When Merry finished A Wrinkle in Time the other night, I realized I'd need to read it again if I were to discuss it intelligently with her. I remembered parts of the book (in particular, I remember a vague feeling that I should memorize a great deal more than I had in high school if I were to ever battle a giant, disembodied, evil Brain), but the rest was fuzzy.

So last night I stayed up half the night and read Madeline L'Engle's classic again. I was so spooked by IT and its control of Meg's little brother that, at midnight, when I moved my reading upstairs to bed, I couldn't bring myself to drop off my tea cup in a dark, lonely kitchen. I left it on the hall table and dashed up to bed where I finished the book in peace, switched off the light, and marvelled at L'Engle's brilliance.

Reading the book as an adult and as a writer was interesting; I was caught up in the narrative but I was detached enough to think, when the star's song is taken straight from the Psalms, "That was risky. I wouldn't have tried that. . ." and wonder at the sheer intelligence of the writing, how Mrs. Who pulled quotes seemingly out of thin air and how L'Engle mesmerized us with math. . . .and how the book, when studied in little pieces, was not as brilliant as the whole, which shimmers with the qualities of true Myth.

I can't give too much away, because Martin (gasp) has never read it. I'm switching books with him as soon as he finishes rereading "Asher Lev" which I'm sure I must have read in my Potok phase but can't remember. (Did I ever tell you I read Vanity Fair twice, and the second time didn't realize it was a reread until I was almost half-way through?)

If you haven't read L'Engle in a while, I highly recommend a revisit--wonderful stuff for midwinter days. And a reminder, too, of what is real, what is worth pursuing--and fighting for--in life and art.

She sailed away on a lovely summer's day. . .

Oh, there once was a puffin. . .

The owl and the pussycat went to sea on a beautiful pea green. . .

Can you finish the entire poems, preferably to a tune?

It just struck me that all three of these are about water, sailing or oceans. This doesn't surprise me, really, considering my mother (who grew up in the West Indies) and my father (who grew up in tidewater Virginia), are both obsessed with the ocean and feel happiest when standing in sand.

Sailing, sailing, over the ocean main; Many a stormy wind come up till Jack. . .

I remember my mother at some harbor somewhere, breathing in deeply of a wind that smelled (I thought) like rotten fish. "Ah," she sighed. "There's nothing like the smell of the ocean!"

Result: I find myself driving and panting up the tight green hills of Pennsylvania; she rides a ferry through the Puget Sound on a regular basis.

"And children, don't forget your toothbrushes." Where's THAT gem from? Kudos to you who know.

Some of us get fancy

dandy lion or

their version of Dandelion (original by Don Freeman)

Happy Places

My friend Tonya put a basketful of swiss chard in the washing machine to disastrous consequences. She swears the rinse cycle works splendidly with spinach. Apparently chard is of a more delicate constitution.

Tonya has a big, productive garden, and she is of good Mennonite stock which means she can never. . .stop. . .working. . .She tells me she's up to her ears in peaches and she's already canned enough beans to build a replica of the Empire State Building. Plus she works two mornings a week and educates her children at home by cyberschool. My question is: when does she sleep?

Did I mention she has a flock of chickens? And a penchant for personal, physical disaster? Since I've known her she has almost shot her eye out with a hunting rifle, stumbled backwards into a ravine that was hiding a nest of bees, and bashed herself countless times on countless objects.

Last evening, she was already doubled over with pain from a previous injury, but continued wildly chopping basil to more unfortunate consequences. . .the permanent loss of the tip of her thumb.

There are these miniature children's books that Merry used to like about sad bunnies (by Rosemary Wells, I think) who endure horrible things and get rescued by a Queen bunny named Janet who then takes them to the Bunny Planet so they can experience the day that should have been.

Tonya, let's go to the bunny planet.
Or to the shores of Orcas Island, on the placid cool waters of the Puget Sound. Only the sound of a paddle in water, mountains rising around you, the hope of a seal.
Ah. . . .

Poem for the Day: Bear About Town

I'm jealous of the big brown bear in my daughter's board book. I long for his tall, European townhouse, where every room sings in plum purples and cherry reds. The rooms are so pretty you want to eat them like hard candy.

Too, I want Bear's town, where everyone waves with innocuous paws that could crush a child in a minute but instead accomplish dainty tasks, like pouring tea, tying tiny apron strings, holding petite packages containing yellow clocks and iced cakes with cherries perched on top.

Fat bumblebees never sting but hover and buzz in the ears of the bears who love them, who love their park with the empty bench and the bunches of balloons held by small bears and grinned upon by old bears.

The bakery, jam-packed with baguettes and impossible chocolate cakes and confections, does not demand money, only a toothy smile, and all the teeth in bear's town are for tearing crusty bread and biting into pies made from plums from Grandma's orchard, studded with candles for a small bear's birthday as his drum-playing cousin bears beat a syncopated racket.

Rabbits, who are just rabbits, live in bushes at the foot of creamy green, teardrop trees, on top of a hill packed with clean Holland-like streets with tulips sprouting from windowsills and a playground that still has a merry-go-round because little bears never break arms or legs or smash their furry heads but play and play until dark under the chimneys of their town that spout nontoxic smoke into a darkening sky full of goodwill and bear acceptance and three striped birds that my daughter counts:

one, two, three,
before we close the book.

A Park in Hanoi, A Book to Read

Once again, here's a letter from my father in Hanoi (I edited it just a bit for brevity). His description of the park reminds me of the picture book I just read to Bea and her friend, E, a wonderful account by Fumiko Takeshita of a white park bench. The illustrations, by Japanese artist Mamoru Suzuki, which depict the park over one day, are charming as well as engrossing. (You can find the book at Alibris and used at Amazon--I highly recommend it).

Here's my Dad's Vietnamese park experience:

I had one of those disjointed moments this afternoon that seem to characterize my life. I had finished early at the office so after dropping things off at the room I walked to the lake near the office, dodging the motorbikes that use the sidewalks during rush hour.

It's probably about half a mile around the lake and there were many making the circuit, joggers, older and younger people, courting couples, kids with their moms or grand moms and the stray motorbike here and there and one very tiny, very nervous, very lost chihuahua dog wearing a home knit sweater. To my right, older men gathered around what resembles a checkerboard but playing a far more complex game. The circle of mostly elderly men squatted or leaned over the two playing the game, freely and enthusiastically offering their advice.

On my second clockwise circuit just before the last turn that took me back to the entrance I passed the most noisy part of the park. About 35 women, mostly young, radiated from an athletic woman leading them in aerobic dancing to loud Vietnamese pop music.

Just beyond them were the small mechanical kid's rides--one little train and a small and very mild whirly gig. The tinny sound track for the rides provided counterpoint to the jazz.

A new track began and to my surprise the tune was familiar. The female vocalist had (what is to my ears) the thin voice that seems traditionally to characterize popular songs in Asia before the advent of MTV. But. . .I had sung to that tune for as long as I can remember.

Sounding out over the lake and the hundreds of people of all ages from elderly kibitzers to the young couple. . .was, in Vietnamese accented English, "Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little Lord Jesus lay down his sweet head." It went through all the verses.

And so somehow on my last evening walk of this trip things come around, confusing East and West, English and Vietnamese, Lent and Christmas.

Love,
Mere
*******

Fiction, Full of Danger

I spent much of yesterday moving area rugs and cleaning the floors underneath. Tiny treasures, such as stale cheerios, old goldfish crackers, pieces of Lego and wooden beads abounded. Moving the furniture by myself (wedging my back under and table and lifting, turtle-like) to smooth out area rugs was a delight--not a necessity, since Martin would have lent a hand, but my preference, because then I don't have to worry about any grumpiness but mine. I couldn't possibly lift the piano, though I tried, so I had to wait for a little extra help. I hate it when I can't do things all by myself. Hmm. Maybe that's where the girls get their sometimes-alarming, mostly-encouraging independence.

Merry just cornered me in the dining room and told me about a book that her friend Cat had read and hated. Turns out the blurb on the back amounted to what they thought was false advertising: it told about the friendship between a boy and a girl, all the wonderful things they did, and the cover showed the smiling little girl about to cross a rope bridge over a rushing river. Unfortunately, Merry says, at the very end of the book, the little girl gets swept into the same river and dies. "Can you believe it?" she says. "It's AWFUL. Why would they have to do that in a story? The mom or dad could have died, and that would have been better. But not the KID." Merry was so upset her eyes were almost watering. It seemed like a good opportunity to talk about fiction, but Merry was not persuaded by any of my arguments. "They were supposed to have good times," Merry said, "The book is actually called the name of the river. That's the main part of the story--" Merry stares at me with incredulous eyes--"She dies."

I felt the same way about "Mill on the Floss," but I had to read through two million pages to get to the final drowning scene. Fiction. It's full of pitfalls. Better to avoid it altogether and focus on daily activities, like moving enormous pieces of furniture.

:) Happy Friday, everyone.

I give thanks for Ogden Nash, my old friends, my father, etc.

I'd like to thank my father for reading Ogden Nash to me. At least I remember his boyish face, his eyes alive with the impending mirth, the expectation that Nash would bend us double with laughter. When I actually read Nash poems, I wonder if my memory is correct: "Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker" is one observation I don't think my father ever shared with us as he sat on the edge of my bed. And I was a young adult when I read about the clever turtle being so fertile, and I was older still--just turning NOW, as a matter of fact, when I found the gentle account of Miranda turning thirty: "How old is spring?" the poem finishes. And it was only last winter that Martin gave a splitting reading of that fabulous fable, "The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus."

But I am not giving a shout-out to Ogden, but to my father. Actually, scratch that. WHAT HO, OGDEN! YOU ROCK! It's not every man who can write a two line poem about a cow that makes me laugh out loud. Make yourself thankful for belly laughs this year and go read some zappy shorts. Please, I beg you, do not skip the one on parsley.

Leave dear Ogden for a minute, jollyish reader, and return to my white-haired, bushy-eyebrowed, laughs-through-his-nose father. He read to us for hours when we were children, mastering voices and even singing when called on by the text, though his singing voice sounds like Winnie the Pooh's. He read us everything from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, (where I first heard about menstruation) to the entire Lord of the Rings series, which we stretched out over our interminable summer car rides when we were on leave from Kenya. Go back further than that and I have my father's voice calling out the islands of Maine in Robert McCloskey's Time of Wonder --his voice is imprinted so strongly on those words that I still cry every time I read it to my own children.

My father travelled quite a lot, and I remember the smell of his suitcase as he unzipped the old, fake leather and threw it open. Nestled among his socks and toothbrush were small gifts for us. If he'd been back to America, the open suitcase smelled like ziplock bags and drugstores and my grandmama's house in Pennsylvania. If he'd been to Thailand or Dacca, the suitcase was damp with humidity and smelled of sweat, dust, and spices.

I just chatted with my mother on the phone as she floated across the Puget Sound to join my sister and her family and my brother for Thanksgiving. Here I am, sitting at a table covered with my mother's old blue tablecloth, spun in India; the white stripes in the cloth start at Martin, who works at the other end of the table, and flow all the way across to me. Silver sage from our garden dries among candles; there's a painted leaf Merry brought home from school and a paper with an upside down heart and the word MOM that Elspeth presented to me this afternoon. A box of Kleenex (Bea has a cold), the roar of the heater, lamplight glowing on our mantle clock. The sounds of my father's voice deep down inside of me, my mother's laugh fresh in my ears. I give thanks for all of it, for the glitter and drop and water-flow of so many stories, for the way they fill me with color.

For Keeps

Elspeth and Bea sleep and Merry sleeps soon, hopefully, at a friend's house. Martin and his life-long friend Jeff are off in Ninevah, PA, attending a meeting about UFOs and Bigfoot. We saw the gathering advertised at the local Farmer's Market and off they went. I'm waiting for the report.

Tonight, tucked up in my bed, I read Elspeth an old favorite, "Little Bear's Friend." It's a green hard-back book and pictured on the front, Emily (in a straw party hat)sits across from Little Bear (in a striped, peaked party hat); on the table sits Lucy the doll, who has not yet broken her arm by falling out of Owl's tree.

Inside the cover of the book, I found a red, circular stamp: THIS BOOK IS BELONGS TO HML * HEATHER MARIE LONG; underneath, in large letters printed in blue crayon: and Kimberly Long. The stamp (grammatical error and all) was made, I'm sure, in Bangladesh, and the book is copyrighted 1960, so my sister Heather and I must have been about eight and six, respectively. The pages are yellowed and brittle but wonderfully familiar. I found myself almost choking up as I read the last chapter, which tells the story of Emily saying goodbye to Little Bear:

Mother Bear said, "Let us eat up all the cake. If we do, then it will not rain tomorrow."

"Let it rain," said Little Bear. "Emily will not be here tomorrow to play with me."
(Little Bear's Friend, by Else Holmelund Minarik, Harper & Row)

Then there's that wonderful bit where Emily, moved by her love for Little Bear, hands over Lucy, her dearest possession, and tells Little Bear she wants him to have Lucy for keeps. Little Bear barely responds before Emily pulls Lucy back again and says she forgot, but she has to take Lucy to school with her. Minarik is particularly perceptive in this book; we long to show our love in the face of impending loss, and yet we hold fast to the things that make us secure in the face of change.

Two big tears run down Little Bear's face after Emily and Lucy leave, and Mother Bear scoops him up into her lap. What Elspeth didn't know as I read the story out loud, what she has not yet experienced, is the bittersweet pain of leaving dear ones and dear places; what my childhood was filled with; what I felt when I saw my sister and my child-names in the front of this book.

Help!

Elspeth and I are in dire need of help. We cracked open Cars and Trucks and Things That Go tonight and began our happy pursuit of Goldbug. This book is a staple from my childhood and I never cease to find delight in the corn, pickle, mustard, and other various foodstuff-inspired vehicles on each page.

Do you own this book? If not, go out and buy it immediately.

If you do own this book, please, please, drop everything you are doing RIGHT NOW. Find your copy and turn to pages 44-45. The pig family is picking out corn from Aunty Pastry's farm stand (Pa is taking a taste--he is such a, yes, you guessed it). Do you see Mistress Mouse winning the race? And Joe's long purple bigshot car? Joe looks as if he is about to choke on his cigar.

I have studied these pages for a short eternity and I cannot find Goldbug anywhere. Neither can Elspeth--and I am beginning to think my old hero R. Scarry forgot to slip him in. This can't be true! I would have remembered it as one of the greatest disappointments of my childhood!

Please. Please. Help us. WHERE IS GOLDBUG???

I'm not even sure I'll be able to sleep tonight.

Contributions

Wazoo Farm craves the contributions of other imaginative gardeners, avid readers and film critics, and discerning music-lovers!

To become a Guest Gardener or Book (Children's/Adult), Music, or Film Reviewer, send your proposed contributions or question to: wazoofarm@gmail.com.

Thanks, good people!

Trees

--photo by K J Robinson

TREES

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

--Joyce Kilmer
spotted in A Child's Anthology of Poetry, Ed. E H Sword, Ecco Press 1995.
_____________________________________

I wish I had written the above poem, though I expect I would not have allowed myself the lovely archaic language.

Here is my own bumbling attempt at spring time poetry:

SPRING

Just before green,
in rain that feels
like the breath of rivers:
Bud like infant fist opens,
Rain pearls on black feathers.
I hear singing, soil whispering.

--Kimberly Cockroft
Once again, a chronic problem with my poems: line endings? last line? (Of course Martin has not yet got his poet's paws on it.) But for heaven's sakes, it's a spring poem and does not have to be completely brittle and finished but can afford to be supple, bending, pale green. Here's to spring time poetry!

Bells on Her Toes, And That's All

*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
I was recently romanced by the sheer beauty of this nursery rhyme. Of course I've heard it since I was a child, and in all likelihood, you have too. But as the strains of "Ride a toy horse" filled our house yesterday afternoon, I realized for the first time what a sparkling little gem this nursery rhyme is. It's not clunky like Humpty Dumpty or smart-alecky like Little Jack Horner. It's whimsical and lyrical:

Ride a cockhorse to Banbury Cross
To see a fine lady upon a white horse
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
She shall have music wherever she goes.

I began conjuring up a faint picture of the lady, rings glittering on her fingers, bells jingling on her toes. I knew she must have historical significance, so I jolly well looked her up.

The most accepted story behind the fine lady includes Queen Elizabeth I of England traveling on her magnificent white horse to view a stone cross at Banbury. She gleamed with fine jewels, and minstrels accompanied her in splendid regalia as she condescended her attention on the little town of Banbury. The impressive cross at Banbury was later desecrated by anti-Catholics in one of the many bloody Prot.-Cath. conflicts.

Bells on her toes? If you were a queen, my dear, you were allotted bells on your elegant little shoes.

Very nice.

I did find an origin to the nursery rhyme that rather suits my style better, and I've been saving the best for last.

Long ago, Lady Godiva had rather an unfortunate husband. Leofric, Earl of Mercia, though he may have been a decent chap in other respects (unlikely), decided his tenants needed to pay more from their shallow pockets into his coffers. He imposed a terrible tax.

Lady Godiva advocated for the poor people until finally Leofric pulled his brows together, sputtered through his sherry: "Blast it, Godiva, I'll tell you what I'll do. Ride naked through Coventry, and you'll have your way, [irritating wench]."

So what did she do, this fine Lady Godiva?

You got it. Saddled up the white horse and mounted him stark naked. The folk in Coventry stayed indoors, but you can bet they were making plenty of music behind their curtains.

And Leofric lifted the tax.

Now, whenever you sing the old nursery rhyme, you might want to think of Queen Elizabeth in all her stately finery. But I will be singing it to my daughters with a triumphant swing, and raising my glass to naked Lady Godiva.

--Pic. Sources (in order:)http://www.rootsweb.com/~engcbanb/fairlady/page1.htm; http://www.rhymes.org.uk/ride_a_cock_horse.htm
--Lady Godiva story found www.indianchild.com/history_origins_nursery_ryhmes.htm

Hot Cuppa, Wot?

STRIP JACK NAKED. This was the name of the card game our British neighbor in Dhaka taught my sister and me, aged six and eight. In the afternoon, Heather and I would run through the sweet smell of frangipani trees, squeeze through the hedge, and visit the old British granny-lady. She fed us biscuits and taught us how to cross-stitch, and if the first title of the card-game was too racy, we could always call it BEAT THE OLD LADY TO BED if we preferred.

Later in Kenya we had another lovely British neighbor who was soft and smelled wonderful and called us "Lovey."

So maybe it's these two exquisite ladies that put the anglophile in me, or maybe it's tea, or maybe it's the BBC.

Tea! Tea cozies! John Cleese! Spot of milk or slice of lemon! Wedgewood! Hyacinth Bucket! Marmite! Judi Dench! Egg cups! Wellies! Wot?

If any of these things make your heart beat faster, you might be a bit of an anglophile yourself.

One glance at my Netflix queue reveals a striking similarity in all the vicarious lives I indulge through TV or film. Hmmm. All set in U.K. For some intense weeks I lived with Judi Dench (or maybe I WAS Judi Dench?) as I took in the entire series, including the bonus, of As Time Goes By. The music for this sitcom is atrocious, but the script writing is clever. Also, I enjoyed looking at Dame J.D.'s tea mugs, her smart London townhouse, and the richly furnished country estate (complete with eccentric locals). As I sat comatose in front of the TV, I was actually touring London on foot; I suddenly loved runny poached eggs; everything I said was witty and well-pronounced as I poured from a tray with an endless supply of duty-free liquors from Heathrow airport.

If Henry James and T.S. Eliot could switch nationalities, why can't I? If they could, just on whim, began writing colour, centre, theatre, and wot-ho, why can't I?

Actually, I do not want to trade in passports. Though American tourists are generally embarrassing in foreign countries (super LOUD), the charm of living vicariously in a hay-topped cottage (with hollyhocks in the front yard) without any of the reality is too great a temptation.

I am ashamed at the sheer commercial nature of the following. Nonetheless, here are some of my favorite anglophile pleasures:


BISCUITS: Marie biscuits, for their crisp texture and perfect tea-dipping properties; digestive biscuits of any kind, especially if they're coated in chocolate.

CANDY: Smarties, rattling happily in a cardboard tube. Cadbury's bars in golden wrappers.

CLOTHES: Knee socks (with shorts); wildly clashing patterns worn together

*See all sources for pictures listed below.

TEA: A six cup teapot, warmed with a swirl of boiling water. Twinings English Breakfast is the tastiest tea (beyond actual East African tea) I can locate in America. Do not overbrew to a soup. Nor do you want a weak cuppa that pales hideously at the first drop of milk. And use a tea cozy so the pot lasts, and lasts, and lasts, through all the courses of your tea. Cozies are extremely hard to find; in fact, an import store, a trip overseas, or your own sewing machine may be your only affordable options. And of course, use a cup and saucer unless you're busy or on the run. And then a beaker is okay.

Scones, yes. Clotted cream, Devonshire, absolootely. A dollop of marmalade.

Best BBC TV SERIES:
Jeeves and Wooster, Monarch of the Glen (Scottish), Ballykissangel (Irish), As Time Goes By, Father Ted (Irish--in small doses), Waiting for God, Keeping Up Appearances, Fawlty Towers, Yes Prime Minister

Best BBC DRAMAS:
Of course, Pride & Prejudice, North and South (rivals P & P), Wives and Daughters
*
Pretty-Good BBC DRAMAS: Daniel Deronda, The Way We Live Now (David Suchet goes nasty for this leading role)--these are both based on Anthony Trollope Novels

Not-so-hot BBC DRAMAS: He Knew He Was Right (acting is good but as title suggests, not worth three-four hours).

BRITISH THINGS I HATE: Marmite, Vegemite, poached eggs, kippers for breakfast

BEST MYSTERY SERIES: Poirot (charming voice and narcissistic but polite manner); Cadfield (a monk-detective in Middle Ages--top marks for writing); Midsomer Murders are at first promising but the sheer number of murders is ridiculous

BRITISH THINGS I NEVER USE BUT WISH I DID: A slotted toast tray; egg cups; heated radiator covers in the bathroom for damp towels

Here I listed Music, Plays, and Movies, but that was just a waste of space. The answers are obvious. U2, Oscar Wilde, and just about anything BBC.

BRITISH FIXTURES I WISH AMERICA WOULD ADOPT: Real pubs, warm beer, the BBC, red post boxes, the metro to everywhere, Heathrow Airport, teatime, British Airways, Margaret Thatcher

BOOKS: Too many to mention. My favorite still has to be Austen, and my biggest surprise would be when I actually fell asleep reading Barchester Towers by Anthony Trollope. I rather thought I was going to love it.


CHILDREN: If you have children and are just a teeny bit of an anglophile yourself, I would strongly recommend The Naughty Little Sister series; Shirley Hughes' Alfie books and charming illustrations (click on 'Hughes' above for website); Kipper the Dog DVDS. All of these celebrate story and character without imposing didactic morals on children. Thank goodness.

And for the very young: Helen Oxenbury's "Pippo" stories. Elspeth (1) loves the bold pictures, the simple story, and the charm of the characters. I love how English it all is.

Cheerio, and toodle-pip!

***Sources for pictures (in order): www.bbcamerica.com; www.englishteastore.com; www.amazon.com; www.egglamania.org; www.wikipedia.org; www.liverpoolmuseums.org; amazon.com; www.ratherjolly.com