tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37790977013491422482024-02-21T01:05:00.199-08:00Way Back ThenA Collection of Poems, Narratives and Stories by Beatrice M. Hanson written when she was 60-65 years old. (around 1967-1972). She passed away in 1988 at 81 years old. The stories are based on her life growing up in South Hadley, MA on the family farm,on the Skinner Estate, and in the surrounding area.jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-18643062274044964092015-01-24T14:51:00.004-08:002015-01-24T16:18:57.798-08:00THE GENERATION GAP<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">You can wear the style of the “twenty’s”<br />Drive in a Model T Ford,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Turn back the clock in romancing</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">By taking your girl to a ball.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">You can learn to dance the “Charleston”</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Make out like a love-sick Sheikh,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">But the spirit of that time will elude you<br /> For with age there is no repeats!</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The gap in our generation is as</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Yours will someday be –</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">When your children reach for</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Recognition, in the growing up</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Time of their years.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Each era is precious to oldsters</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Who remember the glow of their youth,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Until finally the gaps blend together</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To emerge in the History Books.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Where facts are duly recorded,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">For the time, the Place, and the years.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-70553311223803339762015-01-24T14:50:00.002-08:002015-01-24T16:19:51.148-08:00YOUNGER <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">Through all the years that we've been wed,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I've waved a banner over my head,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I’m younger!</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">It pleased me when a friend would sigh,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">How come you married an older guy?</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">You’re so much younger.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The years sped by - the children gone.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">My husband’s nearing sixty-one.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">“Hurry up hurry up” he calls to me,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">"I’m almost ready for Social Security"</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">But I can only shake my head,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The years are long before I get my check,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Because (darn it) I’m younger.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">At sixty- five he’s at his ease,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Waits for his check, does as he pleases.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">He smokes his pipe- and how he rages,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">About the trips he’s taken with the Golden Agers.<br /> But I can only bide my time,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And hope he’s here when I get mine,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Because (woe is me) I’m younger.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-6287002520638311982015-01-24T14:49:00.001-08:002015-01-24T16:20:23.129-08:00MEASURED WEALTH <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">I have a cottage painted white,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To give me shelter from the night,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I own an acreage of land with</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Rich black soil over golden sand.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I’ve cleared a garden plot for flowers,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To tend, in my leisure hours.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The maple spreads its pleasant shade,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">For protection during the sunny days.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Soft breezes carry fragrant smells,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Of apple- blossom, lilac, and roses</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Wondering where they will.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Of honey-suckle twisting above the door,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Or the aroma of grass cut the day before.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I trot a grandchild on each knee,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Who love to “roam the ranch” with me.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I own a dog - black, brown and fawn.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A pipe to smoke, the evening paper to rely on.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I’m blessed with innocence of mind,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">That lets me sleep from nine to nine.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I think I’m the richest man alive,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To have so much at sixty-five.</span> </span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-89204358340538253972015-01-24T14:48:00.001-08:002015-01-24T16:21:09.621-08:00JEWELED MEMORIES <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">My memories are like jewels</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I keep locked in a mental box</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Until the hours I’m most lonely</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And reach for their luster and warmth.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Pearls, symbolic of the wedding dress,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Rich with creamy lace-</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The white rose bouquet-</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The glistening three-tiered cake.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Diamonds sparkle like the wine</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">We sipped with arms entwined</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To pledge our life together and</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Love forever be kept alive.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The Opals changing color</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Like the fountain where happiness flowed</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To make our lives the richest we had ever known.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">But hidden in the corner,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Covered with remorse and woe<br /> Lies the Ruby red as my lover’s blood</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Shed on the battlefield of France</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">So many long years ago.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-29331523255104809042015-01-24T14:47:00.000-08:002015-01-24T16:21:42.181-08:00THE BALANCE SHEET <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">I wrote down all my troubles,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">On one side of the page,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">While on the opposite side,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The joys that filled my days.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I noticed there were spaces,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Where troubles added up,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">It looked as though my failures,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Were enough to fill a cup.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Then suddenly the scales would turn,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I’d find to my relief</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A Long list of blessings,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Were thrown right at my feet,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The balance sheet continued,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Through many many years,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The list of credits grew larger,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The failures disappeared,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Until I began to wonder,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">If wisdom could be the cause,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">By minimizing hatreds,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And magnifying loves!</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-9635885560138445882015-01-24T14:45:00.005-08:002015-01-24T16:22:10.583-08:00DREAM HOUSE<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">When I was young</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I had a dream</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I’d buy a house</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And keep it clean,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">With shining window panes for light.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A sofa to relax at night.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Ruffled curtains gaily draped,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A Welcome Mat prominently placed.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Perhaps a puppy frisking by-</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A snoozing cat with languid eyes.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Zinnias and marigolds,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And all the roses I could hold.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Alas! This dream did not materialize for me,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I own a houseboat near the sea!</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">-------</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I’ve wondered with some mystification,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Why Mother Nature tosses out her</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Lap full of seeds with such indiscretion.<br /> Until I noticed with what splendor,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The earth rewords the lavish spender!</span></span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-42422707539282004432015-01-24T14:44:00.002-08:002015-01-24T16:22:51.912-08:00PRINTS IN THE SNOW <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">The snow began falling</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">In the darkness of the night</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Early morning looked out upon</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A dazzling spread of soft-puffed white.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Not a ripple marred its smoothness<br /> Not the serenity of its fall.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A world seemingly without life -<br /> No growth, no movement, no sound.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Until I glanced upon my doorstep<br /> Before the sun arose<br /> To see a line of prints made<br /> By the crooked twig-like claws<br /> Of a tiny, feathered bird.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">This creature in the world of white,<br /> Made the difference<br /> Between statues and life.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">He had risen from his snowy tracks<br /> To mount the clear cold air<br /> Leaving his scratchy signature behind<br /> To tell us he'd been there!</span></span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-39403589393226878932015-01-24T14:42:00.005-08:002015-01-24T16:23:17.771-08:00GOING SOUTH <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">Like true birds they’re flying<br /> Down the Southern way,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Watching for the road-signs,<br /> Resting for that day.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Each mile will bring them closer,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To the sun they love.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Like birds of a feather winging</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The same route up above.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The change of air gives promise,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Of warm days ahead,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The breeze is softly stirring up,<br /> Salt air from the ocean bed.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Throw off the woolen sweaters,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Relax and saunter forth!</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To let the bright, golden sun,<br /> Shine on the cold motorists</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">From the North.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-21964788993835084672015-01-24T14:40:00.005-08:002015-01-24T16:23:46.680-08:00GOING HUNTING <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">I say I’m going hunting</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">As I take down my well-oiled gun</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And don a scarlet cap and coat</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I turn my car toward a mountain run.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">But once away from eyes of man,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">In the deep solitude of wood</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">My weapon drops by my side,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I’m not feeling like a hunter should.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The scurrying rabbits may have no fear,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Their furry coats will not be stained</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">By their own blood by me.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Two partridges stand close beside</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The water’s edge.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">A perfect shot, if their deaths be worth</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The price.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Far better that I watch their flight</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">From fear and harm, and keep my conscience clear.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">As I sit beneath a walnut tree,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And quietly smoke my pipe,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I feel all the peace and tranquility,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">With none of the hunter left in me.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">"Any luck" my neighbor asks me</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">As I drive up to my door,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I shake my head negatively-</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">"Not today as I carefully put</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">My unused gun away.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-10031689314372907622015-01-24T14:38:00.006-08:002015-01-24T16:24:25.394-08:00OLD FRIENDS <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">Through summer heat<br /> Or winter storm,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Her sweet face beneath hair<br /> Of white,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Stands at my door.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">"How is my good friend today?”<br />She asks, and pats my hand.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And much like dear Mother of old,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Explores her shopping-bag<br /> For some surprise gift To unfold.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">We take our tea,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Or sip of wine.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I inquire as to her health,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">She of mine.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Together we chase the ghost Away.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The ghost of a younger and<br /> Happier day.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-36536349563837145282015-01-24T14:37:00.001-08:002015-01-24T16:25:12.725-08:00NATURES REJUVENATION<span class="style4"><strong> </strong></span><span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style8">What was left of the old farmhouse</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> lay in ruins, in the quiet tranquility</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> of a mid-summer country-side.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Forgotten, abandoned, it was left</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> to defy the elements.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">The structure withstood for many</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> seasons the onslaught of rainfalls</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> like scalding tears that washed and</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> rewashed the streaked clapboards.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">It had endured the hot summer</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> suns kisses on its tar roof.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">The winter winds played tag around its corners,<br /> tugging again and again at their support.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Termites nibbled on the rotting wood,<br /> contributing to their decay.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Vandals broke the window panes.<br /> Destroyed or carted away<br /> what furniture they found.<br /> What was left was a shell,<br /> with No apparent owner.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">As years passed, all left visible,<br /> was the sloping roof boards,</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> topped by a still staunch grey cement chimney,<br /> which rose above the rambles, like a watchful guardian.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">When the winter snows melted the warm sun<br /> and soft rain blessed the lands with their gifts.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Seeds so encouraged, began their life cycle.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Tall grass mixed in with woodlands growth of<br /> Queen Ann’s lace, Buttercups, and other wild species.<br /> Black-Berry Vines twisting in circles<br /> imprisoned all within its circumference.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">The long neglected rose bush felt the urge to<br /> spread out its thorny limbs,to clutch at the<br /> sagging porch rails for support.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">When reaching its goal, clusters of red roses<br /> budded and bloomed,</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> leaving their fragrant heads against the roof<br /> in sweet repose.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">The stately Hollyhock, seeds scattered from previous growth,<br /> searched forward, like tired soldiers<br /> who could travel no further.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Two lonely sunflowers sprang up to reach a height,</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> Then to poke their fringed yellow</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> heads into a painless window, as</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> tho in curiosity as to its interior.</span><br class="style8" /><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Spiders began their web<br /> weaving from one corner to another<br /> resembling in the strong sunlight<br /> a long string of tiny beads.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Unpruned lilac bushes their sweet scented<br /> flowers gone to seed,</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> spread their green growth in ever</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> widening circles against the fallen-in walls.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Buzzing bees broke the silence<br /> while birds sang, soft and shrill.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">The lush of full summer fell</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8"> upon the old place, and gave it charm!</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-52584990092137793282015-01-24T14:32:00.002-08:002015-01-24T16:25:47.868-08:00THE AGED <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">The saddest part of living</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Is when our days are few</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And we are but a shadow</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Cast from the life we once knew.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Our productive years are in the past,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Our hopes, our dreams, our cares</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Are almost covered up with time</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">While fading memories live only in the mind.<br /> The soul is weary of life’s strife,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The trip has left its mark.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">There’s nothing now, to do, but rest</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And wait for dusk to turn to dark.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-81724975455182758772015-01-24T14:30:00.004-08:002015-01-24T16:26:23.494-08:00SUDDENLY (I'M OLD) <span class="style6" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="auto-style1">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">Suddenly,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The hours seem shorter,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Daily tasks left undone.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Is it that I’m growing older</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Or is it time against the sun?</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Suddenly,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Friends are lost in silence,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Their voices no longer echo in my rooms,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Or had I closed the door upon them,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To wait in solitude for my doom?</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Gradually,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The eyes grow dimmer,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Days are filled with soft twilight,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Could it be the tears that gather,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Help to soften failing sight?</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Softly,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Voices crowd around me,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Whispering memories in my ear,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Or is it old age, mellow and ripe for dreaming,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Of youth and love and laughter,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Once again?.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-24514693091818146262015-01-24T14:29:00.000-08:002015-01-24T16:26:55.392-08:00MOTHER (AT EIGHTY) <span class="style6" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="auto-style1">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: large;"><span class="style2">There is a small old-fashioned house,<br /> Beside a busy road</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">With windows dressed in ruffled white,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">To match the seasons mode.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">There is no path up to the door</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The snow lies still and white</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And only a women dreaming</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Can be seen in a shaft of light.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">She sits all day in her easy-chair</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">From morn until the night.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Her hands lie idle in her lap,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Her eyes have lost their sight.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">While she herself has fled from care,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Her chains she’s thrust away!</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">And light and free as a winging bird,<br /> She’s flown to the yesterdays.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Don’t let your heart be full of pain,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Your eyes fill up with tears,</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">For Mother’s gone where she loves best,<br /> Her favorite Yesteryear's.</span></span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-41225888704915143532015-01-24T14:26:00.003-08:002015-01-24T16:27:24.816-08:00LAST CHAPTER - THE END OF AN ERA <span class="style6" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span class="style2">The years passed all too quickly, as it does in a home where there is much activity and special events.</span><br />
<span class="style2">The eldest of the daughters completed their education, found paying positions, eventually meeting the man of their choice, to move away and begin their lives anew.</span><br />
<span class="style2">The mood of the day also changed. During the preceding years most country homes enjoyed electricity, running water and of course indoor bathrooms. In the early twenty’s bobbed hair became the current rage. Women appeared in "knickers" and short skirts. Cigarette smoking was on the increase and socially accepted as the habit grew. Boot-leg whiskey smuggled in for those who wanted it and knew where to find it. Questionable literature flooded the book stores. It was the beginning of a relaxed society that went along with whatever the style decreed, The pace picked up speed after the first automobiles came off the assembly lines. Those who could afford to invest in one were elated by the thrill of travelling further afield, and in less time then it took for other transportation, and with greater comfort.</span><br />
<span class="style2">When World War One ended, the peace brought with it hard times. Bread and soup lines in the cities. A wild sort of spirit sprung up among the young many of whom lost their beloved ones “to the cause”.</span><br />
<span class="style2">After our two boys finished their schooling, Papa decided to take his well-earned retirement, he bought a cottage home in a quiet town in New York State with enough acreage to allow him space to raise enough poultry to help finances and to keep himself busy.</span><br />
<span class="style2">At long last Mother’s time was her own!</span><br />
<span class="style2">Both our parents lived to a good age dying within a few years of each other They were buried in a beautifully kept cemetery on a hill overlooking the mountains that Papa had loved.</span><br />
<span class="style2">We believed we lived in an era where morals were generally high. Honesty a virtue. Happiness to us came from sharing the simple pleasures that came our way. “Way Back Then” is now a time of the past that can never be reborn or its values re-kindled.</span><br />
<br class="style2" />
<br class="style2" />
<span class="style2"> </span> jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-36180622303443791962015-01-24T14:25:00.000-08:002015-01-24T16:28:11.728-08:00REMINISCE <span class="style6" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span class="style2">Sometimes I sit and reminisce of the good old days and sights I miss.</span><br />
<span class="style2">I think of the hot summer days: of the iceman’s truck in the dark alleyways, the children following behind like puppy dogs to snitch a sliver of ice, then hide; the cement so hot you could fry an egg, would make the tinkle of ice sound like champagne to your head.</span><br />
<span class="style2">A parade of salesmen at your door with worn suitcases of wares for the housewife to explore. Brushes, perhaps a curtain of lace, or creams and lotions for milady’s face.</span><br />
<span class="style2">A perennial caller of books to sell with thinning hair and schoolboy smile, who depended on you’re subscription to attend school in good style.</span><br />
<span class="style2">The clapper-de-clap of horses hooves brought the bakery wagon into view. When its good natured driver called a halt, women and children lined up on the walk to look at the pastries oiled high on the shelves. For a small coin you could choose for yourself.</span><br />
<span class="style2">Children of all ages would stop in their play when the rag man’s shrill voice was heard to say: “Any rags? Any rags? Any rags? Any bones, any bottles for sale? One cent a pound by the weight of my scale.”</span><br />
<span class="style2">The open trolley swaying past with the uniformed conductor standing back to feed his coin belt nickel fares, or stopping to chat with friendly pairs.</span><br />
<span class="style2">For mystery and intrigue of faraway places came the mournful midnight whistle of a passenger train, its windows outlining a silhouette of faces as it snaked its way to a dark destination.</span><br />
<span class="style2">I think of all these things, and many more, that have left this age to return no more.</span><br />
<span class="style2">Well, I have a right to feel forlorn for this was the era in which I was born.</span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-46320654838722182002015-01-24T14:22:00.000-08:002015-01-24T16:29:22.015-08:00THE CARPET BAG <span class="style6" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">A short story</span><br />
<span class="style8"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">As I drove along the dirt road, glancing from time to time over the surrounding countryside, my mind turned once again to the scenes of my childhood.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Then the meadows were of lush green, with black-eyed-susans tilting their heads to the soft summer breezes, Tall green grasses swayed to make a path for the brown bare legs of children who waded through them to go to the higher slopes where bluetts and sand violets grew in clusters. A tinkling brook played “hide and seek” through thick impenetrable brush on its hurried way to join the river. A real “Fairy Land” for children’s play.<br /> </span><br />
<span class="style8">Today the land sheared far too often, left only yellow stubs of witch-grass in evidence. The narrow brook, long since dried up, or taken new course to its destination. A row of ugly structures in the background destroyed the country beauty once so peaceful and full of charm.</span><br />
<span class="style8">I continued on my way, following the road a quarter of a mile up the rocky incline to its top. Now, one could see the farmhouse built close to the ground. A sprawling row of house, sheds, garage and lastly the big red barn. A sagging sign read "Hilltop Farm".</span><br />
<span class="style8">It wasn’t a pleasant task I had undertaken on this day. Since Father died two years before, the rest of our family, now grown and married, left the farm to make their homes elsewhere.</span><br />
<span class="style8">We had decided it was time to sell the estate, and divide the profit evenly, according to Dad’s will.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Since his death the farm was rented by a "would be" farmer who, in time, found it wasn’t an easy task to make it pay, and gave up the attempt.</span><br />
<br class="style8" />
<span class="style8">The place remained empty and in need of new paint and repairs I noticed, as I took the gravel road that led to the side entrance. Parking the car, I fished in my hand-bag for the house keys. I was elected to make a last survey of the buildings before tie new owner took over. The back door opened easily to the turning of the key in the lock. Inside the rooms were stark bare, with a slight odor of dampness prevailing through-out the first floor. Touring the rooms I checked for broken windows, storm damages, or signs of intruders.</span><br />
<span class="style8">As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, memories of us, as children. sliding down the banisters when mother called us to get to the kitchen fast for our regular breakfast of rolled-oats porridge and our own creamed butter and homemade bread.</span><br />
<span class="style8">The sun was shining through the western windows as I toured the bedrooms. In the master bedroom closet, I ran my hand far back to the walls. My fingers touched some object. I pulled it forward with two fingers. It proved to be a long shoe-box grey with time and covered with dust. Taking it closer to the curtain less window, I knelt down on the floor to remove the cover. Inside lay a much faded and worn carpet-bag. The once colorful tapestry grey now with the time in its dark and damp concealment. Tenderly I held it up, and the years rolled back as I recalled who the owner was, and why it was hidden so secretly these many years.</span><br />
<span class="style8"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">Chapter 2</span><br />
<span class="style8"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">Following Mother’s funeral services, the family arrived in their cars, to park in the wide driveway which took up all one side of the homestead. Car doors opened and shut as the bereaved family turned toward the back entrance to the kitchen, for a last cup of coffee or tea together, before each took their separate ways homeward.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Their first out-pouring of tears and grief now left them with a dull ache in their chests and with a numbness devoid of emotion.</span><br />
<span class="style8">The kitchen was warm from the in pouring sun and a spotless cleanliness, just as mother always kept it. A large round braided rug she made of old pieces of calico and sewn together so patiently years before, lay on the scrubbed wooden floor, worn in spots, but still colorful in its faded colors.</span><br />
<span class="style8">The old chime clock, its gold pendulum losing none of its regularity standing on its own special shelf, continued to tick away the time.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Coffee cups clinked as the women started the tea and coffee making. Kind neighbors had stolen in while the family were away at the church to leave casseroles of food and platters of fresh pastries. The hot drinks tasted good to the elders, but they had no appetite at the moment for food.</span><br />
<span class="style8">My younger sister and I wandered into the familiar sitting room for a quiet conversation. It was then we noticed Mother's carpet bag hanging by its strap to the back of the family Boston Rocker.</span><br />
<span class="style8">It looked crushed and forlorn its edges frayed from constant handling through the years.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Acute nostalgia consumed us at its pitiful sight. It seemed to make Mother's death so final, so far above mortal things.</span><br />
<span class="style8">How many times in our growing up years had we watched Mother reach for this bag, for it contained every kind of emergency measures. Cough drops, “Smith Brothers” for those who complained of a ticklish throat. Tissues to wipe away childish tears or wipe sticky fingers? Needles, pins, thread, buttons. Mother, like a magician, could draw out almost anything one needed. Always there as the “change” purse, dedicated to the “do gooders”. Mother, hurry, the ice cream man is coming! “Hand me my bag then, child” she'd respond, reaching inside For the coins she kept handy# They were always there for special occasions. Small, shell like teeth were forever coming out and the "Good Fairy" never forgot to leave something under the tooth-loser’s pillow! In time, we outgrew our need for penny’s and nickel’s and earned our own spending money.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="style8">Many expensive gifts, along with new leather bags were given to Mother as the years passed. She admired each one and promptly stored them away in their boxes and tissue papers, her view being, the older a Possession was, the more priceless it became. New things had made no memories, and memories were true gold that never tarnished.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Lovingly we removed the bag and finding a suitable box, packed it carefully away. I remember we pinned a note to the tapestry - "Mother's bag, keep it safe always".</span><br />
<span class="style8"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">Ending</span><br />
<span class="style8"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">Getting up from my knees, I carried the bag with its scanty contents downstairs and out the kitchen door. I must find a spot not likely to be disturbed in the coming years. I chose a place close behind the red barn, now overgrown with weeds and crab-grass . Finding a broken handled spade in the tool house, I dug a hole large enough to accompany the box and deep enough not likely to be uncovered. Stooping down I laid the box at the bottom, covering it well with dirt, stamping it down for good measure.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Putin away the spade I re-locked the house door, and getting into my car drove down the highway for the last time, keeping my eves straight ahead. I chose not to be tempted to look back, it would be too painful.</span><br />
<span class="style8">Perhaps the new owners would love it as we did. Perhaps small children would again play in the fields beyond. Perhaps they too, would make good memories as we did, and perhaps, they might, if lucky, know the wonders and magic of a loving Mother's carpet-bag!</span><br />
<span class="style8"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">end</span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-32809079164860050132015-01-24T14:17:00.000-08:002015-01-24T16:30:02.433-08:00THE PROM DRESS <span class="style6" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span class="style8">Mother, as was mentioned earlier, was indeed an excellent seamstress Before marriage she had been employed in a local department store as a hat designer. It was the style of the day for ladies hats to be trimmed with either flowers, feathers or ribbons. Mother often mentioned the many compliments she received by the manager of that department for the good taste she displayed in her handwork.</span><br />
<span class="style8">She retained her sewing ability in later years as she continued to make many of the clothes we children wore.</span><br />
<span class="style8">My sister, Claire, came home from school one day in near tears. She confided to Mother, the Juniors were planning their annual Prom. Claire had been asked to attend the affair with a Senior-Class boy. It was, in a way an honor for a student from a lower classroom to receive a Senior's bid. Claire felt she couldn't accept as she owned no dross pretty enough for the big occasion. No one in our circumstance could afford to buy a new frock just for one occasion. Mother listened to her daughter, knowing how important it was to her to accept the invitation. Thoughtfully, with one finger to her cheek, she sought a way out. Quite suddenly the idea came to her. Her own wedding dress of course! For years it had been packed in layers of tissue. Its style was out of date, of course, but she could alter it to fit the current fashion. The material was what counted. It was made from yards of lustrous Skinner Satin, in a soft yellow. The richest material of its kind and had been, even then, quite costly. It would look beautiful on Claire. She could see her daughter dressed in such a gown!</span><br />
<span class="style8">Getting her sewing materials together, she brought out the box that held the precious dress. Shaking the memories from its folds, she proceeded to cut off the long train.</span><br />
<span class="style8">That evening when Claire came into the sewing room, she had her try it on for further alterations. Even as it was, the color suited Claire bringing out her blue-black wavy hair and blue eyes. She would do the dress justice, Mother was quite sure on that score.</span><span class="style8">On the night of the Prom, much activity took place in the girls bedrooms. The older girls taking part in helping their sister into her gown - finding just the right necklace, silk stockings, bangles and perfume.</span><br />
<span class="style8">When Claire finally emerged to parade in front of Mother, she couldn't have looked more beautiful. The dress fit to perfection.</span><br />
<span class="style8">As the front door bell rang, Claire picked up a lacy shawl, and as her escort entered, threw it over her shoulders, and with a radiant smile, took his arm to leave for the dance.</span><br />
<span class="style8">It was past midnight when voices were heard outside saying their good nights. Then the door opened and shut. Claire stood leaning against the door-frame, her expression serious and sorrowful.</span><br />
<span class="style8">"What’s wrong, child?" Mother asked, springing to her feet.</span><br />
<span class="style8">"Mother," Claire sobbed, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. After all the work you did on the dress, no one even saw it! My beautiful dress just split its seams the first time I got up to dance. I had to wear my shawl over it all evening long!"</span><br />
<span class="style8">Mother reasoned later, the material had given way to its age. She packed the dress away in its tissues once again, with some sadness.</span><br />
<br class="style8" />
<br class="style8" />
<br />jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-16079080850527759332015-01-22T15:28:00.001-08:002015-01-24T16:30:42.271-08:00THE POTATO BUG HOAX<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style2">Papa was looking over the "Farmers Journal". He noticed an ad which read: “Send for our sure cure for potato bugs,” Papa was having trouble with this bug so he decided to send the required fee and his name and address.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">After a time the Rural Delivery deposited a small package in the farm's roadside mail box.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Papa opened it with great interest.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Inside were two small, smooth, square boards, and a typewritten slip of paper with these instructions:</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">“Catch the potato bug between these boards and press - sure cure.”</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The laugh was on Papa.</span></span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-73413616815723362672015-01-22T15:26:00.005-08:002015-01-24T16:31:52.753-08:00THE PROPHESIER <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style2">Occasionally an unusual story will hit the news the country over. Such was the case back in the 201s.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">An aged prophesier, well known for his previous forecasts predicted the ending of the world as well as the exact date it would come about.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">His “absolute” certainty of this is what made it an interesting as well as a questionable piece of news.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">Mother brought the subject up at the supper table the evening before the predicted date. “What do you think of it?” she asked Father with the wide-eyed innocent look of the country housewife.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">"Poppy-cock! No such a thing!" thundered Papa bringing his fist down on the supper table with such force it set the dishes rattling. With that he left the table, reached for his hat and disappeared out the back door, giving Mother no chance for further argument.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">We children left the table, too. We had our own interests to attend to, leaving Mother with her cold tea and a martyred expression.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">At ten o’clock I went upstairs to west bedroom with my two smaller brothers. We were tired after the day’s activities and, after some small talk back and forth, we all fell into a deep sleep.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I awoke, suddenly alert, and lifted myself up on my elbows. The room was deluged in an orange light so bright it brought out every detail, every corner, I had a feeling of terrible disaster and dread.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">It is the end of the world, was my first thought. My heart doubled its beat. I lay prone waiting. Slowly the orange light faded from the walls; black darkness filled in.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I heard the hiss of brakes outside and realized in quick relief it was only the motionless trolley-car, on the incline, whose beam had penetrated the room. Now it moved on. I lay back on my pillow. My heart quieted down, I felt drowsy.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">I was going fishing in the morning. A pretty girl had moved into our neighborhood. The violets might be out along the river.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">The prediction was wrong. It wasn’t the end of the world at all.</span><br class="style2" /><span class="style2">For me, nearing thirteen, it was just the beginning.</span></span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-16026973244170607042015-01-22T15:05:00.001-08:002015-01-24T16:32:21.968-08:00THE DOCTOR'S BOOK <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">As I listen to the "pros and cons” on the question of sex education in the schools, I smile in recollection of how the children of a large family got around it some fifty years back.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">Humorously speaking, we were practically raised on the subjects of health and sex.</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">When we children reached the age where we could feed ourselves but had difficulty reaching for dinner plates at the dining room table,</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">Mother invariably brought out the "Doctor's Book". When inserted under the children's buttocks, the desired height was reached. There he sat quite unaware of all the information on mankind’s ills he so innocently held down!</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">The "Doctor's Book" bought by Papa from a travelling salesman,</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">( and later he agreed it was a bad mistake ) weighed all of ten pounds with a good foot in width. Mother spent hours thumbing the pages for every kind of illness concerning her family, but ran into symptoms that intermingled, making one complaint not unlike another. Oftentimes s she put the big book aside to retreat to her own method of nursing. An aspirin on the tongue, cold wet clothes on a hot forehead, and a juicy quartered orange to suck on. Generally the little patient was up and about in a very short time.</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">When we children arrived at the "curiosity stage" we waited for the time when Mother left the house to borrow a cup of sugar or flour from a neighbor before tip-toeing to the coat-closet to drag down the heavy book from a high shelf. With a knowing look, we would flip the pages until we came to a colored structure of a woman. Each organ operated on hinges that slid aside to disclose the next organ. When we came to the unknown infant curled up like a small kitten, we looked knowingly at one another, closed and quietly returned the book to its place on the shelf.</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">If Mother ever suspected the reason why we didn't take her</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">“Stork Story” seriously, she didn't let us know.</span></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><br class="style8" /></span><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">If the old " Doctor's Book" served a purpose it was to help satisfy our young appetites for food, and to some extent, our curiosities.</span></span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-65540167942702399622015-01-22T15:02:00.003-08:002015-01-24T16:33:06.768-08:00THE PIANO TUNERS EPISODE <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span class="style8">It was the age of the jazz-time craze, when popular hit songs from the New York Musicals flooded the music stores as fast as they could be printed.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Our piano rack, at home, being thus covered with the latest songs and lyrics.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">When Mother had the urge, usually in the late afternoons, before supper hour, she liked to sit at the piano, idly picking out a tune or two she felt she could master.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">On a summer day, two young men appeared at our door, asking to speak to the “lady of the house.” When she was called, Mother met them with an inquiring look.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">“We are piano tuners,” they told her. Do you happen to have one?</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Mother nodded her head. “I do,” she answered.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">“Fine,” spoke up one of the men. “Do you mind if we look it over?” “Perhaps we could tell you if it’s in good tune.” “No obligations of course.”</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Mother hesitated before inviting them to step inside, and into the Parlor where the piano stood.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Seating himself on the piano stool, one of the strangers ran his hand along the key-board before playing a few chords.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">“M,m-m” he said, half to himself. Then, glancing back at Mother in the background he remarked somewhat gloomily, “It sounds quite a bit out of tune. Too bad, because this is a good instrument,” peering at the name “Kimbell” inscribed on the front. “I’m sure you wish to keep it in good condition. It won't cost too much to get it back in tune. Well worth the small expense.”</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Mother fought with her conscience. She realized too well it wasn’t a necessity, but the idea of having it kept in tune was a strong incentive.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">“Well,” she finally replied, “if you think it needs to be done."</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">“Thank you, Mam,” the spokesman said, “we'll be here early in the morning.”</span><br class="style8" /><br class="style8" /> <br class="style8" /><span class="style8">The following day as promised, the men arrived, carrying a battered suit-case, supposedly with the equipment needed to do the job. Folding back the piano top to expose the intricate mechanism that stood out like the skeletons of countless fingers - they began their work.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">By noon, the cover was again in place. Mother, hearing them packing up, hurried from the kitchen to pay the price set upon. One of the men pulled a few worn felts from his pocket. “You see, madam, these felts have been eaten up by moths, Lucky we got the rest in time.” Mother’s eyes grew big as she listened to what “might have been.”</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">After playing, as proof of their work, another set of chords, they pocketed the money and left. We felt, rather hurriedly.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">That evening, at the supper table, Mother explained to Papa how she happened to have the piano tuned. His answer to this was a grunt which could mean approval or disapproval, whichever way you wanted to take it.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Later that evening as Papa was reading the evening paper, his eyes were drawn to a short article warning housewives to beware of two young men in the vicinity posing as piano tuners. They carried moth-eaten felts to show proof to the gullible of the dire need of their services.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Papa threw the paper on Mother's lap then, taking his cap from the kitchen peg, stormed out the back door.</span><br class="style8" /><span class="style8">Not one of us dared say a word for Mother’s lip was in a big pout. It would be a long time before she’d be taken in again by a fast talking salesman, of that we could be sure.</span></span>jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-18058471199597280122015-01-22T10:53:00.001-08:002015-01-24T16:33:38.577-08:00REMEMBERING WINTER AND CHRISTMAS <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
<span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></span>
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<div class="auto-style1" style="line-height: 32px;">
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Our home was large, old fashioned, and in the cold weather, drafty.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">It had no central heating so that the four upstairs bedrooms were always icebox cold.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The long living room was heated only by a very elegant parlor stove (my father's proud gift to the household). It stood on its zinc pad, rooted in position by a black stovepipe running lengthwise behind until an elbow made connections into the chimney of a boarded up fireplace. The section still outlined by an impressive white mantelpiece.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The stove was a self-feeder, the top designed in fancy silver scrolls, was made to swing out disclosing a black lid. A hod full of coal could be poured down the central pipe to spread out over the grates. When the coal burned down to gray ashes, the grates were shaken down, the dead coal falling into a pan beneath. Silver bumpers protected one from going too close to the heated sides.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">On exceptionally cold nights the family drew their chairs to circle the stove's warmth. Stocking feet caressed the wide silver belt. Oftentimes the intense heat drove us back, but cold drafts from the corners sent us closer again.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Mother moved an old couch to a wall opposite the stove one particularly cold night. When we kids came in from the freezing outside to lie on the couch before bedtime, the heat drugged us into a deep sleep. We were awakened by a firm grip on our collars, and told to “get upstairs!”</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">It was torture to leave the warmth, and ascend the steep stairs to the cold bedrooms. Oftentimes we raced into our room to fall beneath the bed covers still without removing our clothes. It was not uncommon for four of us to share a bed. The snuggling together kept us all warm.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Another hardship was getting downstairs on school mornings to find our shoes (which we left the night before, soaking wet from high snows, under the stove to dry) hard as rocks, the leather tight and uncomfortable.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">It took some time breaking them in again.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Our first thoughts of Thanksgiving came when we noticed the pictured </span><span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">turkeys in our local paper. Somehow those ads fascinated us. We pointed </span><span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">them out to Mother and only then did she admit that Thanksgiving Day was close.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Our dining room table had as many as three leaves, and all of them were used to lengthen the table to sit our large family and perhaps a guest or two.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">My Father killed his own turkey. I disliked seeing him bring it into the kitchen, plucked but with head hanging loosely. I would remember when I last saw it in with the flock in the chicken yard.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">(My father told us, once, if we flattered the turkeys they would fan out their tail feathers. It seemed to work for each time we spoke kindly, their tails did fan out, somewhat like the peacock.)</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Christmas was not spoken of either until it was almost upon us. Then again we pointed out the likeness of Santa Claus. Nothing was promised by our parents, but the mystery of it played on our minds constantly.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The church Christmas party took place the night before Christmas Eve. When the separated doors were opened in the church hall, a large, beautifully decorated tree was exposed with a fat Santa to give out gifts, an orange, and box of candy. The gifts were donated by the Sunday School teachers, and alike, depending on whichever class you were in. We treasured our orange and candy, and brought them home carefully for Mother to see.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Mother was found, as she usually was, after supper, in her rocker close to the kitchen stove with her feet in the warm oven. Usually, one of the younger children was prevailed upon to brush her long, black hair while she read her magazine.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Oftentimes, she kept a candy bar in her apron pocket. We realized it was a little treat for herself and we never teased her for it.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Christmas Eve was just another winter's night. Supper over, we washed and dried the dishes. Nothing was said, but inside we were heavy with expectation.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">As the bewitching hour came closer, we picked out our choice of stockings from Mother's stocking-basket. Smaller socks were already hung up </span><span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">on the mantel, the youngest children already in bed.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Carefully adding our own to the row on the mantel, we gave them one last look before starting for bed secretly hoping their limpness would be replaced by the bulging shapes of Christmas gifts. We retired to the upstairs without any nagging from Mother. Once in bed we hugged each other to keep warm, and then we tried hard to stay awake. Soon each was in a deep slumber.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">It was still dark when one of us awoke long enough to realize it was morning and give the alarm. With a great rush we all jumped from the bed. Taking our turn at riding down the Bannister, we walked into the living-room hardly daring to look.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The light was just beginning to enter the room, but we could see the stockings, now bulging, with dolls and toys peeping over the tops. Extra gifts were piled beneath.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The waiting was over. Santa had come!</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Snows had come, too, and freezing weather. Frozen pipes were expected. Cream in the milk bottles extended out like coated tongues. Drifts covered the fences, but the crust was so hard one was able to mount small hills that covered everything.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Yes, winter on the farm was hardship, but it was also a time of family closeness; a time for cold apples from the cellar, polished red for eating, </span><span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">homemade candy, and corn in the popper. It was chess playing and storytelling. Above all, it was innocent fun, and long peaceful winter nights of sleeping.</span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-77900506837783345562015-01-22T10:49:00.000-08:002015-01-24T16:34:16.405-08:00THE OLD FASHIONED CHRISTMAS STOCKING <span class="style6" style="color: purple; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span><br />
<span class="style6" style="color: magenta; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
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<div class="auto-style1" style="line-height: 32px;">
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">The Christmas stocking I remember</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Wasn't made of red felt and gold,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">But hung in all its humility</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Without a definite shape of its own.</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">It carried no special name plate,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Such as “Jim” or “John” or “Joan”,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Just a thumb-tack inserted to hold it</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Securely to the chimney-mold.</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">It was left in the darkening shadows</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">With only the glowing embers for light,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">And the cold and snowy winter</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Was a long and mysterious night!</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">How, on Christmas morning</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">What a wonderful sight to behold</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">The lonely little stocking</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Had come upon its own!</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Bulging with odd shapes and sizes,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Heavy with its weight of holiday surprises,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Hanging proudly, daring you to guess</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">What exciting toy would you pull out next?</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">To be explored by childish fingers</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">As far down as they would go,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Where an orange and Christmas candy</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Snuggled in the stretched out toe.</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Now limp, and carelessly cast aside</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">One was left with a child-like pride</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Of memories, throughout one’s life,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">Of the Eve before the Christ was born,</span><br />
<span class="style2" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;">And that wonderful stocking on Christmas morn.</span></div>
jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3779097701349142248.post-42662349636498059862015-01-22T10:46:00.004-08:002015-01-24T16:34:48.930-08:00WINTER IN THE FARMLAND <span class="style6" style="font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: purple;">By Beatrice M. Hanson</span></span><br />
<span class="style6" style="color: magenta; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>
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<div>
<div class="auto-style1" style="line-height: 32px;">
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">I wait for Winter,</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">I like the solitude it affords us,</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">A time to take stock of myself and life generally. I’m used to the flat open spaces of farmland; the fields of whit fringed with tall green fir trees as a frame for its splendor.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">No man or animal can approach the farm buildings for miles in circumference without being seen or tracked come morning.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">I love the feeling of security when cold winds blow, and icicles hang a yard long from the shed roofs; when cozily warm inside, one flattens one’s nose against the frosted pane to absorb the beauty of the quiet countryside.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The dome of stars against blue velvet night sky makes the setting for stillness and clarity of a bitter-cold night.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Man dwindles in size before such magnificence.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">No human stirs in the hours before dawn. The farmer and his family lie beneath warm blankets for a long peaceful sleep. In complete tune with nature surrounding them.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">There will be an awakening. The cycle of seed-sowing, harvest </span><span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">and rest will began again for the farmer, his sons, and his sons’ sons, for </span><span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">generations to come.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;"> --------</span></div>
<br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">With the first freeze of our New England winter, my thoughts pensively return to the country farm and as children, our first attempts at ice skating.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Zero weather then, was generally felt around Thanksgiving. Thereafter, the ponds and lakes froze thick and did not again thaw out until the early Spring.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Pools of frozen water in the farm's low-lands, glistened like polished mirrors in the bright sunlight.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The long red cow barns, within a fringe of green fir trees and fence posts made a picturesque background.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">I remember, as children, running from ice patch to ice patch in our search for the longest and widest, in which to skate on. Once it was staked out, children from surrounding farms joined in the sport. Woolen scarves flying, skates twisted around small shoulders, they descended the hill, their sleds following from behind. Using them as seats, they sat down to attach their skates to their shoes. Mittens lay discarded while cold fingers inserted the key to tighten the clamps. Success did not come easily. Skates let go, to send a skater sprawling on the ice. Again, the clamps were adjusted and tightened. With a little luck, they held long enough for one to circle the ice, storing short when the wind pushed one off into the dead brown grass.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Some had the foresight to bring their Mother's broom to lean on and help keen their balance on the slippery ice.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">As the afternoon wore on, and the sun less bright, children one by one kicked off their skates to head for home. Cheeks aflame from cold air and exercise, their keen appetites urging them on to the warm and fragrant farm kitchen.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The beauty of the scene, crisp-white, with touches of color, stay in my memory like that of a painter’s masterpiece. It never grows faded or less beautiful, despite the passing of time.</span><br />
<br class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: large;" />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Back fifty years, the seasons in New England were more stable than they've seemed in recent years.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">When the winter came, it did not relent. The ground froze solid. Lakes and ponds for ice skating were squared and cut by Thanksgiving or shortly thereafter, the ice cakes stored for the following summer. Snow fell upon snow, piling up into drifted hills that covered the highest fence.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Horse-drawn plows passed over the snow-covered sideways. Highways were leveled, leaving the sleights runners to pack the snow, thereby makings ribbons of polished ice.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">New England lay in the grip of winter. By the tail-end of February, however, one began to sense a warmer trend.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Spring sends its forecasters far ahead of its arrival. Bright red sunsets gave a promise of the change to come. Thoughts of romance and of new growth circulated like a warm breeze. One noticed a softening process underfoot, a breaking up of ice crystals.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Children removed their heavy snow pants, leaving on only long underwear under knee-high stockings. They needed them for their trudges back and forth to school.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The frozen earth thawed, warmed by the bright sun's rays. Ice melted to the North, causing the river to swell and overflow its banks.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Snows melted to rush down rutted roads like gurgling brooks. A child's toy boat could be launched and quickly carried downstream to the nearest drain-basin.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">In dried up sections of the sidewalks, small boys knelt in the mud for the first marble game of the seasons. Holyoke’s shoe stores advertised a free bag of marbles for every pair of boys' shoes sold.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Jumping ropes, made of braided colors and wooden handles were free gifts to little girls whose mothers bought them a pair of Mary Janes.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">The popular penny-candy store brought out its display of “three p</span><span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">enny” bouncing balls with long rubber bands attached. Sometimes they were used to plop an unsuspecting youngster on the head. The elastics made them quickly retrieved and pocketed before deduction.</span><br />
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<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">College students paraded the campus, class-colored ribbons pinned to their sweaters, in anticipation of the competition basketball or baseball games scheduled ahead.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Pussy-willows were in evidence, the first bouquet to grace the teacher’s desk.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Spring was everywhere!</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">For all the discomfort winter brought, it made up for it, by far, by greener pastures, more fertile soil, more abundant growth, in exchange for moisture.</span><br />
<span class="style8" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: medium;">Nature is indeed a severe teacher in keeping a balance between growth and rest.</span><br />
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jminehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16891540525720591135noreply@blogger.com