An Explore for My Birthday

My father gives good gifts.

And this year, for my birthday, we went on an Explore. We were trying to find the mythical Farrandsville cairns.  And we did. We found them after an up-hill climb, and many misgivings and we'll-see's.  (A distant relative of will o' th' wisps, in case you weren't familiar with them.)



 As you can see, the day began in a most auspicious manner; water, map, journal, extra journal, pen, sandals and continued in like manner; a conglomeration of happy things.

After the cairns, we:

Peeked into a musty old church.

Found some yellow leaves.

Stopped for sweet tea because it was my birthday and I have a weakness for strong sweet tea.

Noticed some glory-filled flowers.

and Explored an old park.

(A little "Speak Friend and Enter"  -ish, don't you think?)

(It has been nearly seven months since that day but its memory has not diminished in contentedness. So I decided to blow the sleepy dust off it, and post this after all.)

Circa 1949:

"Once there were four children named Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy..." 


Circa 2000: 
  Once there was two little girls, nicknamed Day and Jules, listening wide-eyed to a bedtime story. Their aunt was reading to them in the cold upper story of a farmhouse in Pennsylvania, the two little girls with blankets up to their chins, listening intently.  It was an enchanting story, and introduced them to many beautiful words and lands. It was dark outside, but inside there was a lamppost and then a resurrection morning.


 Circa 2014:
   Once there were eight little children, nicknamed "the studentry", listening wide-eyed to the morning story. They perch on their yellow chairs, listening, but not always quietly. 
"No, Edmund! Don't go with her! Don't listen to her."  
"Ooooo, I think I know what's going to happen."
"Teacher, I'm scared!"    
 "It will all come right in the end," I tell them, and take my turn introducing young eyes to many beautiful words and lands. Outside our circle is humdrum of November, but inside is timeless betrayal and then a glorious redemption. 



  And then I discover that unwittingly, lavishly, they repay me.  My eyes see a familiar land, but through theirs it holds the same wonder and intrigue it did during those first bedtime story-sessions.



 Narnia is new...  and I have found Aslan again.

Today

It snowed. 

(Hooray!!!!!!!!!)

And it was like trying to keep eight objects under water, all at once. 

They twisted in their seats, glancing/staring out the window rather too often. This wasn't helped by the sporadic nature of the snow. One minute,white bees filling the air thick and fast, the next a mild blue and white sky. One never knew what would be there the next time one looked.  
Also unhelpful was the halfhearted way their teacher told them to focus on their work.  
It was snowing.... 

Tr, turning a 180 in his chair, stared round-eyed at the drifting flakes. Stage whispered: "THIS IS THE DAY, THIS IS THE DAY THAT THE LORD...."   effectively side-tracking Ch and Ty. 

hath made, thought the teacher. Hallelujah.

It snowed. Delight reigned. 

And sometimes chaos.

Upon a Request, of sorts....

My heart does not wear shoes,

I told her when she asked what color they were.

It’s kind of unhandy sometimes, I said.

I mean, I often step on sharp pointy things

And it isn’t unusual to get insect bites on my instep arches,

And sometimes I stub my toes.

Oh, she said, that’s why I always wear steel-toed boots.

But, I went on, my heart goes barefoot, because I have felt enough

Moss patches to know that

There are some things steel-toed boots don’t cover.

Just think of new summer grass, I said, and cold mountain streams.

Think of beaches and blankets and other bare feet pressed close,

Think of leaf piles and cool tile floors and ladder rungs...

Hmm, she said. Once my shoelaces wear out, maybe I’ll try sandals.

And I watched her walk away heavily.

"And then, quite suddenly, summer was over.
   He knew it first when walking downtown. Tom grabbed his arm and pointed gasping, at the dime-store window. They stood there unable to move because of the things from another world displayed so neatly, so innocently, so frighteningly, there.
     "Pencils, Doug, ten thousand pencils!"
     "Oh my gosh!"
     "Nickel tablets, dime tablets, notebooks, erasers, water colors, rulers, compasses, a hundred thousand of them!"
     "Don't look. Maybe it's just a mirage."
     "No," moaned Tom in despair. "School. School straight on ahead! Why, why do dime stores show things like that in windows before summer's even over! Ruin half the vacation!"
      They walked on home and found Grandfather lone on the sere, bald-spotted lawn, plucking the last few dandelions. They worked with him silently for a time and then Douglas, bent in his own shadow, said:
      "Tom, if this year's gone like this, what will next year be, better or worse?"
      "Don't ask me." Tom blew a tune on a dandelion stem. "I didn't make the world." He thought about it. "Though some days I feel like I did." He spat happily.
      "I got a hunch," said Douglas.
      "What?"
      "Next year's going to be even bigger, days will be brighter, nights longer and darker, more people dying, more babies born, and me in the middle of it all."
      "You and two zillion other people, Doug, remember."
      "Day like today," murmured Douglas, "I feel it'll be...just me!"
      "Need any help," said Tom, "just yell."
      "What could a ten-year-old brother do?"
      "A ten-year-old brother'll be eleven next summer. I'll unwind the world like the rubber band on a golf ball's insides every morning, put it back together every night. Show you how, if you ask."
      "Crazy."
      "Always was." Tom crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue. "Always will be."
      Douglas laughed. They went down in the cellar with Grandpa and while he decapitated the flowers they looked at all the summer shelved and glimmering there in the motionless streams, the bottles of dandelion wine. Numbered from one to ninety-odd, there the ketchup bottles, most of them full now, stood burning in cellar twilight, one for every living summer day.
      "Boy," said Tom, "what a swell way to save June, July, and August. Real practical."



-excerpt from Dandelion Wine, by Ray Bradbury

a 3-month old piece of writing (choir tour), dusted off.

We are aboard a spaceship. We have already made this home. We are tethered to it somehow. Every planet we land on, we explore, but no matter how far we go, we are not free-floating. We are tethered to it. We feel its presence always, tugging us back to its steel frame. It will take us pioneers home, eventually. Until then, we stop on many planets, find fresh sources of water and strange clocks. We meet the friendly natives, forging bonds that will always haunt us, tug us from afar. We are astronauts and we sing for our supper. We sail across these galaxies; travelling from time to time, placing space between us and our home-folk and lessening the space between us and our notes. We are astronauts. We are tethered to our ship, and we sail among these clouds, singing.

Because she has been talking of the sea and making me miss it all over again, and because I heard gulls last night, and because today is rainy and the sea would be dark if I were out on it: a poem. 

Voices

The restless sea is calling, and I would be away

To where the surf pounds up the beach to thunder in my ears,

To where the salt wind tastes like wine, and sailing vessels gay

Go out to strange sea-guarded ports and drift home gray with years.

From books and shells and scraps of tales these thoughts have come to me,

For I was born far inland who long to go to sea.

The midland has its voices, but they call to me in vain.

I care not for the whispering road nor drumming city street,

My heartbeats do not quicken to the thrush's joyous strain,

Nor to the sighing music of the wind upon the wheat.

The bees drone their contented song- but what is this to me?

For I was born far inland and long to hear the sea.

The sky is like the sea today and clouds like galleons ride-

I found a tiny river just beginning near the spring,

That called for me to follow and it would be my guide;

A boisterous echo in its tone, that yet was whispering,

Gave me a hint of ocean surge, and soon I know that we

Shall leave this inland country and make our way to sea.

-James S. Hearst

p.s. thankfully I live near forests, which can be like oceans sometimes...

And before the fireflies... the ferns.

   There are wrinkles embossed into my left arm. The creases look like the laced leaves of a fern. Who knew babies' blankets could be so green?

  The baby is asleep next to me on the bed. Finally. He is worn out after all his adventures this afternoon.

This is just one of them.

*******

(Did you know that adventure is common-place to a child?) 

   We sat down on the front steps (me on the concrete, him on my lap), and enjoyed the fresh evening air together after the steady all-day rain. The low clouds of the morning had cleared off and not only was the air fresh, it was golden. The baby was very young. Old enough to look at the world and follow it's motions, but young enough to surprise himself with his own. 
  I noticed he was looking at the tall ostrich ferns beside the wide steps. I reached out, and pulling a fern frond towards us, brushed it up and down his chubby legs. His toes curled tight, and he held very still, watching. "This is a fern," I told him. He surveyed it suspiciously. "Oh?" he seemed to say. "What's that?"  "Well-" I started to say, then: "What is a fern?" I asked myself, and suddenly, I caught a glimpse of it through his wondering eyes.

Tall so tall eye-level green shades of the same colour, so many but all the same, offered in an array of dizzying lines. A creature that swayed in so many directions all at once, softly, subtly. Was it alive? Was it nice? Or menacing? Was it like that animal the girl-person had called 'River' and had stuck his toes into? It had bitten him with cold...    
For a moment, the emerald was all-consuming and there was nothing but green for so far, and always shifting.

   Suddenly, he decided the fern was staying in it's place (wherever that was) and uncurling his toes then holding them stiff, he reached out both tiny hands, fingers spread wide- into the fringes of the frond. He wasn't coordinated enough to grasp them even though he wanted to, and they slipped through his fingers. He curled and uncurled his toes rapidly, waving his arms jerkily, gazing raptly still at the plant. I traced the frond down the middle of his face. His eyes closed as it passed and opened again, startled, staring. I tucked it between his toes and waited for his reaction. He paused his movements, toes automatically holding the stem tight. 

It didn't feel nice, but it didn't feel nasty at all. Somehow the thing was alive, but it didn't look at him. When would it come towards him? It moved all the time, in small incessant rustlings. It had to be alive, but that strange girl-person seemed to be friends with it, and SHE was ok.

   He started moving again, and the kicking waved the frond around, and somehow he managed to get his fingers tangled in it enough to actually break a piece off. Of course, he tried to put it in his mouth. Give that one brand-new tooth some practice, you know. He was fascinated by the fringes as long as we sat there.

   It reminded me of a poem I'd read earlier this spring.








the little horse is newlY

Born)he knows nothing,and feels
everything;all around whom is

perfectly a strange
ness(Of sun
light and of fragrance and of

Singing)is ev
erywhere(a welcom
ing dream:is amazing)
a worlD.and in

this world lies:smoothbeautifuL
ly folded;a(brea
thing a gro

Wing)silence,who;
is:somE

oNe.

-e.e.cummings

I have felt gigantic
all-encompassing
as if I could hold oceans
ever since I discovered
this afternoon
that the distance between the
tip
of my fingernail and the first
wrinkle
of the middle knuckle on my
index finger
is
four
miles.

Bog Slogging

So it's summer you know. Earlier in the season I thought perhaps I would dance from sheer joy after seeing the first firefly, but now I have beheld it and the joy turned out to be a hold-your-breath-in-amazement type of silent moment, all still.

That wasn't what I was going to write. But somehow it Came. (said Pooh, humbly.)

This was what I was going to write.


This afternoon my father and my sister and two of my brothers and I sallied forth to slog a bog. Or slush through one. Or goulash through one.  (We were trying to come up with a word that captured the peculiar slurping sound one's boots make in a bog...)

Here are some Bog Observations rescued from my notebook which, although nearly submerged in seeping brown water at one point in time today  *ahem* , is still legible.

Bog Observation #21.
(they begin at number 21 just because I happened to like that number at the moment)
Beware pitcher plants; moss sometimes surrounds them so that they are transformed into old wells whose covers have rotted off. It would be terrifyingly simple to fall down one.

#22
Me: Here be Dragons.  RUNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!
J: As if you could in this sphagnum and these boots...

#23
"Never set down your waterbottle, it may disappear." -N, upon seeing me snatch mine from a certain watery grave

#24
"It's hot, and it's warm, and there's often this sinking feeling." -W, upon being asked to describe the experience of bog-slogging

#25
"It's wearying to have to dig your boots out each step..." -J, after reaching down and hauling herself out of a particularly murky spot

#26
"You have to be optimistic when you're in a bog, otherwise you keep getting these sinking feelings..." -N,

*you will notice a theme here*


27
"It's a good thing I kept my optimism up, otherwise I might've sunk for sure that time."  -N


#28
"Bog-logs are awesome!"  -J

#29
"But if the log rolls over we'll all be dead..." -J


#30
Me:  OWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!
N: Did a rattlesnake get you????
Me: No, it was a stick.
N: Those are dangerous.


#31
Me:  Which way are we going?
N: That way.
Me: Oh.
N: Actually, I should be more specific. We're going in a southwest direction.
N: Now we're going at a south southwesterly type of angle...
Me: Oh.

*a little bit later, said in a faintly Australian accent*

#32
"Heah's a fahct which cahn be eNAWMously helpful; ferns always point North. Or South. Or East. Or West."   -N


#33
"I love goulash." -W, after a juicy, slurping step


#34
"This swamp bugs me!" -N


#35
Me: You sound like a moose.
W: BLAH.

*I was actually referring to the generous way in which he crashed through ferns and brush*



#36
"If you wear huge boots in the swamp, take them off in the woods and go stocking-footed to save your blisters..." -J


#37
N: Where are they going?
Me: Toward the swamp. Daddy can't stay out of it.
N: Yeah, bogs attract Dad as easily as they attract bugs.




We kind of lost track of time. The remaining two Observations are from our speedy trip towards home.



#38
"Going to church, late, in clean clothes?! Where's the adventure in that???" -W, during our discussion of whether we should go straight to church (muddy as we were) or stop at home and change first


#39
"Stealing wood is more of a Tuesday thing..." -N

*I really have no idea where that came from*



These are all very scientific observations. Consider yourself fully enlightened as to what one might encounter while alternately wading through, falling into, splashing about in, exploring and/or otherwise disappearing into:

A Bog.

"There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach."

-The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien

Life Machine

this is a machine that takes your life & does all the hard parts & leaves you all the parts you enjoy & almost everyone discovers they're not the parts you'd think they were at first glance.

-storypeople

This Shining Night

   The stars were muted, but still present, as if the cathedral arches they decorated had suddenly become much further away than usual. Branches meeting overhead kept us from seeing just how far they soared above us, these invisible pillars holding our galaxy away from us.  
    
    Snow dimly outlined dark hemlock boughs, and the crunch of our many footsteps slowed, stopped, We waited.  Softly the strains began, a choir in a woodland gently breaking twilight hush. "Sure on this shining night..." they sang, and I thought that this evening was more shadowy than shining. 

    Later, when the trees thinned and I whispered to her; "Are we still in our own century?", she laughed. It was the lack of color mostly, that made me feel that way. She felt the timelessness. We assumed British accents and discussed the possibility of our being in a place without time. It turned out that we mustn't have been, because a time arrived to return whence we came, and I followed the texture of our boot marks back through the trees melting into the snow.

   But somewhere along the line something began shimmering. And by the time he wondered if the distant glow was the moon rising, it didn't have to be, because the night was shining all around with the wonder of a walk through a winter night.   

  It has only now stopped echoing inside my head, and settled down into a lovely memory of trees and sound and friends all in one place, together.

In Which I Dream And Then Write It Down...

So you know how sometimes you wake up smiling, or as the case might be, weeping at the memory of particularly vivid dream you'd had?

This was a dream that made me stronger, more at peace with the world, and absolutely okay with the thought that summer will return someday. It also made me write a lot.

I tucked a strand of hair in place, watching carefully in the bathroom mirror that snowy morning, and strangely enough suddenly remembered what I had dreamed the night before.

I had dreamed of a young boy. He was lovely, a little prince, but he was going to die. So we ran away. We ran and ran, laughing. We ran through a field, towards something. I wasn’t sure what it was, but we were both looking for it. We ran past seasons. Snow around our feet, then autumn leaves, then we could see to the sides of our path growing things; strawberries, lettuce, radishes, some kind of vine, and finally up ahead, corn.

With the sight of the corn came a sense of relief, and a renewed purpose. That was where we were supposed to go. We entered the rows, running, laughing anew at the lovely absurdity of rows of corn growing up alongside you as you ran.

Apparently, not only were we running through seasons, we were running through weather. It was windy, then sunny, then a curtain of steady rain. We were through that one in a flash. Stop! He said, Let’s go back. So we did, and lay down in the rain shower on the warm, wet dirt, and soaked it all in. There was all through us and around us the wonder, the joy, of a much-needed summer rain. We gathered every particle of beauty into our silence, and kept it deep within us. We no longer needed to go anywhere. 

We had been running to give him experiences or perhaps memories before he disappeared, and we had accomplished that, reached the height of it, in the rain shower. We were done. We lay there, water droplets tracing down our faces like tears, and talked to each other.

I don’t remember how he left. My last memory of him is how red his lips looked in the gray of rain, against the brown of crumbly dirt, and surrounded by the green of strong young corn. 

Listening to the Wind

Is there a lot of stuff you don't understand? she said & I said pretty much the whole thing & she nodded & said that's what she thought, but it was nice to hear it anyway & we sat there in the porch swing, listening to the wind & growing up together.

-the storypeople

There's something

so special about a moment that can be perfectly described by a poem you once read. Or a song you once heard, maybe even knew. 

 

 

This picture was almost one of those moments. It reminds me of a Carl Sandburg poem. Almost, but not quite. Close enough, I'd say.

 

 

 

Plowboy

 

After the last red sunset glimmer,

Black on the line of a low hill rise,

Formed into moving shadows, I saw

A plowboy and two horses lined against the gray,

Plowing in the dusk the last furrow.

The turf had a gleam of brown,

And smell of soil was in the air,

And, cool and moist, a haze of April.

 

I shall remember you long,

Plowboy and horses against the sky in shadow.

I shall remember you and the picture

You made for me,

Turning the turf in the dusk

And haze of an April gloaming.

 

-Carl Sandburg

 



 

 

(Never mind that this was taken in November.)

doors to worlds unknown...

I don't know about you, but I am incredibly fascinated by doors/doorways. They're so symbolic.

A (by no means comprehensive) visual list of a few of my favorites.

This is a bonus post. Two in one evening! You will be dreadfully spoiled, I'm afraid...

Anyhow. I was looking through some of my so-called "poetry"* this evening and re-discovered this poem. I wrote it after I'd heard someone close to me had recently had a miscarriage. I was so sad, not only because I hurt for that person, but also because it seemed like I'd been hearing of more miscarriages than healthy births in the past little while. So I was sad and went outside for quiet, grieving type of time by myself. I sat on a picnic table in the dark and looked out over the valley, letting the warm spring night seep into my mind. As I sat there I watched the outline of the mountain against the star-lit sky. I noticed after a while that one bright star was closer to the ridge than it had been. So I watched it out of sight, and let go of the grief as I let go of the star.

That's the background to this poem. Sometimes I like it, and sometimes I think it is awfully sappy.  So I won't be offended if that's what you think. :)






Star-said Farewell~

The star disappeared behind the mountain

And with it disappeared your unknown face.

Sweet child, have fun in heaven tonight

We earth-bound pilgrims are grieving

The loss of your unheard laughter here.

How can you love someone so much

And you’ve never met them?

Sweet child…

We’ll miss you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*Barbarian: I know you disapprove of free-verse being referred to as 'poetry'. You may substitute the word 'creatrio' if you wish.

The Liebster Award

So I was notified via comment that I was tagged by Bevy at treasuredupandpondered.blogspot.com  with the the Liebster Award. Ha, sounds like fun, I thought. So here goes.  But first some stuff that I snitched from her site, to explain a few things. (Thanks, Bev!)

What is a Liebster Award?

A Liebster Award is a traveling award that is awarded to new bloggers with less than 200 followers. Those nominated then pass the award on to 11 other bloggers who also have less than 200 followers.

Along with the nomination, there are a few rules I have to follow within this post.

THE RULES:

1. Post eleven facts about yourself.
2. Answer the questions the tagger has set for you and create eleven questions for people you’ve nominated.
3. Choose eleven people (with fewer than 200 followers) to give this award to and link them in your post.
4. Go to their page and tell them.
5. Remember, no tag backs.

Except, I, hah... um... am not sure that I KNOW 11 bloggers who would want to participate. So, I may only tag several. Or none at all.

Without further ado:




 Eleven Facts You Possibly May Not Have Known About Me Before This Time In History

1. I live beside a river/creek.
    (Oh, wait. If you've been around this blog for awhile, you've probably figured that out. But I needed to make sure you knew that. It's pretty important.)

2. I have a tiny, crescent-shaped scar on my left thumb.
    (That isn't very important, but it's random.)

3. I like pretzels.
    (A lot.)

4. I hate snakes.
    (A lot.)

5. I think snorkeling is fun.
    (That really has to be the strangest word. Ever.)

6. Train whistles make me feel at home wherever I am at the moment I hear them.
    (I used to live beside a railroad. Free fact.)

7. I'm more of a nightowl than an earlybird.
    (Just ask my family.)

8. If I'd learn another language, I'd learn Latin. Or Hebrew. Or Gaelic.
    (Only it's more likely that I'll learn PA Dutch, because I know people who speak it.)

9. My drivers license states that I am 5 feet 3 inches tall.
    (I know, because I just had to renew it.)

10. If I could go anywhere in the world, just for the fun of it, I would visit the Faroe Islands.
     (They are the most.beautiful.island.place.i've.ever.seen. Period.)

11. My favorite color is blue.
     (Or green.)



   
   
The Questions Asked, and the Attempted Answers

1. Your blog title/name?  How did it come about... is there a story?
     Yes. There is a story. Literally. It is the title of a book by a German man named Quint Buccholz. It's a fantastic book. Literally.   It also happens to be one of my favorites. I was completely fascinated with the idea of a "collector of moments", so I became one.

2. Books.  Who is your favorite author?  What is your style?
    This is tough. I like so many different styles, you know?  I usually tell folks who ask this question that the kind of books I mostly enjoy reading can be found in the Juvenile or Young Adult Section of the library. Only I'm leaning more and more towards the Children's Section these days. (They have to have good illustrations though)   Favorite author?  Hmmmm....  Patricia MacLachlan, Kate DiCamillo, Jerry Spinelli, Robert McCloskey, Elizabeth Goudge, Beverly Cleary, etc.

3. Speaking of Style.  Who/what inspires you in your wardrobe selection?
    I like fall. I wear a lot of browns, greens, and blues. I am inspired by classic timeless nautical types of ensembles. *cough*  When I make the effort.

4. If you're a mom! - Any advice you could share?  If you're not... What do you wish you could share?
    I am not a mom. But I have lots of younger cousins who I take care of from time to time. Here is my advice. Ask them lots of questions and then listen, really listen, to their answers.

5. In blogging.. Do you share your Faith?  Why or Why not?
    Because of the nature of my blog (sharing moments or events that I notice), it could be tied in anywhere. I don't have method for sharing or not sharing. Maybe I should. :)

6. Collections... What is yours?  Baskets?  Cookbooks?  - How did you get started?
     I collect libraries.  Well, library cards. We used to spend quite a good part of our summers away from home, and got to know a lot of different libraries fairly well. I love exploring a new library and finding my old book friends. Library cards are a good way to remember them. Thing is, sometimes you have to be a resident of that county or state in order to qualify for a card, so I have collected more libraries than I have proof of.

7. Do you have that one "best friend" - what makes her a great friend?  Give me just two-three words.
     She listens to me, laughs at me, laughs with me, challenges me.

8. Pizza or Stromboli? Would that be homemade or "Take Out"?
     Pizza. Homemade. Yum.

9. Camera advice...is needed.  What would you recommend?
    Ask my dad. :)   And here's a tidbit. Make sure your horizons are level. But not always. :)

10. And your favorite flower is...?
     Hydrangea, calla lilies, California poppies (any kind of poppies, really), peonies, queen anne's lace.

11. Tell me that one idiosyncrasy you LOVE about yourself..
    I almost always have bubbles or a candle in my handbag.  I really like that about my handbag. :)



The Questions I Carefully Crafted For My Victims

1. What was your favorite kid's book during your growing up years, and what is your favorite kid's book now?

2. What concept in the Bible do you keep coming back to and hashing over and studying and thinking about?

3. If bubbles never popped, what color should they be?

4. What is your favorite quote, and why is it your favorite quote?  (ha. two-in-one. gotcha.)

5. If you were the ruler of a small country, what would be the first rule you'd outlaw?

6. If you could be a character in any book, which character would you be, and why?

7. When you're in a coffee shop, what drink do you order the oftenest?

8. And while you're sitting there drinking it, are you most likely to be: people-watching, reading, singing, writing, or gazing out the window?

9. If you could take a ride on or in anything, what would it be?  You're allowed to say Pegasus.

10. What is your favorite thing about fall?

11. Why would you never _____________________?



Bonus question, in case you feel like it:  Could you please give me writing advice? Any kind. Long or short. Thank you.





And I tag: no one.  Yes, I know, I'm not playing by the rules, and yes, I know, it's incredibly cheesy to not tag anyone.  Here are my excuses.

1. I don't know bloggers who "do" forwards, or tag things.

2. I'm feeling too lazy.

3. This means anyone may answer the questions. I'd love it.

4. You may answer in a comment. Or a post.

5. You may answer all or a select few of the posed questions. Whatever suits your fancy.


Have at it.  :)

 

In my various travels

today, I stopped in at the thriftstore to drop off some donations, and afterwards looked through the children's book section. A good idea, or a bad one, depending on your point of view, as I came away with nine books.
   I decided to share some of the joy. So, a quote from each book. The only problem is; I chose most of these books due in large part to their wonderful illustrations and that's rather, shall we say, limited on here. Oh well. I guess you'll just have to borrow them from the library.



"Harry was a white dog with black spots who liked everything, except... getting a bath. So one day when he heard the water running in the tub, he took the scrubbing brush... and buried it in the back yard. Then he ran away from home."
  
    -Harry, the Dirty Dog, by Gene Zion and illustrated by Margaret Bloy Graham





"Brian found a salamander in the woods. It was a little orange salamander that crawled through the dried leaves of the forest floor.
   The salamander was warm and cozy in the boy's hand. 'Come live with me,' Brian said.
   He took the salamander home.
'Where will he sleep?' his mother asked.
'I will make him a salamander bed to sleep in. I will cover him with leaves that are fresh and green, and bring moss that looks like little stars to be a pillow for his head. I will bring crickets to sing him to sleep and bullfrogs to tell him good-night stories.'"
   
      -the Salamander Room, by Anne Mazer and illustrated by Steve Johnson







"'If you become a tightrope walker and walk across the air," said the bunny, 'I will become a little boy and run into a house.
  'If you become a little boy and run into a house,' said the mother bunny, 'I will become your mother and catch you in my arms and hug you.'
  'Shucks,' said the bunny, 'I might just as well stay where I am and be your little bunny.'
  And so he did.
  'Have a carrot,' said the mother bunny."

     -The Runaway Bunny, by Margaret Wise Brown and illustrated by Clement Hurd







"You can knit a kitten mittens
And perhaps that cat would purr.
You could fit a fox with socks
That exactly match his fur.

You could make a goat a coat
With a collar trimmed in mink;
Or give a pig a wig
In a dainty shade of pink.

But never tease a weasel;
This is very good advice.
A weasel will not like it
And teasing isn't nice!"

      -Never Tease a Weasel, by Jean Conder Soule and illustrated by Denman Hampson







"Often in the winter, when the wind drove with a roar over the prairies and came thundering up the creek, making the tepees shudder and strain, Little Wolf would listen to the wind and think it was the stampede of the buffaloes. Then he would snuggle warmly under the buffalo robe that was his blanket and would be thankful for the shelter of his home. And sometimes he would go very far down the shadow ways of sleep and would meet the buffaloes as they came up from the lake, with the water shining on their shaggy coats and their black horns gleaming in the moon. And the buffaloes would begin by being very terrible, shaking their great heads at him as if they intended to kill him there and then. But later they would come up close, and smell him, and change their minds, and be friendly after all.
   Little Wolf was only ten years old, but he could run faster than any of his friends. And the wildest pony was not too wild for him to catch and ride. But the great thing about him was that he had no fear. He knew that if an angry bull bison or a pack of prairie wolves ran him down, there would be nothing left of him but his bones. And he was well aware that if he fell into the hands of his people's enemies, the Assiniboins, he would be killed and scalped as neatly as could be. Yet none of these things terrified him. Only, being wise for his age, he had a clear understanding that, for the present, it was better to keep out of their way.
   But of all the thoughts that ran this way and that in his quick brain, the one that galloped the hardest was the thought of the great lake to the south where the buffaloes began. And as the days lengthened and he could smell springtime on the warm blowing air, the thought grew bigger and bigger in Little Wolf's mind. At last it was so very big that Little Wolf could not bear it any longer; and so, one morning, very early, before the village was awake, he crept out of the tepee and stole along below the junipers and tall firs till he came to the spot where the ponies were hobbled."

    -Where the Buffaloes Begin, by Olaf Baker and illustrated (beautifully) by Stephen Gammell







"'It's a submarine from another planet!' bellowed the coach.
'Call the police! Call the Navy!'
'No! It's a tadpole!' cried Louis. 'He's my pet!'
   The coach was upset and confused.
'You have until tomorrow,' he cried, 'to get that creature out of the pool!'

   -The Mysterious Tadpole, by Steven Kellogg and illustrated by same






"And the next morning someone had put up a sign that read:

NO DESSERTS EVER
UNLESS PUPPIES NEVER
DIG HOLES UNDER THIS
FENCE AGAIN!"

   -The Poky Little Puppy, by Janette Sebring Lowrey and illustrated by Gustaf Tenggren







"'Henry,' shouted his mother as she got up off the ground. 'You learned to play dead!'
   'No, Ma,' cried Henry. 'I learned to play the flute. Listen.'
He stood up, took a deep breath, and played as he had never played before. Hearing the music the animals slowly returned to the clearing, and as they listened to Henry's concert, each added his own voice to the melody."

   -Henry Possum, by Harold Berson and illustrated by same







"'I think I'll have a bit of a soak,' Elliot's father announced.
'Wait!' Elliot said. 'I left my penguin in there.'
'I'll set him on the hamper and do my best not to splash.'


'ELLIOT!"


Elliot rushed to the door.
'Young man, where did this penguin come from?' Elliot's father demanded.
'The southern tip of Argentina,' Elliot said."

   -One Cool Friend, by Toni Buzzeo and illustrated by David Small