:

But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,

So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place.

But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come

That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is build on they were utterly out of touch

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.

But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said:  "Stick to the Devil you know." 

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbor and ended by loving his wife)

Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death." 

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;

But though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work, you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smoothed-tongued wizards withdrew,

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true

That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four--

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. 

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man--

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began--

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire--

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn

The Gods of the Copybook Headings, with terror and slaughter return!

Rudyard Kipling

 *Note:  all photos taken at the local Walmart within the last two weeks. 

            

Big Red

I found it!  I finally found it!

And what did I find, you may ask?  Well, I'll tell you.  Back when I was a child, I'd read a book about  Man-O-War.  The racehorse, not the battleship or the jelly fish.  In the back of a book was a poem that had been written about him.  I'd looked for years and years for that poem, searching the internet diligently — to no avail.

A few days ago, I tried again, and lo and behold, someone had posted it on their social media page.   Here, for your enjoyment, but mostly so I can have a copy where I know I can find it again, is the poem.  

"Big Red"  

by Joseph Alvie Estes, first published October 23, 1937:

The days are long at Belmont. 
Speed they never learn. 
And it's many a day since Man o' War 
Has looped the upper turn. 

The guineas stopped their rubbing,
The rider dropped his tack 
When the word went round that Man o' War 
Was coming on the track. 

The crowd was hoarse with cheering 
At ancient Pimlico
The day he won the Preakness-
But that was long ago. 

The dust is deep at Windsor,
The good old days are gone.
And many a horse is forgotten,
But they still remember one. 

For he was a fiery phantom
To that multitudinous throng-
Would you wait for another one like him?
Be patient: years are long. 

For here was a horse among horses,
Cast in a Titan's mold,
And the slant October sunlight
Gilded the living gold. 

He was marked with the god's own giving
And winged in every part;
The look of eagles was in his eye
And Hastings' wrath in his heart. 

Young Equipoise had power
To rouse the crowded stand,
And there was magic in the name
Of Greentree's Twenty Grand. 

And Sarazen has sprinted,
And Gallant Fox has stayed,
And Discovery has glittered 
In the wake of Cavalcade. 

We watch the heroes parading,
We wait, and our eyes are dim,
But we never discover another
Like him. 

A foal is born at midnight
And in the frosty morn
The horseman eyes him fondly
And a secret hope is born. 

But breathe it not, nor whisper,
For fear of a neighbor's scorn:
He's a chestnut colt, and he's got a star-
He may be another Man o' War. 

Nay, say it aloud--be shameless.
Dream and hope and yearn,
For there's never a man among you
But waits for his return.

Gods Of The Copybook Headings

 The Gods Of The Copybook Headings

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race

I Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:

But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,

So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place.

But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come

That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is build on they were utterly out of touch

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.

But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said:  "Stick to the Devil you know." 

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbor and ended by loving his wife)

Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death." 

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;

But though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work, you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smoothed-tongued wizards withdrew,

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true

That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four--

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. 

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man--

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began--

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And teh burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire--

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn

The Gods of the Copybook Headings, with terror and slaughter return!

Rudyard Kipling

 *Note:  all photos taken at the local Walmart within the last two weeks. 

            

Monday Mayhem

My day started way too early this morning when some unknown something flew into the fan of the bedroom air conditioner.  I never did find out what it was, but it made a fearsome racket.  I wasn't going to investigate in the middle of the night, so I just turned the unit off and went back to bed.  Unfortunately, to my dogs, turning off the A/C means it's time to get up.  Needless to say, I didn't get back to sleep.

Sigh, it's been a long day...

So, there I was at work, just a working away, when Supervisor Ronny came over and asked if I'd gotten my chainsaw put back together.  I said no, so he told me how to fix it.  I'd done most of what he told me, except the most important part.  He said to let off on the chain tensioner thingy.  Only he didn't say chain tensioner thingy.  He used the right and proper name for it, but I can't remember what it was.  I knew what he was talking about, though.  He was talking about the chain tensioner thingy.

Part of the problem is, I messed up the...um, I call them guide teeth, they're the things that go down into that groove on the bar thing.  Whatever they're called, they are messed up.

Ronny said I might could file them down, but after seeing how many of them are chewed up like this, I went ahead and used my spare chain.

When I got home, I tried what Ronny had told me about the chain tensioner thingy, and got my chainsaw put back together.  I actually jumped up and squealed, "I did it!"  It's back together, but I haven't tried to use it.  I'm kind of afraid to, now.  It might go flying apart as soon as I start it up. 

My other coworker Edna is very broken up over the loss of Anastasia.  She told me today that we needed to have a memorial service for her.  I'm not sure about a service, but I did go back to my stand and wrote the following:

Ode To An Arachnid Name Anastasia

Her name was Anastasia
She was a friend of mine.
Not, really, but I wanted
To at least say something kind.

Webs she built and bugs she caught
My roses she did guard;
I really wish she'd had the sense
To stay in her own yard.

The kindness of her heart
No one has ever seen;
She quickly volunteered to be
A prop for Halloween.

Her tiny little body
Now rests beneath the trees;
I never will forget that bug--
The one with sixteen knees.  

First Frost Haiku

First frost shimmering

The world adorned with tiny

Diamonds everywhere

Poem in Progress

I think it's almost finished.  But then, I finished it back in April, then decided I didn't like it and started over.  I like this version better, but that last verse may still get some tweaking. 

Weeds

Most people see me as a weed
Unacceptable, unbearable, intolerable
Because I am neither elegant rose
Nor stately orchid gently nodding a graceful head.

I don't belong in their cultured gardens
Unworthy, unwanted, unloved
An outsider.  An invader to be pulled up
Cast aside, or tossed into the fire.

But I have beauty, too, though of a different sort.
The capricious whimsy of the wind in my eyes,
The merry twinkle of starlight in my soul,
And a heart filled with the echo of the wild goose's cry.

But those who can truly see me
Those rare few who get to know my heart
And touch my soul, they are blessed for
They will see that I'm a flower, too.

What Do People Talk About?

I'm not really a very good conversationalist.  I never know what to talk about.  I've asked some of my chatty friends what they talk to people about, and they tell me, "Oh, talk about anything.  Talk about the weather.  Talk about your kids.  Just talk about anything."

But I've found that you can only say, "Hot enough for you?" so many times before people start wanting to strangle you.  And the whole talking about your kids thing doesn't really work for me.  I find that most people would rather talk about their own kids than hear about mine.

So I stand there and watch people chatting away, talking to each other, while I retreat inside my head and tell myself

Dernt Blernk

and

That's what people CHEW!!

over and over and over...

Nobody gets it.  Nobody gets me. 

I was pondering this yesterday when the following words popped into my head.

My World

I live in a world inside my head
With many, many paths to tread
Twists and turns and winding roads.
At times I end up far from home.

If you love me; if you care
Help me find my way from here.
Better yet, come fly with me
For here, with you, I will be free.

Be my anchor, be my guide.
Believe in me and I will fly.
Be my courage, be my strength
And there's no limit to my reach.

Hold my hand, hold my heart
Promise me we'll never part.
Through twists, through turns, through winding roads
I'll finally find my way back home.



P.S. If it's dumb, don't tell me. I don't want to know.

Words On Wednesday

Most of you all know that Wednesday is the day I usually do a WIP update. However, right now all I am knitting is Christmas gifts, and therefore I can't really share them with you.

So today, I thought I'd head in a different direction.

I've always loved Rudyard Kipling's stories.  The Jungle Books.  The Just So Stories.

And I've always known he'd written poetry, too, but never really took the time to read any of it.  Recently, I was introduced to one of Kipling's poems, and just fell in love with it.  Thank you, Bill Whittle.

So, here I present it to you:  The Gods Of The Copybook Headings.  It was written in 1919, but it's amazing how relevant it is today.  

 (If you don't know what a copybook heading is, click the link above.  Bill explains it right before he reads the poem to you.)

---

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

---

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Sea Fever

April is National Poetry Month.  I had intended to post several of my favorite poems throughout the month, but I seem to have gotten a bit of a late start.  Still, we must persevere.

This poem was one of my dad's favorites.  I often remember him quoting lines from it.  He had a love for all things nautical, my dad did.  Now, I don't mean cute little seashells in fake nets hanging in your bathroom.  No, I mean seafaring stuff.

He passed that on to me.  By the time I was twelve, I could tie some 50 different knots (but don't ask me to do it today), read a sextant, and throw a harpoon.  OK, it wasn't a real harpoon.  It was a long piece of bamboo, but I had the technique down pat.  We sometimes used to pretend in the back yard that he was a sea captain and I was his first mate.  I'd climb to the top of the swing set, and he'd give me orders.  I'd shout them to an imaginary crew. 

One summer, my dad and I (and my older brother until he got bored with it) sailed imaginary ships carrying imaginary cargo from Boston to San Fransisco.  Each day, we'd plot our progress on a map, and make little imaginary log entries.  I wasn't but 8 or 9, but I still remember that vividly.  My ship was named the West Wind, and my dad's was the Cutty Sark.  My brother's ship was the Flying Cloud.

Anyway, in memory of my dad, who loved the sea, I give you his favorite poem:

Sea Fever
By John Masefield


I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.