Ever Bright Christmas Night

DULL PEACE,
~ ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS ~

Thanks to Nataliya
for this Christmas illustration

BC – AD

This was the moment when Before
Turned into After, and the future’s
Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

This was the moment when nothing
Happened. Only dull peace
Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans
Could find nothing better to do
Than counting heads in remote provinces.

And this was the moment
When a few farm workers and three
Members of an obscure Persian sect

Walked haphazard by starlight straight
Into the kingdom of heaven.

by U. A. Fanthorpe (1929 - 2009)
from Christmas Poems (Enitharmon)
see previous Fanthorpe quotation

Mid - Century Modern ~ Building Block Nativity
A friend writes: "My sister took the family nativity set.
I got the 1950s wagon of blocks."

Earlier this year, along with other songs and poems for the Season of Epiphany, I mentioned the carol Out of the East, long-time favorite of mine. Sometimes designated as lesser - known, but for me, its near - Medieval echoing repetition has been unforgettable, since the first time I heard it (Christmas 1973 ~ 50 years ago!) on the vintage album: Christmas With Colonel Sanders.

Out of the East

Out of the East there came riding, riding,
Three of the wisest of men.
Dust was their enemy blinding, blinding,
Even the wisest of them.

Wandering shepherds heard tell their story,
Told in the flickering firelight,
Tender light,
Ever bright Christmas night.

Far to the West was there shining, shining,
Blazing a star in the dawn;
Reverent wise men beheld it, saying
"This night a savior is born."

Into the West they went riding, riding,
Following after the star,
Over a quiet town shining, shining,
Lighting their way from afar.

Under its glory sat Mother Mary
Tenderly singing a lullaby,
Hush-a-by,
Don't-you-cry lullaby,

Into the stable came riding, riding,
Three of the wisest of men;
Gifts did they bring for that Babe in manger,
Gifts for the savior of men.

Lo! in a manger they found Him, found Him,
Bathed in the light of yon star;
Gold did they bring Him and frankincense,
And myrrh from a land that was far.

Shepherds crept in singing praises, praises;
Angels kept watch to be near to Him,
Dear to Him,
One with Him, praising Him.

Into the East they went riding, riding,
Three of the wisest of men.
Found was the Babe in a lowly manger,
Crowned was the Savior of men.

Words & music
by Harry Noble, Jr. (early 20th Century)
Sung by Charley Pride
Next Fortnightly Post ~ Five Kings
Will be on Monday, January 15th ~ Martin Luther King Jr. Day

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

80 Year Old Christmas Presents

GIFTS FROM LONG AGO
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Family Favorite ~ MCMXLII

As my mother's notations explain, these two books -- Christmas Carols (above) and The Night Before Christmas (below) -- were presents to her family, when she was twelve years old. The gifts came from my Grandmother Rovilla Heideman Lindsey's first cousin, Elizabeth Miller Taylor. Rovilla's mother Anna and Elizabeth's father Jacob were siblings.

I recently shared these photos with my third cousins -- Elizabeth's grandchildren -- so they could what their grandmother sent out for Christmas 80 years ago! Not only that, but here's visible evidence that Elizabeth's gifts, chosen with love and care, were immediately beloved by the recipients and have remained so for the better part of a century.

My cousin Cindy wrote back to say that she has the exact same book of carols "but had no idea of the origin." Now she knows that when her Grandmother Elizabeth went Christmas shopping in 1942, she was so pleased with this book that she bought a copy for herself as well as one for Rovilla. Better yet, both copies have been cherished through the decades by a succession of grandmothers, mothers, and daughters.

Here is Cindy's copy, displayed
with her Kurdish tablecloth as backdrop.

A Peek Inside

My Mom's Favorites

The Night Before Christmas

HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL,
AND TO ALL A GOODNIGHT!
Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, December 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Going For a Walk

THANKSGIVING DAY WALK
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

My Father's Parents in 1969
Willard Samson Carriker (1898 - 1974)
Melvina Adeline Beavers Carriker (1901 - 1981)

Grandpa Carriker's notations on the back of each photo.
Notice that Grandma is holding Timmy (her little Chihuahua)

2023 ~ 52 Years Later

Ellie & Aidan
on this year's rendition
of the traditional walk!

Happy Times! Of course literature abounds with beautiful descriptions of autumnal holiday walks, joyful, mellow, and long - remembered. However, I want to take a different direction this year -- a road perhaps less traveled -- and look at some unsuccessful literary walking experiences, starting with the utterly gloomy opening line of Jane Eyre:

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day . . .
the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds
so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that
futher out-door exercise was now out of the question."
~ Charlotte Bronte ~
Well, no one can help the weather. But even under perfect conditions--

"There was a good crystal frost in the air; it cut the nose and made the lungs blaze like a Christmas tree inside; you could feel the cold light going on and off, all the branches filled with invisible snow. He listened to the faint push of his soft shoes through autumn leaves with satisfaction . . . ."

--the walk can still take a bad turn, as happens in Ray Bradbury's story "The Pedestrian," written in 1951 -- 72 years ago, set in 2053 -- 30 years from now!

The main character, Leonard Mead, loves nothing more than to go out for a walk, stepping "into that silence that was the city at eight o'clock of a misty evening in November; peering "down long moonlit avenues of sidewalk" and walking "for hours and miles." Even though the sidewalks are slowly disappearing due to overgrowth and lack of maintenance, he still makes his way, breathing deep, examining a random leaf, and whispering quietly as he passes the dark houses of his neighbors: "Hello, in there." Unfortunately for Leonard, taking a walk has become a suspect activity, and one night he is apprehended and taken into custody by the police, who cannot understand why he is not safely indoors watching television.

Police: What are you doing out?
Leonard: Walking.
Police: Walking!
Leonard: Just walking.
Police: Walking where? For what?
Leonard: Walking for air. Walking to see.
Police: Have you done this often?
Leonard: Every night for years.

Found in the collection Twice 22
(pp 16 - 20)

With no further explanation or justification, Leonard is taken "To the Psychiatric Center for Research on Regressive Tendencies." Poor Leonard. He is aware that "In ten years of walking by night or day, for thousands of miles, he had never met another person walking, not one in all that time." But he never realized that it would be held against him. Sadly, in the mid - 21st Century, going out for a walk in the fresh air is deemed "regressive" and perceived as a threat to the normality of the neighborhood.

Apparently, the same suspicion of pedestrians holds true in Canada as well as the United States. In Alice Munro's short story "Simon's Luck" (written in 1978, around 25 years after Bradbury's "Pedestrian"), Rose looks forward to a slower pace and a change of scenery in her life, but her expectations are soon thwarted:

"'Country life,' she said. 'I came here with some ideas about how I would live. I thought I would go for long walks on the deserted country roads. And the first time I did, I heard a car coming tearing along on the gravel behind me. I got well off. Then I heard shots. I was terrfied. I hid in the bushes and a car came roaring past, weaving all over the road -- and they were shooting out of the windows. I cut back through the fields and told the woman at the store I thought we should call the police. She said oh, yes weekends the boys get a case of beer in the card they go out shooting groundhogs. Then she said, what were you doing up that road anyway? I could see she thought going for walks by yourself was a lot more suspicious than shooting groudhogs. There were lots of things like that.'"

Found in the collection Who Do You Think You Are?
(pp 201 - 02, emphasis added)

Contrary to Rose's pastoral vision, sometimes it is safer to take a walk in the city, though -- as Leonard learns -- not always. In the quest for pedestrian - friendliness, the walker must always be wary -- of rules and restrictions, of cars and all manner of anything mechanized, of impatience and intolerance. It should be so easy, to open your door and set out unimpeded by equipment, with the exception of a walking stick, should you so desire. You should not have to drive somewhere to go for a walk, but, alas, that is so often the best way. Despite the various hurdles and speed bumps tossed across the path, we must remain inspired (particularly here in Virginia!) by the words of the late, great (and yes, admittedly flawed) Thomas Jefferson:

"Walking is the best possible exercise.
Habituate yourself to walk very far."
I think it's safe to say that solitary walkers -- Leonard Mead, Rose, Thomas Jefferson -- take to the pavement in search of inner peace and quiet, some time out in the world while simultaneously alone inside their heads. I thought about their troubles as pedestrians when reading Steve Almond's commentary on the "inner life":

"To focus on the inner life today -- to read books, to think deeply, to imagine with no ulterior agenda, to reflect on painful or confusing experiences [to take a walk!] -- is to defy the clamoring edicts of our age, the buy messages, the ingrained habits of passive consumption and complaint. It is not yet a crime, merely an arcane and isolating practice."

Steve Almond From his essay:
William Stoner and the Battle for the Inner Life
[Recommended by Ned; see also Stoner; and Victoria]

Walk while you may! Walk very far!
Next Fortnightly Post
Thursday, December 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "Persimmons"
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST ~ More Alice Munro
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

A Soldier of the Legion

IN HONOR OF VETERANS DAY
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Conquest of Algeria, 1830
by Jean Bainville

The French conquest of Algeria took place between 1830 and 1903.
The painting above depicts a battle at the onset;
the poem below, first published in 1867,
describes a battle from half-way through:

Bingen on the Rhine

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers —
There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand,
And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land;
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine!

“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely — and, when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun.
And ’midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,—
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;
But some were young,— and suddenly beheld life’s morn decline,—
And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine!

“Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;
For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;
I let them take whate’er they would—but kept my father’s sword;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine!

“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too — and not afraid to die.
And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name,
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine),
For the honour of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine!

“There’s another — not a sister, — in the happy days gone by,
You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye:
Too innocent for coquetry! too fond for idle scorning; —
Oh friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!
Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain — my soul be out of prison),
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine!

“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along—I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine …
But we’ll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhine!”

His voice grew faint and hoarser,— his grasp was childish weak,—
His eyes put on a dying look,— he sighed and ceased to speak:
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled!
The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown;
Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine!

By Caroline Sheridan Norton (1808–1877)

According to American author Stephen Crane (1871 - 1900) and Canadian author Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874 – 1942), this poem almost immediately upon publication -- and for years afterward -- became a hugely popular choice for grade school memorization and declamation. Both authors recall hearing "Bingen on the Rhine" recited by dozens of their peers and repeated so often that the narrative began to bore its audience and nearly lost its tragic impact.

Montgomery's heroine, Anne Shirley (of Green Gables!) declares:

"I can read pretty well and I know ever so many pieces of poetry off by heart—‘The Battle of Hohenlinden’ and ‘Edinburgh after Flodden,’ and ‘Bingen of the Rhine,’ and most of the ‘Lady of the Lake’ and most of ‘The Seasons’ by James Thompson. Don’t you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back? There is a piece in the Fifth Reader —‘The Downfall of Poland’— that is just full of thrills. Of course, I wasn’t in the Fifth Reader — I was only in the Fourth — but the big girls used to lend me theirs to read. . . . When Gilbert Blythe recited “Bingen on the Rhine” Anne picked up Rhoda Murray’s library book and read it until he had finished . . . ."

From Anne of Green Gables, Chapters 5 & 19

Montgomery wrote Anne of Green Gables in 1908 but set the story about thirty years ealier. In keeping with the novel's timeline, Gilbert is reciting the poem "Bingen on the Rhine" in 1877, a decade after its initial publication.

Stephen Crane wrote and published "The Open Boat" in 1897. He was twenty - six at the time, thinking back to the days when he -- like Gilbert and Anne -- had memorized "Bingen on the Rhine" in school:

"To chime the notes of his emotion, a verse mysteriously entered the correspondent's head. He had even forgotten that he had forgotten this verse, but it suddenly was in his mind.

'A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, and he took that comrade's hand
And he said: I shall never see my own, my native land.'

"In his childhood, the correspondent had been made acquainted with the fact that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, but he had never regarded the fact as important. Myriads of his school-fellows had informed him of the soldier's plight, but the dinning had naturally ended by making him perfectly indifferent. He had never considered it his affair that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, nor had it appeared to him as a matter for sorrow. It was less to him than breaking of a pencil's point.

"Now, however, it quaintly came to him as a human, living thing. It was no longer merely a picture of a few throes in the breast of a poet, meanwhile drinking tea and warming his feet at the grate; it was an actuality --stern, mournful, and fine.

The correspondent plainly saw the soldier. He lay on the sand with his feet out straight and still. While his pale left hand was upon his chest in an attempt to thwart the going of his life, the blood came between his fingers. In the far Algerian distance, a city of low square forms was set against a sky that was faint with the last sunset hues. The correspondent, plying the oars and dreaming of the slow and slower movements of the lips of the soldier, was moved by a profound and perfectly impersonal comprehension. He was sorry for the soldier of the Legion who lay dying in Algiers."

From "The Open Boat"

When I was a student, in the 20th Century, Caroline Norton was no longer required reading, but Stephen Crane was, and that is how I learned of Norton's poem, not in grade school, but in a graduate seminar on "Style & Audience Interaction." We were given an assignment, by Professor Herman Wilson, to compare Crane's original 1897 New York Press account of surviving a tragic shipwreck with his subsequent literary narrative, "The Open Boat." And -- it goes without saying! -- we were compelled to look up every literary allusions along the way! From that day until now, I have always thought that one of the most memorable lines in all of American fiction is Crane's admission that up until his own near - death experience, the fate of the soldier in Algiers "was less to him than breaking of a pencil's point."

As Gerry so rightly observed, we cannot move on from "Bingen on the Rhine" without also paying our respects to Thomas Hardy's misplaced hero, Drummer Hodge, whose fate was similar to that of the Soldier of the Legion, not in Algiers but in South Africa. The theme is sadly similar -- a young man far from home, unknowing, unknown and unmourned. Hardy's poem was first published as "The Dead Drummer" in November 1899, shortly after the outbreak of the Second Boer War:

Drummer Hodge

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined — just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
Young Hodge the drummer never knew —
Fresh from his Wessex home —
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow up some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.

Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928)

An English Drummer Boy (1902)
by George W. Joy (1844 - 1925)

May they rest in peace,
both Drummer Hodge and The Soldier of the Legion

"Let us remember . . . all those who have served
upon another shore and in a greater light,
that multitude which no one can number . . . ”
Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, November 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ "RIP Drummer Hodge"
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Our Town Redux

AUTUMNAL VICTORIAN PORCH
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

"We are always together in spirit."
Favorite Halloween Card

Back in March,
I re-cycled a couple of Quotidian posts --

from April 11, 2013, on the topic of Confidence
[See Confidence in Confidence ~ March 15, 2023]

and

from April 26, 2010, on the topic of Grief & Relief
[See Grief and Relief ~ March 28, 2023]

I promised at the time to search out others
that deserved a reappearance on the Fortnightly.

The following initially appeared
on The Quotidian Kit ~ February 4, 2018,
reprinted here with one very important addition!

The Least Important Day

In observation of Groundhog Day, my childhood friend and neighbor Rebecca Sprigg provided a facebook prompt: "If you had to live one day of your life over and over again, what day would you choose, and why?"

Becky had the movie Groundhog Day in mind, but I was immediately reminded of Thornton Wilder's Our Town. This play is dear to my heart -- as you can see above from the leading quotation of this blog -- and has been ever since way back in 1973, when my brother Bruce portrayed the character of George. Bruce, of course, knew what I was talking about when I said to Becky that "This play breaks my heart every time." The was he explains it:

"This play is when I learned how to 'be in the moment.' In the scene where George goes to the graveyard to visit Emily's (Yvonne Brooks') grave, I actually cried . . . real tears."

Shortly after Emily's untimely death (at age 26, during childbirth), she is allowed to revisit Earth for a day, and she wants to choose a "happy day," but the Dead advise her "No! At least, choose an unimportant day. Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough."

Here are the lines, in context:
Emily: Live people don't understand, do they?

Mrs. Gibbs: No, dear, not very much.

Emily: They're sort of shut up in little boxes, aren't they? I feel as though I knew them
last a thousand years ago. . . . I never realized before how troubled and
how, how in the dark live persons are. . . . From morning till night, that's all they are, troubled. . . .
But . . . one can go back; one can go back there again, into living. I feel it. I know it. . . .

Mrs. Gibbs: Yes, of course you can.

Emily: I can go back there and live all those days over again...why not?

Mrs. Gibbs: All I can say is, Emily, don't.

Emily (To the Stage Manager): But it's true, isn't it? I can go and live, back there, again.

Stage Manager: Yes, some have tried but they soon come back here.

Mrs. Gibbs: Don't do it, Emily.

Mrs. Soames: Emily, don't. It's not what you think it'd be.

Emily: But I won't live over a sad day. I'll choose a happy one. I'll choose the day I first knew that I loved George. Why should that be painful?

Stage Manager: You not only live it but you watch yourself living it.

Emily: Yes?

Stage Manager: And as you watch it, you see the thing that they, down there, never know. You see the future. You know what's going to happen afterwards.

Emily: But is that -- painful? Why?

Mrs. Gibbs: That's not the only reason why you shouldn't do it, Emily. When you've been here longer you'll see that our life here is to forget all that and think only of what's ahead and be ready for what's ahead. When you've been here longer you'll understand.

Emily: But, Mother Gibbs, how can I ever forget that life? It's all I know. It's all I had.

Mrs. Soames: Oh, Emily. It isn't wise. Really, it isn't.

Emily: But it's a thing I must know for myself. I'll choose a happy day, anyway.

Mrs. Gibbs: No! At least, choose an unimportant day. Choose the least important day in your life. It will be important enough.

Emily: . . . I can choose a birthday at least, can't I? I choose my twelfth birthday.

Stage Manager: All right. February 11th, 1899. A Tuesday. Do you want any special time of
day?

Emily: Oh, I want the whole day.

But, as it turns out, she can't bear the whole day.
After only an hour or so, she cries out to the Stage Manager:
Emily: I can't. I can't go on. It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another. . . . I didn't realize. . . . Take me back -- up the hill -- to my grave. But first: Wait! One more look.

Good-by, Good-by, world. Good-by, Grover's Corners -- Mama and Papa. Goodby to clocks ticking…and Mama's sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths…and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you.

Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it -- every, every minute?

Stage Manager: No. The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.

************************
So, to make a short story long, this poignant scene is what came to mind when I read Becky's question about repeatedly reliving a day from the past.

Reading over the responses to the Becky's prompt, I was interested to see that some commenters had interpreted living "one day of your life over and over again," as a good day that they would like to experience perpetually; but others had interpreted it as a do - over day that they would like to improve upon or change.

I asked Becky which she preferred, and she explained what she had in mind originally:

"Yesterday I was thinking about the movie Groundhog Day, but had forgotten the plot. Living that day over and over again was not a good thing for the character Bill Murray played. He only got out of that vicious cycle by slowly changing, realizing his mistakes, doing things for others and being a nice guy. So my initial thought was that people would share a blissful day that they wouldn't mind re-living.

In that vein, I love the touching memories my friends and family have shared. However, equally touching are the do-over stories. I appreciate the bravery of those willing to share about their losses (none shared here related to any personal failings) that evoke regret. Everyone has them. Sharing them seems to me a path to peace with our past. This is a long way to get to your answer, but please feel free to share either a happy day or a do-over day."

I had to brood about all these options for awhile, but finally I decided to go with the first day of 2nd grade at Eugene Field Elementary School (Neosho, Missouri, Fall 1964). Here's why, not so much because I want to relive it over and over; and not because it requires a do - over, but out of curiosity:

For as long as I can remember, I have had this memory that my grandparents -- my mother's parents Paul & Rovilla Lindsey -- drove me to school on the first day of 2nd grade. But could that really be true? It seems unlikely, but in my memory, I had stayed with them until the very last day of summer vacation, and they drove me back home either the evening before school started or that very morning (they lived about 2 hours away from Neosho, in Caney, Kansas). I can see it so clearly -- their car pulling up to the school (the door by the kindergarten side of the building), me wearing a plaid dress, jumping out of the car, running up the steps, and turning to wave to them. But where are my close - in - age siblings, Bruce and Diane? Aaron was too little for school; and David and Peggy were at high school. But it was also the first day at Field School for Bruce and Di, so they should have been there with me, jumping out of the car and running up the steps. Yet, I can see only myself.

If I could go back and live that day again, I could confirm whether or not or how much of this memory really happened or if I somehow just made it up because that's how I wanted the summer to be. She died of breast cancer in June 1966, and during her last 2 summers -- 1964 and 1965, Bruce and I spent a lot of time at their house, so maybe we really did stay that year until the very last day.

******************

Mystery Solved!
Now here is the above mentioned
important addition to this story!

Since writing this post in 2018, some new / old information has almost unimaginably come to light! I have made an amazing discovery: my Grandmother Rovilla's journal from 1964, confirming my memory of this day as accurate.

As the photo below indicates, she was recording her daily memoirs in a book of meditations, and the readings for the first week of September are themed to Labor Day. Rovilla's hand-written notation verifies my childhood recollection. It was not just wistful thinking on my part.

We truly did rise at dawn that day. And those loving grandparents drove two hours there and back in order to indulge a little girl who could not bear for the summer to come to an end until the very last possible moment. Nor was it "the least important day." It was a very significant day indeed.

"We took Kitti B. back home to enroll for school.
Left before 6 A.M. & back by 11:55."

******************
Choosing this day would also allow me to hear my grandmother's voice once again. I was only 9 when she died, and sadly the memory of her voice is nearly lost to me. How I would love to hear it once again!

In conclusion, here is a contemporary passage -- written in 2016, describing the summer of 1938. It is so in keeping with the tone of Our Town written in 1938, describing the years from 1901 - 1913; and with my own childhood memories of sitting out on the front porch rocking chairs with my grandparents, as the light faded, night after night, summer after summer, 1960 - 1966:

“She watched her nieces commencing their nightly rite of selecting chairs. They were young and they didn’t understand. They believed that one chair was better than another. They believed that it was important to make distinctions, to choose, to discern particulars. Like crows, they picked out bits from each evening and lugged them around, thinking they were hoarding treasure. They remembered the jokes, or the games or the stories, not knowing that it was all one, that each tiny vibration of difference would be sanded, over the course of years, into sameness. It doesn’t matter, Jottie assured herself. They'll get to it. Later, they’ll understand that the sameness is the important part" (47 - 48).

from the novel The Truth According to Us
by American editor and author, Annie Barrows (b 1962)

Tea sets, here and above, on display
at the Art Institute of Chicago

You may have noticed that some of my favorite lines from Our Town serve as the permanent header on my Quotidian blog page. It is so true! When Emily asks, "Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? -- every, every minute?" I want the answer to be "Yes, Kitti Carriker does!" May we all strive, as Thornton Wilder advises:

"to find a value above all price
for the smallest events in our daily life"

*************

PREVIOUS POSTS
RELATED TO OUR TOWN

More on Facebook

The Least Important Day

Our Town Too

What's the Big Idea

Quinton Duval

Pretty Enough For All Normal Purposes

Our Town

The Mind of God
Next Fortnightly Post
Tuesday, November 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Friday the Thirteenth

Posting a day early in observation of
this month's timely superstition

FRIDAY THE 13TH
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

I admire the combination of Halloween & Christmas
in the bookmark above and the sign below
[also this wreath]

Friday the Thirteenth

For Keith,
Friday the Thirteenth
held no fear.
He wasn’t superstitious
(or even a little bit stitious),
and didn’t view the day
as particularly suspicious
or with the promise
of the unpropitious.

It was then a black cat
crossed his path,
causing him to step on a crack
which made him stagger
under a ladder,
and shatter a mirror
being carried
by a passing albatross,
who suffered fatal blood loss
from a shard
which flew hard
into its heart.

Keith didn’t think anything of it
until later that day,
at a wine reception,
he found himself trapped
in a conversation
about Jeremy Clarkson.

Consequences

I opened an umbrella indoors and waited for misfortune to rain down upon me.
Nothing happened.
I walked beneath a ladder and waited for the sky to fall.
Nothing happened.
I placed a pair of shoe on a table and waited for fate to trample me down.
Nothing happened.
I smashed up a mirror with a hammer and waited to be pierced by the shards
of seven year's suffering.
And still nothing happened.
With the third strike of a match, I set fire to a chain letter sent to me by a raven,
with a forwarding on date of Friday the 13th, and waited, rather nonchalantly.
Not a sausage.

Three years later, I lost my house keys down a storm drain.
The following week, Brexit happened.
Five months after that, Donald Trump was elected President of the United States.
Later, there came a deadly pandemic and then war in Europe.

How easy to think the things we do carry no importance.
How easy to imagine our actions are without consequence.
How foolish we are to ignore the old stories.

both poems by
~ Brian Bilston ~
Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, October 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

All that Glitters

GRADE SCHOOL SWEATER CLIP
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Cat and Mouse

On the sheep-cropped summit, under hot sun,
The mouse crouched, staring out the chance
It dared not take.

Time and a world Too old to alter, the five mile prospect—
Woods, villages, farms hummed its heat-heavy
Stupor of life. Whether to two Feet or four, how are prayers contracted!
Whether in God’s eye or the eye of a cat.

Ted Hughes

I no longer have my 1965 vintage cat and mouse sweater chain. But I remember it well and was able to track down a few photos on the internet. I must have worn it to school every day in 2nd grade, until the mouse's tail snapped in two. Even after that, I saved at the bottom of my trinket box for a long time, along with my broken Snow White Watch (3rd grade).

These two poems -- above by Ted Hughes, below by William Blake
-- align perfectly with the drama of the sweater guard. Look! There is the glittering "eye of a cat," pursuing the anxious mouse. And there is the "end of a golden string," enticing the cat in its perpetual conflict with the universe.

I give you the end of a golden string;
Only wind it into a ball,
It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate,
Built in Jerusalem’s wall.

William Blake

Poetic connections to gold abound;
here are a few glittering examples:

Robert Frost:
"nothing gold can "

Barbara Kunz Loots:
"watch the gold illusion drift away"

Joseph Parry:
"Make new friends,
but keep the old;
Those are silver, these are gold."

Johnny Marks:
"Silver and gold . . .
How do you measure its worth?
Just by the pleasure
It gives here on Earth."

Shakespeare:
"all that
glisters / glistens / glitters
is not gold"

Spandau Ballet:
"Gold!
Always believe in your soul
You've got the power to know
You're indestructible
Always believe in, 'cause you are
Gold . . ."

Yeats:
" . . . pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun."

The Cloths of Heaven
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

Previously in this series of jewelry inspired posts:
Re: Jewel, Rainbow, Splendor
Heirloom Jewelry
Diamond Studs Are Forever
Choose Dearests, Choose
Where is Fancy Bred
AND MORE

Also in my jewelry box:
Three Sisters' Pin & Pendant
that my sisters and I wear whenever we're together

Next Fortnightly Post
Saturday, October 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Where is Fancy Bred

LIFELONG NECKLACES
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Pewter Gemini Necklace
A gift from my sister Peggy on my 19th birthday.
Once a Gemini, always a Gemini!

I've always liked the way the twins kind of
resemble two adults holding up a child --
Lion King style!

These two necklaces have been
with me for most of my life.

For my high school graduation picture,
I wore this tiny floral locket that
I had received back in first grade,
a sixth birthday present from my mother.

Some Shakespearean Connections
in continuation of jewelry box theme . . .
The Merchant of Venice, features three very important jewelry boxes, referred to as "caskets, resembling small treasure chests, and serving as a hurdle for all the suitors proposing marriage to Portia. There are three caskets, each with an appropriate inscription on the outside, and a related, illustrative token and moralistic verse inside:

"The first, of gold, who this inscription bears,
'Who chooseth me shall get what many men desire';

The second, silver, which this promise carries,
'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves';

This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,
'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'”
(Act II, scene vii)

****************

Gold ~ A Skull

"All that glisters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
Had you been as wise as bold,
Young in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been inscrolled
Fare you well. Your suit is cold.
Cold, indeed: and labor lost:
Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!"
(Act II, scene vii)


Silver ~ A Fool's Head

"The fire seven times tried this:
Seven times tried that judgment is,
That did never choose amiss.
Some there be that shadows kiss;
Such have but a shadow's bliss:
There be fools alive, I wis,
Silvered o'er: and so was this.
Take what wife you will to bed,
I will ever be your head.
So be gone. You are sped.
Still more fool I shall appear
By the time I linger here.
With one fool's head I came to woo,
But I go away with two."
(Act II, scene ix, 63 - 75)


Lead ~ A Portrait of Fair Portia

“You that choose not by the view,
Chance as fair and choose as true.
Since this fortune falls to you,
Be content and seek no new.
If you be well pleased with this
And hold your fortune for your bliss,
Turn you where your lady is
And claim her with a loving kiss.”
(Act III, scene ii, 139 - 146)
The message of the caskets is clear: whatever treasures are in your jewelry box, always choose for love, never for vanity.

Before Bassanio -- Portia's favorite beau -- correctly chooses the lead casket, Portia gives him a few hints by calling on the players to perform a song whose first three lines rhyme with "lead." Silver and gold might be nice, but they are not all. Follow your heart; use your head:

"Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engender’d in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle, where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy’s knell;
I’ll begin it – Ding, dong, bell.
Ding, dong, bell."
(Act III, scene ii)

******************

Another long ago favorite from my childhood jewelry box:

Next time, more on the cat & mouse sweater chain!

Previously in this series of jewelry inspired posts:
Re: Jewel, Rainbow, Splendor
Heirloom Jewelry
Diamond Studs Are Forever
Choose Dearests, Choose
AND MORE
Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, July 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com

Choose Dearests, Choose

GEMS FOREVER
ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

As a child, looking through my parents' album collection
I was always drawn to this treasure chest: Gems Forever!

"1962 - Boise"
That's my mom's handwriting, perhaps
when she bought the album for my dad.

I was only 4 at the time, but I can remember her
wearing the sandstone jewelry when we lived in Idaho.

The sparkly set was added a few years later,
when we lived in Neosho and I was 8 or 9.

Still in their original box;
it says "Priscilla" on the inside & "Floyd's" on the outside.

My mother's necklaces make me think of Virginia Woolf's lovely description in To the Lighthouse of the children rummaging around in Mrs. Ramsay's jewelry box:

"And if Rose liked . . . she might choose which jewels she was to wear.

" . . .Jasper offered her an opal necklace; Rose a gold necklace. Which looked best against her black dress? Which did indeed, said Mrs. Ramsay absent-mindedly . . . And then, while the children rummaged among her things . . .

"But which was it to be? They had all the trays of her jewel-case open. The gold necklace, which was Italian, or the opal necklace, which Uncle James had brought her from India; or should she wear her amethysts?

" 'Choose, dearests, choose,' " she said, hoping that they would make haste.

"But she let them take their time to choose: she let Rose, particularly, take up this and then that, and hold her jewels against the black dress, for this little ceremony of choosing jewels, which was gone through every night, was what Rose liked best, she knew. She had some hidden reason of her own for attaching great importance to this choosing what her mother was to wear. What was the reason, Mrs. Ramsay wondered, standing still to let her clasp the necklace she had chosen, divining, through her own past, some deep, some buried, some quite speechless feeling that one had for one's mother at Rose's age. Like all feelings felt for oneself, Mrs. Ramsay thought, it made one sad. It was so inadequate, what one could give in return; and what Rose felt was quite out of proportion to anything she actually was. And Rose would grow up; and Rose would suffer, she supposed, with these deep feelings, and she said she was ready now, and they would go down, and Jasper, because he was the gentleman, should give her his arm, and Rose, as she was the lady, should carry her handkerchief (she gave her the handkerchief), and what else? oh, yes, it might be cold: a shawl. Choose me a shawl, she said, for that would please Rose, who was bound to suffer so."

(120 - 123, emphasis added)
[And thanks to my friend and fellow scholar
Victoria for sharing my reading of this passage]

[Read more about Virginia Woolf:
Fortnightly ~ Quotidian ~ Kitti's List]

***************

Additional Connections

In "The Diamond Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant,
Mme. Jeanne Forestier says to Mme. Mathilde Loisel:
"Choose, my dear."

In "Wild Montana Skies"
John Denver & Emmylou Harris
sing of the conflicted, contemplative character who
was born with the blessing / curse of deep feeling and
" . . . never knew the answers
that would make an easy way . . . "
[kind of like "Rose, who was bound to suffer so"]

In one of my 4th - grade favorites,
Ginnie and the Mystery Doll by Catherine Woolley,
Ginnie and Geneva follow the trail of a long - lost antique doll,
a recently painted portrait of the doll, a red Jaguar,
and -- a missing jewel! -- a conch pearl.

I took a couple of hours to re-read this childhood classic, and was touched by Ginnie's similarity to Rose:

"Ginnie gave a sad little sigh. This was the best, the most beautiful part of the day. The air felt cool when she sat up, but the sand still held the day's warmth and the wind had dropped. A path of molten gold led straight across the silken water to the setting sun." (45)

"The summer days were slipping along now. Ginnie treasured every one. As the summer had advanced, a new world had come into being for her -- the world at the edge of the sea. . . . So, each new day unfolded its own lovely pattern. Ginnie hugged every one to her heart." (83, 85)

As with Rose, Ginnie "loved anything resembling a story" but every now and again she had "the strange sensation [of being] alone in a hostile world" (111, 117).

Need I say it? Bound to suffer so.

Previous Fortnightly Posts in this series
Re: Jewel, Rainbow, Splendor
Heirloom Jewelry
Diamond Studs Are Forever
AND MORE

Next Fortnightly Post
Friday, July 14th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT ~ Mantovani Christmas
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogsppot.com