Old tree

Old Tree

Old tree in the woods, lovely dark and deep, what have you seen?

Clearly the oldest by far, two spans of my arms and, still, I can not encircle your girth.

How long have you been upon this earth?

Before the first white man came to settle, when the Indian lived and loved this land.

Surely, you grew - young then, proud and strong with branches like humanly arms,

stretched out in heavenly supplication.

Give thanks to the Great Spirit above for a moment in the sun.

Time is not kind to living things. It calls like the bell to all too soon.

Now, I see you old friend, as I pass by, tattered and broken, limbs fallen.

The scars of a rusted metal gate embedded in your bark,

A sign that some settler once homesteaded here,

Now long gone.

Today, your limbs home to owl and no one else.

Your trunk food to beetle, your burly bark once thick

Protected you from prairie fires, now discarded on the forest floor

The worn and ragged clothes of a beggar man

Tattooed upon your skin are the lines a woodpecker makes.

This is not a fitting end for such a majestic tree.

Remember what it was like to be young, if you can.

Did once an Indian and his pony pause beneath your limbs to gaze and wonder

at beauty of these woods so lovely dark and deep?

Perchance, it was a frosty morn and the tracks the deer left in the snow

Remind one of lips parted, whispering secrets

To those who do not sleep, to those who care to walk

These woods so lovely dark and deep

Have a secret - these woods belong to all

Time passes and a hundred springs and winters have come and gone.

A thousand deer have beaten down the path that I now walk along

Beside your once majestic figure

There are a hundred saplings at your feet. Do they stare up at you in wonder

Asking what lies beyond the bend, what lies beyond the forest in the clearing

Where the deer go to feed?

Are they curious, like me?

Or, do they merely wait their turn

Like you tree, like me to possess a moment in the sun?

Woods are lovely

the woods are lovely, dark, and deep

A walk in the woods on a snowy day always brings to mind Robert Frost's poem, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening.

The first stanza:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

Robert Frost as the woodland traveler subtly questions the idea of owning the woodlands. Something this beautiful and serene should be enjoyed by all.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The sensible little horse, Frost's fellow traveler, gives his harness bells a shake. This shakes Frost from his queer notions. There is beauty in the wilderness, but the horse knows that it is the warmth of the stable and the food in the manger that sustains him. Civilization is the harness that keeps man safe.

And the poem ends with the thought:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Sammy and Tobie

Isn't life all about what happens in the middle.

Unlike the traveler in Robert Frost's poem, I am joined, not by a little horse, but by the dogs Sammy and Tobie. They find it not strange (queer) to be out in the bitter cold. They run, they play, they smell the rabbits in the snow, and, if they are lucky, chase a deer or two for a few hundred feet before coming back to me.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, and I kept my promise to the dogs.

On Hold

The old man went to enroll at the local university. He's figures he missed something the first time through college. And classes are free to seniors - that's old man to you and me.

Talk  about a dog and pony show. The old man has to call for permission to go to class and then is put on hold. It is hard for an old man to learn a new trick.





On Hold 

Are you on hold? 
Told, one minute … 
Please 
A phone stuck to your ear 
With music that you hate 
Played incessantly

Uneasy, 
Pass the time 
Drum your fingers 
Tap your toes 
Fuss and fidget 
All you want

It matters not 
Who or what you are 

Those bastards forgot you’re there

Why did Violetta Parra commit suicide?

The old man's son pointed out in an email, that Chilean Violetta Parra committed suicide a year after writing Gracias a la vida. The song was released in the album Las Últimas Composiciones (1966). The question naturally arises, why suicide?

The implied answer in Wikipedia is her break-up with Swiss flautist Gilbert Favre. Others blame the lack of public recognition in Chile for her music and her work. One can blame the political climate in Chile in 1967, leftest and conservatives camps were at odds. Caught in the middle was Christian Democrat Eduardo Frei Montalva, who, nder the slogan "Revolution in Liberty", attempted unsuccessful economic programs.

The real reason will never be known. Violetta kept that reason to herself. But she did say to a reporter shortly before her death,“Something is missing in me, I don’t know what it is. I look for it and I never find it. Surely I will never come upon it.”

This is Chile.

Apparel

The old man has learned much in many years. One is that change comes slowly. We are, after all, creatures of habit, comfortable in our old shoes and clothes, happy in our attitudes, stuck in our ways. Still, change comes as does the rising sun, and we must grow to meet new challenges.

One hundred years ago, Canadian born, Santa Barbara, California poet, Marguerite O.B. Wilkinson wrote this short poem for Gustav Stickley's The Craftsman Magazine. It seems a fitting New Year's message.

Apparel

While old traditions fit thee, keep them on
And wear them graciously, with sweet content.
As an old temple wears an ivy gown, 
When from thy sides in tatters they hang down,
Burst by a strength that life has never meant
For bonds, a raiment fresh as springtime don.

Marguerite  O. B. Wilkinson
The Craftsman Magazine, January 2014

A poetic way of saying -

"Throw out the old and bring in the new, for the old clothes just don't fit any longer."

The Last Portrait of Abraham Lincoln

This is pencil sketch from the last portrait of Abraham Lincoln, taken April 9, 1865, one week before his assassination. It is from one of a series of photographs by Alexander Gardner.

That same day, generals Grant and Lee met shortly after noon, at the home of Wilmer McLean in the village of Appomattox Court House, Virginia. Lee surrendered the Army of Northern Virginia to Grant, hastening the end of the Civil War.

Lincoln was smiling, either because of the surrender, or because he was sharpening a pencil for his son Tad.

But, is this the true last picture?

WHAT IS THE LAST KNOWN PICTURE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN ALIVE?

Don't believe everything you read.

http://picturingamerica.neh.gov/downloads/pdfs/Resource_Guide_Chapters/PictAmer_Resource_Book_Chapter_9B.pdf

Over the River and through the Woods

Who doesn't have childhood memories of going to grandmother and grandfather's house at Christmas time? School is out, it is snowing, and a sense of anticipation is in the air.

Stone arch bridge Butler County, Kansas

Double arch stone bridge over Turkey Creek, Butler County, Kansas

On a Sunday before Christmas in December, the old man took the back roads in Butler County, Kansas. The back roads are the dirt and gravel ones off the highway where not much has changed over the years. In summer, cars kick up storms of dust. In winter, the dust is settled and one only has to worry about a loose patch of gravel. Farmhouses are scattered along the road like lost and lonely stragglers in history's parade. Cattle stand in the pastures, the corn has been harvested and a blanket of snow covers the fields where the turkeys peck for what is left over. The snow and ice make driving hazardous. When the old man came across these two stone arch bridges, his thoughts drift back to childhood.

Today, we go to grandfather's house by car or plane. In 1844, the trip was made by horse and wagon, or if it was snowing, by horse and sleigh. Over the River and Through the Wood, was originally a Thanksgiving poem written by Lydia Maria Child in 1844. At an unknown date the words were set to music and the holiday changed to Christmas.



To Grandfather's House We Go

Over the river, and through the wood,
To Grandfather's house we go;
the horse knows the way to carry the sleigh
through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river, and through the wood,
to Grandfather's house away!
We would not stop for doll or top,
for 'tis Christmas [Thanksgiving] Day.

Over the river, and through the wood—
oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes and bites the nose
as over the ground we go.

Over the river, and through the wood—
and straight through the barnyard gate,
We seem to go extremely slow,
it is so hard to wait!

Over the river, and through the wood—
When Grandmother sees us come,
She will say, "O, dear, the children are here,
bring a pie for everyone."

Over the river, and through the wood—
now Grandmother's cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for the cherry [pumpkin] pie!