Snug and Safe

 

 

 

 

 

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ducklings snuggle safe
in the warmth of mother’s breast
eiderdown blanket

Starlit Nursery

Moon gently cradles
the evening star tonight
mother sings lullaby

Ben Franklin Gets Some Smarts

Pompous Doesn’t Pay

Once upon a time I was in a poetry circle and we were given a new word every day to write a poem about. For some words it’s pretty tough to come up with anything really sensible. Here’s my offering in response to the word fletcherize, which means to reduce (food) to tiny particles especially by prolonged chewing.

What is this new word fletcherize?
It brings no vision to my eyes;
its purpose I can’t crystalize;
all sense of rhythm it defies.

A word that is so obdurate,
with sounds that cannot resonate
a poet true will obviate
for fear that it would obfuscate.
—        ☺      —

According to Ben Franklin, at one point in his youth he became enchanted with impressive-sounding words. One day he told his mother, “I’ve imbibed an acephalous mollusc.”

She gasped. Thinking he’d eaten some poison she promptly dosed him with a foul-tasting concoction that made him vomit. The poor boy retched for hours. Once his stomach was settled again, he told his mother all he’d done was eaten an oyster.

“You naughty boy, scaring the wits out of me like that!” And she gave him a good thrashing.

He says this experience cured him of his liking for pomposity; that day he decided he’d never again use fancy-sounding words when simple ones would do.

Mother’s Question

by Edgar A Guest

When I was a boy and it chanced to rain
Mother would always watch for me;
she used to stand by the window pane,
worried and troubled as she could be.
And this was the question I used to hear,
the very minute that I drew near
the words she used, I can’t forget:
“Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”

Worried about me was Mother dear –
as healthy a lad as ever strolled
over a turnpike, far or near –
‘fraid to death that I’d take a cold.
Always stood by the window pane,
watching for me in the pouring rain;
And her words in my ears are ringing yet:
“Tell me, my boy, if your feet are wet.”

Stockings warmed by the kitchen fire
and slippers ready for me to wear;
seemed that Mother would never tire
giving her boy the best of care,
thinking of him the long day through
in the worried way that all mothers do;
whenever it rained she’d start to fret,
always fearing my feet were wet.

And now, whenever it rains, I see
a vision of mother in days of yore,
still waiting there to welcome me,
as she used to do by the open door.
And always I think as I enter there
of a mother’s love and a mother’s care;
her words in my ears are ringing yet:
“Tell me, my boy if your feet are wet.”

From his book Just Folks
©1917 by the Reilly & Britton Co

As you read this poem, bear in mind that Edgar Guest was born in 1881, about 60 years before antibiotics were available to treat ENT infections and pneumonia. Mothers in those days saw first-hand why “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

Praises For Mother

Mother

As I think of my old mother
and of all she did for me,
of her sacrifice and service,
oh, how grateful I should be!
She rose early every morning,
always worked till late at night,
read for us and told us stories,
tried to teach us what was right,

patched our clothes and darned our stockings,
fed us three good meals a day,
took us all to church on Sunday,
made our home life bright and gay.
She would mediate our troubles
or when accident befell
she would cuddle and caress us,
kiss the part to make it well.

Should some sickness overtake us,
be it toothache, mumps or flu,
she would stay close by our bedside
always knowing what to do.
As we grew a little older
and were sent away to school
she would tell us, with our playmates,
to observe the golden rule.

When we boys had grown to manhood,
no more classed as childish elves,
she would still insist on doing
things that we should do ourselves.
To my shame I must confess it:
youth and older folks today
seldom give the praise to Mother
that is due her every day.

Written by fellow Saskatchewan poet, Roy Lobb
Published in the book Plain Folks, ©1961

Teaching Mom To Drive

Kendall’s mother decided one day that, since she’d soon be an empty-nester, she’d better learn how to drive. So she talked Kendall, her last son at home, into giving her some lessons.

It intrigued Kendall that Mom wanted to learn to drive in her “old age” – after all she was almost 50 and to a young man of eighteen that was far over the hill. Though dubious, he agreed and let her take the wheel while he instructed.

The lesson did not go smoothly. Mom was extremely nervous in traffic; she kept forgetting the simplest rules; parallel parking was a lost cause; she didn’t know which streets were one-ways.  He was soon exasperated. It was clear he’d be in for torture if she persisted.

So after they got home he told his mom he just didn’t have the patience for this project. Anyway, she’d never become a good driver so why not just accept it. If she persisted she’d likely have an accident and he’d be a nervous wreck.

His father was home by that time and listened quietly for awhile, then said, “Too bad you don’t remember the marvelous patience your mother had with you when you were learning to feed yourself. Or how many “accidents” she had to clean up when you were being potty-trained.”

His point was taken. Kendall stared at his shoes for a few minutes, then said, “Sorry, Mom. Do you want to go out for another lesson tomorrow?”

Winter Morning

Frost drifts off branches
fence wire sparkles with rainbows
clock chimes rouse mothers

No Point Screaming Over Spilled Milk

Cathy sat in the fast food restaurant trying not to eavesdrop as the mother at the next table scolded her daughter.  It was pretty hard; the small girl has just spilled her drink and the mother was berating her loudly.  What a terrible mess she’d made.  How could she be so careless.  And on and on.

The distressed child started to cry; of course she lost her appetite, too.  This made the mother even more angry and again she scolded.  “Hurry up and get it down!  I paid good money for that food and now you’re not even eating it.”  But the girl only choked on the food.

Finally the mother had enough and ordered her daughter to put her coat on.  The girl slowly stuck an arm in one sleeve, but her mother soon lost patience and grabbed the jacket from her.  More commotion and scolding.

Cathy watched as the two of them left, the mother still muttering, dragging the girl along, and the child whimpering pitifully.  Cathy felt sorry for them both; she saw herself in the angry mother and she was touched by the helplessness of the child.  She resolved that from now on she’d show more patience with her own children.

But you know how things work.  As soon as you resolve to do better life throws you a challenge to see if you really mean it.  That evening her own small daughter came and asked for a drink of milk.  After drinking a few sips she decided she didn’t really want it after all and handed it back to her mother but before Cathy had her hand on the glass the girl let go and it fell, splashing all over the floor, the cupboard, the wall.

Cathy felt an immediate flash of exasperation and opened her mouth to scold the girl’s carelessness.  But before any words came out she saw on her little girl’s face that same frightened, bewildered look she’d seen earlier on the child at the restaurant.  Remorse washed over her; in the past she’d been quick to scold and her daughter was expecting a similar tongue lashing now.  Cathy “heard” herself being that mother.  The thought made her cringe.

She swallowed her angry words and gathered her frightened daughter in her arms.  “It’s all right.  You didn’t do it on purpose.  Let’s get your coat on and you can go play outside for a bit.”

She helped her daughter to put her coat on; the girl went outside and Cathy cleaned up the mess, thankful she had been able to hold her tongue.  While she was down on her knees wiping up the milk, she sighed a prayer for help to overcome her anger at times like this; she didn’t want her children to grow up cringing under their mother’s harsh words.

Comfort and Healing

I’ve been reading Dr. Kevin Dautremont’s blog and would like to pass on his accounts of some things he as a doctor has witnessed.

If you have ever lost a baby, through miscarriage, stillbirth, etc., please read this:

Death and Life

And for those who’d like to rejoice in God’s miracles of mercy, please read this:

Miracles

“Oh, worship the King, all glorious above
and gratefully sing His wonderful love…”
–R Grant

Messing With Nature Mothers

One Boy’s Efforts to Correct Nature’s Shortcomings

Maida was outside picking up some of the shingles scattered around to use as kindling in the old wood stove, when she heard loud, angry boys’ voices.  Here came her three sons, the oldest two dragging five-year-old Alan, by the arms.

“You’ll never guess what he did now, Mom!”  The older boys glared in righteous indignation at the tearful transgressor.  “He got into the birds’ nests in the apple trees and moved all the eggs and the baby birds around.  They’re so mixed up now their poor mothers will never find them!”

“Yeah.  Whatever is God thinking about the awful thing you did, Alan Knowles?”

She felt an urge to laugh at the very idea, but stifled it.  This was, after all, a major crime to the two oldest boys.  The accused hung his head and made no defence.  (He told his mother later that he hadn’t dared to explain with his two prosecutors yelling and glaring down at him so furiously.  He wouldn’t have gotten a word in anyway.)

To defuse the issue a bit she told him he’d best go and tend to the cats so they wouldn’t find out about the confusion in the orchard before the baby birds learned to fly.  Happy with his light sentence, he dried his tears and hurried off to the shed where their new cat family lived.

It took a few years until he explained his actions that day.  “I’d been watching the birds coming and going to their nests and I noticed that some mother birds didn’t leave their nests for long; they seemed to grab some food and come back quickly.  Others stayed away a lot longer.

“I was afraid the eggs and babies would get cold when their mothers were gone so long, so I just moved the eggs and baby birds to the nests where the mothers came back sooner.  I thought they’d be better looked after.”

It made perfect sense at the time. ☺

Account retold from the book Apples Don’t Just Grow by Maida Parlow French
© 1954 by McClelland & Stewart Ltd