Judy Shank Cyg's Blog: Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life, page 22
February 12, 2021
Penlas of the Forest
Imagine that you are at the edge of a dark, age-old forest of oak and pine, a field with wildgrass and brambles behind you, the sound of water running from a narrow, rapid creek. Above you, the owl calls.
No one is certain who or what Penlas is, or when awareness of him first appeared in legend or song. Some say that he is a shard of the Holy One Himself, sent to guide and inspire. Other legends believe that Penlas was created from wood and water, earth and sky.
The shifting forest shadows became his color choice in tunic and trousers. His boots were as soft as moss, as dark green as pine needles in the evening light. He sang of starlight and moonlight, of dawn and falling snow. His voice was as soothing as rain against windows, his presence as appealing as sunbeams on an early summer morning, but there was another side of Penlas.
Penlas was more than a master of mornings and beginnings, and the wild music of forest and water. He was also the commander of shadow and endings and the hidden, whether underground or around corners.
Penlas held life and death in his grip, not to bestow, but to understand and accept their bond. He could, however, summon the power of day and night, sunlight and shadow, or answer chance, hear choices, heal sorrow.
Now, imagine, if you can, a girl from the village nearest the old forest that Penlas preferred. Lilybeth was from a family so poor, their goat ate better than they did.
Lilybeth and her grandmother kept the family from starving by their skill with beekeeping and honey-making. Lilybeth’s honeycombs produced a fresher, sweeter, smoother honey than the mêl from the meillionen in Penlas’ fields, than the mêl from the wild afallen trees in his clearing. Penlas was partial to honey, so he visited the village to acquire some of the sweetness.
Penlas was tall and lean, if strong in muscle and will, and the young beekeeper was small, lithe, dark of hair. She stared up at the mysterious stranger in the morning shadows of her garden, unafraid, curious. Penlas saw summer afternoons in her face, forest evenings in her eyes, and a new sensation touched him when she raised her eyebrows and asked his business. ‘Barter,’ he said, ‘for honey.’
Lilybeth felt a thrill at the sound of his voice, and noticed that the presence of the stranger had not disturbed her bees, but that they hummed in a kind of contentment. Lilybeth knew her bees as friends, and they responded in kind.
‘My family is hungry every day,’ she said. ‘What is your exchange?’ ‘Agrimony,’ Penlas said. Lilybeth pointed. ‘As you see, I grow this already.’ Penlas smiled. ‘And rhosyn-glas agrimony?’ The girl gasped. Rare, valuable, and a powerful healing herb for honey? ‘I would see this magical exchange for myself,’ she said. Penlas nodded and stepped into the shadows.
He did return with the herb and carried away honey, but carried away, as well, a warm memory of green eyes and dark hair and bold spirit. He returned often, at first, for more honey, but also invited Lilybeth to his forest clearing to gather the valuable herb for herself. They walked through his world, shared their thoughts and their hearts.
Penlas was not mortal, so outlived his cherished, spirited beekeeper, though she lived a long and happy life. Loss became part of his shadow, yet longing can open many doors, and love, once given, ripples out with an energy all its own.
He wasn’t always alone, because one day he met Camri, and by that time, he’d learned a trick or two about time.
No one is certain who or what Penlas is, or when awareness of him first appeared in legend or song. Some say that he is a shard of the Holy One Himself, sent to guide and inspire. Other legends believe that Penlas was created from wood and water, earth and sky.
The shifting forest shadows became his color choice in tunic and trousers. His boots were as soft as moss, as dark green as pine needles in the evening light. He sang of starlight and moonlight, of dawn and falling snow. His voice was as soothing as rain against windows, his presence as appealing as sunbeams on an early summer morning, but there was another side of Penlas.
Penlas was more than a master of mornings and beginnings, and the wild music of forest and water. He was also the commander of shadow and endings and the hidden, whether underground or around corners.
Penlas held life and death in his grip, not to bestow, but to understand and accept their bond. He could, however, summon the power of day and night, sunlight and shadow, or answer chance, hear choices, heal sorrow.
Now, imagine, if you can, a girl from the village nearest the old forest that Penlas preferred. Lilybeth was from a family so poor, their goat ate better than they did.
Lilybeth and her grandmother kept the family from starving by their skill with beekeeping and honey-making. Lilybeth’s honeycombs produced a fresher, sweeter, smoother honey than the mêl from the meillionen in Penlas’ fields, than the mêl from the wild afallen trees in his clearing. Penlas was partial to honey, so he visited the village to acquire some of the sweetness.
Penlas was tall and lean, if strong in muscle and will, and the young beekeeper was small, lithe, dark of hair. She stared up at the mysterious stranger in the morning shadows of her garden, unafraid, curious. Penlas saw summer afternoons in her face, forest evenings in her eyes, and a new sensation touched him when she raised her eyebrows and asked his business. ‘Barter,’ he said, ‘for honey.’
Lilybeth felt a thrill at the sound of his voice, and noticed that the presence of the stranger had not disturbed her bees, but that they hummed in a kind of contentment. Lilybeth knew her bees as friends, and they responded in kind.
‘My family is hungry every day,’ she said. ‘What is your exchange?’ ‘Agrimony,’ Penlas said. Lilybeth pointed. ‘As you see, I grow this already.’ Penlas smiled. ‘And rhosyn-glas agrimony?’ The girl gasped. Rare, valuable, and a powerful healing herb for honey? ‘I would see this magical exchange for myself,’ she said. Penlas nodded and stepped into the shadows.
He did return with the herb and carried away honey, but carried away, as well, a warm memory of green eyes and dark hair and bold spirit. He returned often, at first, for more honey, but also invited Lilybeth to his forest clearing to gather the valuable herb for herself. They walked through his world, shared their thoughts and their hearts.
Penlas was not mortal, so outlived his cherished, spirited beekeeper, though she lived a long and happy life. Loss became part of his shadow, yet longing can open many doors, and love, once given, ripples out with an energy all its own.
He wasn’t always alone, because one day he met Camri, and by that time, he’d learned a trick or two about time.
February 5, 2021
10 Movie Quotes That Changed My Life
1. “Never give up, never surrender.” (Galaxy Quest)
2. “Nobody gets out of here without singing the blues.” (Adventures in Babysitting)
3. “Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.” (Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back)
4. “Never tell me the odds.” (Star Wars: A New Hope)
5. “A vision that tells us that we belong to something that is greater than ourselves, that we are not, that none of us are alone.” (Contact)
6. “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong hills.” (Out of Africa)
7. “I have enjoyed the journey. The happiness of these days, I would have never known living in the castle. I’ve seen people as they are, without pretense. I’ve seen their beauty and their ugliness with my own eyes.” (The Hidden Fortress)
8. “We never left the Garden. Look about you. This is paradise. It's hard to find, I'll grant you, but it is here. Under our feet, beneath the surface, all around us is everything we want. The earth is shining under the soot.” (They Might Be Giants)
9. “Things change. Always do. You'll get your chance! Important thing is, when it comes, you've got to grab with both hands, and hold on tight!” (The Last Starfighter)
10. “The Force will be with you, always.” (Star Wars: A New Hope)
2. “Nobody gets out of here without singing the blues.” (Adventures in Babysitting)
3. “Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter.” (Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back)
4. “Never tell me the odds.” (Star Wars: A New Hope)
5. “A vision that tells us that we belong to something that is greater than ourselves, that we are not, that none of us are alone.” (Contact)
6. “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong hills.” (Out of Africa)
7. “I have enjoyed the journey. The happiness of these days, I would have never known living in the castle. I’ve seen people as they are, without pretense. I’ve seen their beauty and their ugliness with my own eyes.” (The Hidden Fortress)
8. “We never left the Garden. Look about you. This is paradise. It's hard to find, I'll grant you, but it is here. Under our feet, beneath the surface, all around us is everything we want. The earth is shining under the soot.” (They Might Be Giants)
9. “Things change. Always do. You'll get your chance! Important thing is, when it comes, you've got to grab with both hands, and hold on tight!” (The Last Starfighter)
10. “The Force will be with you, always.” (Star Wars: A New Hope)
January 29, 2021
Faults, Fantasy, and Transformation
Can you bless your faults and failings? Can you be thankful for defects and blunders?
At the Court of Wisdom, the Poet agrees to accept help from the council. Corliss, representing nurturing and sacrifice, gives her sorrow to provide support to others. Another gives her difficulty to find internal courage.
Crescent encourages creativity with longing and desire. Justice offers confusion and choices.
The Poet complains that these gifts are not the help she’d ask for, and is excused due to ignorance.
When she requests encouragement, the Regent gives her a strong sense of purpose with enough stamina to achieve hers. She adds the art of happiness but warns that the Poet must learn to recognize it for herself.
The Poet turns to the Fool.
“My friend,” he says, “I wish for you a sense of mischief, a zest for life, and satisfaction in every endeavor. To assist, I will walk alongside you, if you wish.”
The Poet is dismissed with the Regent’s blessing, “Remember that the blessings of this Court go with you. You carry the future in your heart and hands and intent. Work to stay alert and aware and alive.”
The Poet leaves with the Fool promising to follow, since everybody needs a good Fool in their life, and their world is waiting.
We all need a good Fool in our lives. We learn compassion for others by our own mistakes and sorrows and difficulties. Can we learn to recognize the art of happiness, as well?
Do you recognize the Wise Fool in your life?
At the Court of Wisdom, the Poet agrees to accept help from the council. Corliss, representing nurturing and sacrifice, gives her sorrow to provide support to others. Another gives her difficulty to find internal courage.
Crescent encourages creativity with longing and desire. Justice offers confusion and choices.
The Poet complains that these gifts are not the help she’d ask for, and is excused due to ignorance.
When she requests encouragement, the Regent gives her a strong sense of purpose with enough stamina to achieve hers. She adds the art of happiness but warns that the Poet must learn to recognize it for herself.
The Poet turns to the Fool.
“My friend,” he says, “I wish for you a sense of mischief, a zest for life, and satisfaction in every endeavor. To assist, I will walk alongside you, if you wish.”
The Poet is dismissed with the Regent’s blessing, “Remember that the blessings of this Court go with you. You carry the future in your heart and hands and intent. Work to stay alert and aware and alive.”
The Poet leaves with the Fool promising to follow, since everybody needs a good Fool in their life, and their world is waiting.
We all need a good Fool in our lives. We learn compassion for others by our own mistakes and sorrows and difficulties. Can we learn to recognize the art of happiness, as well?
Do you recognize the Wise Fool in your life?
January 22, 2021
Secret Garden
Did you have a favorite hiding place or haven when you were young? The nook of a tree, inside an overgrown garden, a flat roof or window ledge? Mine was a water oak swamp forest at the end of our street.
The First Woods, as we kids named it, was a well-explored oak, maple, and beech forest, with at least one patch of sassafras, with leaves that tasted like root beer. I named that forest my “Bambi” woods, and savored the paths to the wide field beyond. A tall, old hickory tree stood at the edge of a one-lane dirt road. The nuts were hard to crack, but the meat was delicious, like intense walnuts.
My hideout was in the Second Woods, the swampy, mosquito-infested forest, the forest forbidden by my mother because of muck and isolation. Naturally, my brothers and I went as often as possible, my brothers in the wintertime to skate, as well as during summer for frog catching.
I eagerly waited for the first sound of spring peepers, bundled in my warmest jacket, and headed for the narrow, barely seen path that led to the one tree with a branch low enough and sturdy enough for settling. Ponds and swamps surrounded every winding passageway in the interior. Spring peepers and frogs sang ceaselessly. Mosquitos swarmed, yet there was something magical and mystical about the woods.
As a child, I decided that Merlin played his flute somewhere outside of my hearing. Why Merlin? And why a flute? Part of it was because I associated the Second Woods with one song from the Lerner-Lowe musical “Camelot” … Far from day, far from night, out of time, out of sight, in between earth and sea, we shall fly, follow me… (Alan Jay Lerner), the song sung by Nimue to entice Merlin.
Even now, decades away from those magic spring and summer afternoons, the sound of spring peepers or the sight of a water oak forest, a stream through the woods, wood-surrounded ponds, can bring back the magic.
What’s your secret garden?
The First Woods, as we kids named it, was a well-explored oak, maple, and beech forest, with at least one patch of sassafras, with leaves that tasted like root beer. I named that forest my “Bambi” woods, and savored the paths to the wide field beyond. A tall, old hickory tree stood at the edge of a one-lane dirt road. The nuts were hard to crack, but the meat was delicious, like intense walnuts.
My hideout was in the Second Woods, the swampy, mosquito-infested forest, the forest forbidden by my mother because of muck and isolation. Naturally, my brothers and I went as often as possible, my brothers in the wintertime to skate, as well as during summer for frog catching.
I eagerly waited for the first sound of spring peepers, bundled in my warmest jacket, and headed for the narrow, barely seen path that led to the one tree with a branch low enough and sturdy enough for settling. Ponds and swamps surrounded every winding passageway in the interior. Spring peepers and frogs sang ceaselessly. Mosquitos swarmed, yet there was something magical and mystical about the woods.
As a child, I decided that Merlin played his flute somewhere outside of my hearing. Why Merlin? And why a flute? Part of it was because I associated the Second Woods with one song from the Lerner-Lowe musical “Camelot” … Far from day, far from night, out of time, out of sight, in between earth and sea, we shall fly, follow me… (Alan Jay Lerner), the song sung by Nimue to entice Merlin.
Even now, decades away from those magic spring and summer afternoons, the sound of spring peepers or the sight of a water oak forest, a stream through the woods, wood-surrounded ponds, can bring back the magic.
What’s your secret garden?
January 15, 2021
Scrubland Heaven
When ancient Florida was sea and high hills, sand ridges formed from eroding mountains farther north. Eventually these islands collected vegetation, and when the sea levels dropped, scrubland was left.
I walk on land a million years old.
Cactus and scrub holly and palmetto make strolling difficult. Scrub live oaks shade the sides of my yard. Myrtle oak and Chapman’s oak and sandhill oak form twisted woods covered with lichen. I say palmetto, but even those are scrub or saw. Florida rosemary has a pretty name, but the shrub is part of the dull landscape.
I love the Ridge. My favorite yard tree is the turkey oak, tall and wide enough to attract birds—cardinals, mourning doves, crows, titmice, even local hawks, rust and gold in color.
My house is surrounded by sand pine and oak scrub and longleaf pines. Wild lawn grass blends into the fields. On clear nights, I stand in my front yard and stare at the fuzzy, glowing arm of our galaxy.
I tried planting a variety of local flowers and shrubs, but only sword ferns survived. I transplanted better and am thriving here.
A scattering of cardinal notes
Drift through my open window.
Turkey oak leaves rattle, shimmer,
Early sunlight flickers like candles.
Lazy and sweet, the morning sighs
And whispers of tender moments.
The perfume of my robust coffee
Momentarily draws me from my page,
The ephemeral with the everlasting.
I walk on land a million years old.
Cactus and scrub holly and palmetto make strolling difficult. Scrub live oaks shade the sides of my yard. Myrtle oak and Chapman’s oak and sandhill oak form twisted woods covered with lichen. I say palmetto, but even those are scrub or saw. Florida rosemary has a pretty name, but the shrub is part of the dull landscape.
I love the Ridge. My favorite yard tree is the turkey oak, tall and wide enough to attract birds—cardinals, mourning doves, crows, titmice, even local hawks, rust and gold in color.
My house is surrounded by sand pine and oak scrub and longleaf pines. Wild lawn grass blends into the fields. On clear nights, I stand in my front yard and stare at the fuzzy, glowing arm of our galaxy.
I tried planting a variety of local flowers and shrubs, but only sword ferns survived. I transplanted better and am thriving here.
A scattering of cardinal notes
Drift through my open window.
Turkey oak leaves rattle, shimmer,
Early sunlight flickers like candles.
Lazy and sweet, the morning sighs
And whispers of tender moments.
The perfume of my robust coffee
Momentarily draws me from my page,
The ephemeral with the everlasting.
January 10, 2021
Johnny Appleseed
I’ve always been fascinated by Johnny Appleseed. Haven’t you? The Disney version, singing and whistling, with animal friends, stayed in my memory with the bright, magical song “The Lord is Good to Me,” in Dennis Day’s sweet voice. Like many mythical heroes, Johnny Appleseed is a mixture of fact and embellishment.
Like you. Like me.
John Chapman was born in 1774 in Massachusetts, and planted nurseries of cider apples from Pennsylvania to Illinois for hard cider, useful to pioneers who followed, since water wasn’t always available. I like to picture him tossing apple seeds, but he planned his nurseries and fenced them, leaving someone to look after them, returning to check progress.
An amazing man of robust endurance and strong beliefs, his doctrine of God’s love for all believers, and the purpose of religion doing only good to others must have been a shake-up to Puritan Christians. He was an excellent preacher and story teller, and lived his faith with passion, leaving behind apples and tracts by Emmanuel Swedenborg, whose beliefs he cherished. He died of pneumonia at 71, and his legend grew quickly into the Johnny Appleseed known by the rest of us.
Planting apple trees, whether his actual nurseries or the legendary seed-tossing, is much like sharing stories, life experiences, hobbies, and writing. You love to read, proved by your interest in books and Goodreads. I love to read and write. That makes us each a Johnny Appleseed. The question is—what are we planting?
Let’s make it memorable.
Let’s make it beneficial.
Let’s plant healthy seeds and branching trees.
Like you. Like me.
John Chapman was born in 1774 in Massachusetts, and planted nurseries of cider apples from Pennsylvania to Illinois for hard cider, useful to pioneers who followed, since water wasn’t always available. I like to picture him tossing apple seeds, but he planned his nurseries and fenced them, leaving someone to look after them, returning to check progress.
An amazing man of robust endurance and strong beliefs, his doctrine of God’s love for all believers, and the purpose of religion doing only good to others must have been a shake-up to Puritan Christians. He was an excellent preacher and story teller, and lived his faith with passion, leaving behind apples and tracts by Emmanuel Swedenborg, whose beliefs he cherished. He died of pneumonia at 71, and his legend grew quickly into the Johnny Appleseed known by the rest of us.
Planting apple trees, whether his actual nurseries or the legendary seed-tossing, is much like sharing stories, life experiences, hobbies, and writing. You love to read, proved by your interest in books and Goodreads. I love to read and write. That makes us each a Johnny Appleseed. The question is—what are we planting?
Let’s make it memorable.
Let’s make it beneficial.
Let’s plant healthy seeds and branching trees.
January 2, 2021
10 Favorite Letter Books
Favorite Stories-as-Letters Books (Epistolary)
1. Dear Enemy (Jean Webster)
The sequel to “Daddy Long Legs” tells the story of socialite Sallie McBride who’s put in charge of an orphanage much like the one our earlier heroine Judy knew. Throw in a crusty Scotch doctor, a staff unwilling to change, and endearing orphans, well-behaved and otherwise, and I wanted to story to continue past the last page, a very satisfying last page, by the way. Love these letters, illustrated by the author with sketches that enhance the events.
2. Daddy Long Legs (Jean Webster)
The orphan “Judy” (as she calls herself) is sent to college by an unnamed benefactor who asks only that she write him letters describing her progress. Her letters pour out in delight and gratitude with such detail, you’ll love her as much as she loves her new life. For all ages, a story of discovery and love of life, and a love story.
3. Sorcery & Cecelia (Patricia C Wrede and Caroline Stevermer)
These two fantasy authors decided to try their hand at “the letter game,” a method of writing where each author creates a character and gives the growing story twists and detail, alternately. They wrote letters back and forth from their characters. Mix magic and spells and humor and romance, and I gobbled up every scene. Enjoyed the sequels, as well. Set in Regency England, the touch of costumes and customs and manners adds to the pleasure.
4. 84 Charing Cross Road (Helene Hanff)
An author in New York City writes to a small bookshop in London for classics and hard-to-find books. She’s forthright, outspoken, and very funny, and a friendship slowly grows between her and the book dealer, and finally, the entire shop and the dealer’s family. Told in the letters back and forth. Loved the book. Loved the movie.
5. Up the Down Staircase (Bel Kaufman)
An idealistic new teacher is hired at a run-down inner city high school, and must learn to deal with troubled students, mature beyond their years because of their life experiences, a garden of coworkers, and a cold administration. Told in dialogue, letters, memos, notes as Sylvia Barrett teaches and learns, offering and accepting the gift of each student as they begin to trust her. No wonder this book was, is, and will be a classic.
6. Griffin and Sabine (Nick Bantok)
A time travel mystery with notecards and letters that you can pull from envelopes, covered with original artwork from the characters (the author) telling the mistimed, growing friendship and romance between two people who can’t seem to meet at the same place at the same time. Fascinating story, original, unique. Loved this book, enjoyed the two that followed.
7. The Documents in the Case (Dorothy Sayers)
I didn’t think I’d enjoy this mystery as much as I did. I do like Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter mysteries, but my favorite epistolary novels are light-hearted, yet trying to learn the murderer from the hints and letters was fascinating.
8. The Color Purple (Alice Walker)
Alice Walker says, “No one is exempt from the possibility of a conscious connection to All That Is. Not the poor. Not the suffering. Not the writer sitting in the open field. This is the book in which I was able to express a new spiritual awareness,” and she does a shining job through the honest sharing of Celie to God, to her sister. Celie, a quiet, strong hero through abuse and neglect, develops an understanding of love and pleasure, and to a happy ending. Powerful. Unforgettable. Beautiful.
9. Letters from Skye (Jessica Brockmole)
Like other favorite books made up of letters, I love to reread this one. A phobic poet on the Island of Skye answers her first fan letter from a man in Illinois, and so their friendship and personal growth begin. A fine love story, through the war, through wishes and longing and disappointment, to a satisfying ending. Loved the voices of the two characters.
10. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows)
A favorite book of my beloved aunt. She passed me her copy, and promptly bought another for herself. The letters are from various people to kindred souls, and the story unwinds around the war, survival, celebration, and a love for books, reading, writing. Not to be missed.
I’m immediately attracted to a book set up as letters, whether the running experiences of one character, or crossing back and forth to others. There’s something fresh and immediate and real about a voice through a letter.
What are your favorite “letter” books? Did I miss something that absolutely must be on the list? Would love to learn about more.
1. Dear Enemy (Jean Webster)
The sequel to “Daddy Long Legs” tells the story of socialite Sallie McBride who’s put in charge of an orphanage much like the one our earlier heroine Judy knew. Throw in a crusty Scotch doctor, a staff unwilling to change, and endearing orphans, well-behaved and otherwise, and I wanted to story to continue past the last page, a very satisfying last page, by the way. Love these letters, illustrated by the author with sketches that enhance the events.
2. Daddy Long Legs (Jean Webster)
The orphan “Judy” (as she calls herself) is sent to college by an unnamed benefactor who asks only that she write him letters describing her progress. Her letters pour out in delight and gratitude with such detail, you’ll love her as much as she loves her new life. For all ages, a story of discovery and love of life, and a love story.
3. Sorcery & Cecelia (Patricia C Wrede and Caroline Stevermer)
These two fantasy authors decided to try their hand at “the letter game,” a method of writing where each author creates a character and gives the growing story twists and detail, alternately. They wrote letters back and forth from their characters. Mix magic and spells and humor and romance, and I gobbled up every scene. Enjoyed the sequels, as well. Set in Regency England, the touch of costumes and customs and manners adds to the pleasure.
4. 84 Charing Cross Road (Helene Hanff)
An author in New York City writes to a small bookshop in London for classics and hard-to-find books. She’s forthright, outspoken, and very funny, and a friendship slowly grows between her and the book dealer, and finally, the entire shop and the dealer’s family. Told in the letters back and forth. Loved the book. Loved the movie.
5. Up the Down Staircase (Bel Kaufman)
An idealistic new teacher is hired at a run-down inner city high school, and must learn to deal with troubled students, mature beyond their years because of their life experiences, a garden of coworkers, and a cold administration. Told in dialogue, letters, memos, notes as Sylvia Barrett teaches and learns, offering and accepting the gift of each student as they begin to trust her. No wonder this book was, is, and will be a classic.
6. Griffin and Sabine (Nick Bantok)
A time travel mystery with notecards and letters that you can pull from envelopes, covered with original artwork from the characters (the author) telling the mistimed, growing friendship and romance between two people who can’t seem to meet at the same place at the same time. Fascinating story, original, unique. Loved this book, enjoyed the two that followed.
7. The Documents in the Case (Dorothy Sayers)
I didn’t think I’d enjoy this mystery as much as I did. I do like Dorothy Sayers’ Lord Peter mysteries, but my favorite epistolary novels are light-hearted, yet trying to learn the murderer from the hints and letters was fascinating.
8. The Color Purple (Alice Walker)
Alice Walker says, “No one is exempt from the possibility of a conscious connection to All That Is. Not the poor. Not the suffering. Not the writer sitting in the open field. This is the book in which I was able to express a new spiritual awareness,” and she does a shining job through the honest sharing of Celie to God, to her sister. Celie, a quiet, strong hero through abuse and neglect, develops an understanding of love and pleasure, and to a happy ending. Powerful. Unforgettable. Beautiful.
9. Letters from Skye (Jessica Brockmole)
Like other favorite books made up of letters, I love to reread this one. A phobic poet on the Island of Skye answers her first fan letter from a man in Illinois, and so their friendship and personal growth begin. A fine love story, through the war, through wishes and longing and disappointment, to a satisfying ending. Loved the voices of the two characters.
10. The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society (Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows)
A favorite book of my beloved aunt. She passed me her copy, and promptly bought another for herself. The letters are from various people to kindred souls, and the story unwinds around the war, survival, celebration, and a love for books, reading, writing. Not to be missed.
I’m immediately attracted to a book set up as letters, whether the running experiences of one character, or crossing back and forth to others. There’s something fresh and immediate and real about a voice through a letter.
What are your favorite “letter” books? Did I miss something that absolutely must be on the list? Would love to learn about more.
December 24, 2020
The Night After Christmas
In 1955 Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians produced a Christmas album called “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” with funny renditions of Christmas songs and gorgeous choral versions of carols. In my childhood it was a welcome addition to the Christmas holidays, although my brother and I admitted that we avoided the sadness of the end of one song. The lyrics seemed tragic as a child. Funny. I find them almost comforting now.
Anyone else remember this album?
Regarding the last verse? What do you think? Sad or soothing?
'Tis the night after Christmas, and all
through the house,
Not a creature is stirring, not even a
mouse.
The presents are scattered and broken like
tears,
And St. Nicholas won't come again for a
year.
The children are nestled all snug in their
wee, little beds,
While memories of sugar plums dance in
their wee, little heads.
Mamma in her kerchief, Papa in his cap,
Are settled at last for a long winter's nap.
Anyone else remember this album?
Regarding the last verse? What do you think? Sad or soothing?
'Tis the night after Christmas, and all
through the house,
Not a creature is stirring, not even a
mouse.
The presents are scattered and broken like
tears,
And St. Nicholas won't come again for a
year.
The children are nestled all snug in their
wee, little beds,
While memories of sugar plums dance in
their wee, little heads.
Mamma in her kerchief, Papa in his cap,
Are settled at last for a long winter's nap.
December 18, 2020
Top 10 Can't-Put-Down Books
List of 10 Can’t-Put-Down Books
1. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
Rabbits as heroes? Yet the delicious descriptions of the countryside and habits of rabbits, set in a heroic adventure tale, kept me glued to the story, chapter by chapter, until the impossible to predict and perfect ending. The stories that the rabbits tell each other of their great Rabbit Hero and his sidekick gave the story a luminous inspiration impossible to describe. Do NOT miss this novel. (I listed it first because it is my all-time favorite book.)
2. Loon Feather (Iola Fuller)
To say this novel is early Michigan history of fur trading, set on Mackinac Island, is to miss the magic of Tecumseh’s daughter who describes her life, her family, changes for her people with an awareness and acceptance that develops her quiet strength into a courage that fulfills the prophecies made at her birth. The vision and dignity of Tecumseh shines in this fictional daughter. (This is a book I reread almost yearly.)
3. The Fellowship of the Ring (J. R. R. Tolkien)
This first story in the famous trilogy Lord of the Rings needs no explanation. I was given a well-read paperback in high school, and once I started, I propped textbooks in classes to read behind them, stayed up late, carried the book with me everywhere. The movies focus on the War of the Rings, but Tolkien’s story about the Hobbits’ part in the Great History makes this book (and trilogy) a must read, and one impossible to set down.
4. Twelve Fair Kingdoms (Suzette Haden Elgin)
Funny book, quirky fantasy, and so absorbing and entertaining, I was captivated by the first page. I want to be born a Responsible and have hidden magic at my fingertips, while all the Grannies report to me, and go on a Quest to visit every castle searching for whoever’s determined to stop the Grand Jubilee of the Confederation of Continents. This is the first in a trilogy (with a fourth story later), so I recommend all of them, but the first, told in first-person, will capture you with the voice and personality of Responsible of Brightwater.
5. I Capture the Castle (Dodie Smith)
Found my copy on a library resale table. The title was eye-catching, but any story that begins, “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink,” can only go up or down. Definitely up. Funny, thoughtful, surprising, the author of The Hundred and One Dalmatians wrote a classic that is timeless and filled with humor through the eyes of one memorable Cassandra.
6. Cross Creek (Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings)
Written like an autobiography of MKR’s years in her Cracker house in the semi-tropics of Cross Creek, it flows with poetry and description and love for the people and surroundings. A blend of fiction and fact, it creates a taste of the life she celebrated in The Yearling (among other titles). I’m drawn to reread this book for the luscious detail, the quietly exotic setting, and her masterful story telling.
7. Mary Poppins Opens the Door (P. L. Travers)
My brother and I grew up reading all four Mary Poppins books, (NOT the Disney version of the nanny), and although it’s difficult to choose a favorite, I put the third in the series on this list because it captures the myth and magic present in all the books, with an ending that doesn’t really end. True magic for all ages.
8. The Wind in the Willows (Kenneth Grahame)
In one printing’s foreword, it was mentioned that if a young man gave his beloved a copy of this book, and she returned it or was not impressed, he called off the wedding. Whether we row down the River, or follow the misadventures of Toad, or fear the Wild Wood, there is a spark of divinity and a depth beyond what’s expected from a childhood classic with talking animals. No adult is too old for Mole’s discoveries, the water meadows, and the Piper at the Gates of Dawn.
9. The Diary of a Provincial Lady (E. M. Delafield)
Rachel Johnson writes in the introduction of my copy, “Well done! If I might say so, you have made the perfect selection, for this book is a proper English treat, like a cream tea after a long, muddy country walk.” Laugh-out-loud funny, this story reads like a journal of daily details of family, finances, class levels, and a delight in living. “Exchange customary graceful farewells with host and hostess, saying how much I have enjoyed coming. (Query here suggests itself, as often before: Is it utterly impossible to combine the amenities of civilization with even the minimum of honesty required to satisfy the voice of conscience? Answer still in abeyance at present.) Or “February 28th – Notice, and am gratified by, appearance of large clump of crocuses near the front gate. Should like to make whimsical and charming reference to these, and try to fancy myself as ‘Elizabeth of the German Garden,’ but am interrupted by Cook, saying that the Fish is here, but he’s only brought cod and haddock, and the haddock doesn’t smell any too fresh, so what about cod? Have noticed that Life is like that.” Savor this one for yourself, trust me.
10. Kitchen Table Wisdom (Rachel Naomi Remen)
“Everybody is a story. When I was a child, people sat around kitchen tables and told their stories. We don’t do that so much anymore. Sitting around the table telling stories is not just a way of passing time. It is the way wisdom gets passed along. The stuff that helps us to live a life worth remembering. Despite the awesome powers of technology many of us still do not live very well. We may need to listen to each other’s stories once again,” Rachel Naomi Remen tells us. She offers us stories of people looking for answers, sharing experiences, discovering wisdom. These essays have depth and richness, with a passion for life, for healing, for internal personal strength. Not only am I captivated by the various stories, I’m won by the warm, loving voice of Dr. Remen who counsels cancer patients, children, the dying, and the living. This is a healing book.
These are not my only ten page-turners, but the first group that stood out and called my name. I’d like to hear about yours.
1. Watership Down (Richard Adams)
Rabbits as heroes? Yet the delicious descriptions of the countryside and habits of rabbits, set in a heroic adventure tale, kept me glued to the story, chapter by chapter, until the impossible to predict and perfect ending. The stories that the rabbits tell each other of their great Rabbit Hero and his sidekick gave the story a luminous inspiration impossible to describe. Do NOT miss this novel. (I listed it first because it is my all-time favorite book.)
2. Loon Feather (Iola Fuller)
To say this novel is early Michigan history of fur trading, set on Mackinac Island, is to miss the magic of Tecumseh’s daughter who describes her life, her family, changes for her people with an awareness and acceptance that develops her quiet strength into a courage that fulfills the prophecies made at her birth. The vision and dignity of Tecumseh shines in this fictional daughter. (This is a book I reread almost yearly.)
3. The Fellowship of the Ring (J. R. R. Tolkien)
This first story in the famous trilogy Lord of the Rings needs no explanation. I was given a well-read paperback in high school, and once I started, I propped textbooks in classes to read behind them, stayed up late, carried the book with me everywhere. The movies focus on the War of the Rings, but Tolkien’s story about the Hobbits’ part in the Great History makes this book (and trilogy) a must read, and one impossible to set down.
4. Twelve Fair Kingdoms (Suzette Haden Elgin)
Funny book, quirky fantasy, and so absorbing and entertaining, I was captivated by the first page. I want to be born a Responsible and have hidden magic at my fingertips, while all the Grannies report to me, and go on a Quest to visit every castle searching for whoever’s determined to stop the Grand Jubilee of the Confederation of Continents. This is the first in a trilogy (with a fourth story later), so I recommend all of them, but the first, told in first-person, will capture you with the voice and personality of Responsible of Brightwater.
5. I Capture the Castle (Dodie Smith)
Found my copy on a library resale table. The title was eye-catching, but any story that begins, “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink,” can only go up or down. Definitely up. Funny, thoughtful, surprising, the author of The Hundred and One Dalmatians wrote a classic that is timeless and filled with humor through the eyes of one memorable Cassandra.
6. Cross Creek (Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings)
Written like an autobiography of MKR’s years in her Cracker house in the semi-tropics of Cross Creek, it flows with poetry and description and love for the people and surroundings. A blend of fiction and fact, it creates a taste of the life she celebrated in The Yearling (among other titles). I’m drawn to reread this book for the luscious detail, the quietly exotic setting, and her masterful story telling.
7. Mary Poppins Opens the Door (P. L. Travers)
My brother and I grew up reading all four Mary Poppins books, (NOT the Disney version of the nanny), and although it’s difficult to choose a favorite, I put the third in the series on this list because it captures the myth and magic present in all the books, with an ending that doesn’t really end. True magic for all ages.
8. The Wind in the Willows (Kenneth Grahame)
In one printing’s foreword, it was mentioned that if a young man gave his beloved a copy of this book, and she returned it or was not impressed, he called off the wedding. Whether we row down the River, or follow the misadventures of Toad, or fear the Wild Wood, there is a spark of divinity and a depth beyond what’s expected from a childhood classic with talking animals. No adult is too old for Mole’s discoveries, the water meadows, and the Piper at the Gates of Dawn.
9. The Diary of a Provincial Lady (E. M. Delafield)
Rachel Johnson writes in the introduction of my copy, “Well done! If I might say so, you have made the perfect selection, for this book is a proper English treat, like a cream tea after a long, muddy country walk.” Laugh-out-loud funny, this story reads like a journal of daily details of family, finances, class levels, and a delight in living. “Exchange customary graceful farewells with host and hostess, saying how much I have enjoyed coming. (Query here suggests itself, as often before: Is it utterly impossible to combine the amenities of civilization with even the minimum of honesty required to satisfy the voice of conscience? Answer still in abeyance at present.) Or “February 28th – Notice, and am gratified by, appearance of large clump of crocuses near the front gate. Should like to make whimsical and charming reference to these, and try to fancy myself as ‘Elizabeth of the German Garden,’ but am interrupted by Cook, saying that the Fish is here, but he’s only brought cod and haddock, and the haddock doesn’t smell any too fresh, so what about cod? Have noticed that Life is like that.” Savor this one for yourself, trust me.
10. Kitchen Table Wisdom (Rachel Naomi Remen)
“Everybody is a story. When I was a child, people sat around kitchen tables and told their stories. We don’t do that so much anymore. Sitting around the table telling stories is not just a way of passing time. It is the way wisdom gets passed along. The stuff that helps us to live a life worth remembering. Despite the awesome powers of technology many of us still do not live very well. We may need to listen to each other’s stories once again,” Rachel Naomi Remen tells us. She offers us stories of people looking for answers, sharing experiences, discovering wisdom. These essays have depth and richness, with a passion for life, for healing, for internal personal strength. Not only am I captivated by the various stories, I’m won by the warm, loving voice of Dr. Remen who counsels cancer patients, children, the dying, and the living. This is a healing book.
These are not my only ten page-turners, but the first group that stood out and called my name. I’d like to hear about yours.
December 12, 2020
Incense, Gold, and Myrrh
There once was a parish so poor the minister feared he would not be able to make the church festive at Christmas. Times were hard, jobs were scarce, and this flock struggled to feed and clothe their families. Still, he thought, there should be some cheer and beauty to celebrate such a wondrous feast.
He bowed his head in prayer as he unwrapped the cracked and familiar Nativity figures, and sent his own meager offering for as many candles as his pennies could buy for the Christmas services.
On the last Sunday of Advent, he begged his congregation to forgo the traditional straw for the Baby’s manger. Instead, he asked, would they bring their needs and prayers written on strips of paper? The more needs they shared, the softer the Babe’s bed would be, and Who better to hear the prayers of His people than their Savior?
On Christmas Eve, several men in the village helped the minister cut and carry pine and fir branches to fill the tiny church with sweet scent. As the evening service began, the families processed up the aisle to line the manger with their strips of paper. Every member, young and old, offered some longing or necessity penned and scratched and written, sometimes with great effort. The manger bed was indeed soft and full when the minister laid the Infant in His bed at the close of worship.
Next morning, after a hasty slice of Christmas nut bread and tea, the minister hurried to the church to preach his carefully-prepared sermon on gratitude, and to celebrate the Holy Birth with his community. How disappointed he was to see the papers in the manger gone and replaced by the usual straw, but he hurried to light the candles and ring the bell that began the service.
After they’d sung the opening carol and he’d given his welcome, he beseeched his listeners to recall the Christmas story and its message in their lives, for gratitude was a choice as well as a gift. He would pray for better times for them all, he said, and closed by reminding them to offer charity for everyone in God’s fold.
As was his custom, he invited anyone in the congregation who chose to do so share any prayers in their hearts this Christmas morning, and bowed his head to pray silently with them.
To his surprise, one voice after another spoke up to lead the rest in prayer. Nor did the speakers hesitate or whisper, as was usual, but called out each petition in clear voices, with the whole gathering responding with a resounding Amen. And such prayers, too, for new employment for Master John to feed his growing brood, for a new walking stick or better legs for old Granny Marabelle, for a doctor’s care for the sickly newborn baby Abel, for dolls and sleds for the children, and white flour and teas for the parents. There were prayers for good harvest and warm fires, for groaning larders and better health. In spite of himself, the minister lifted his head and opened his eyes.
The church flickered with candlelight. He gazed out in amazement as each prayer was read from a tiny slip of paper, and another candle was lit with each petition. Somehow, his people had managed to pick up the petitions and replace them with straw, and were reading each other’s. His eyes blurred until the church seemed filled with light and joy.
For the closing hymn, he chose Ding Dong Merrily on High, the merriest song he could think of, to celebrate the joy of a community who understood the spirit of Christmas and the gift of sharing.
“May God bless you and send you a Happy New Year…”
He bowed his head in prayer as he unwrapped the cracked and familiar Nativity figures, and sent his own meager offering for as many candles as his pennies could buy for the Christmas services.
On the last Sunday of Advent, he begged his congregation to forgo the traditional straw for the Baby’s manger. Instead, he asked, would they bring their needs and prayers written on strips of paper? The more needs they shared, the softer the Babe’s bed would be, and Who better to hear the prayers of His people than their Savior?
On Christmas Eve, several men in the village helped the minister cut and carry pine and fir branches to fill the tiny church with sweet scent. As the evening service began, the families processed up the aisle to line the manger with their strips of paper. Every member, young and old, offered some longing or necessity penned and scratched and written, sometimes with great effort. The manger bed was indeed soft and full when the minister laid the Infant in His bed at the close of worship.
Next morning, after a hasty slice of Christmas nut bread and tea, the minister hurried to the church to preach his carefully-prepared sermon on gratitude, and to celebrate the Holy Birth with his community. How disappointed he was to see the papers in the manger gone and replaced by the usual straw, but he hurried to light the candles and ring the bell that began the service.
After they’d sung the opening carol and he’d given his welcome, he beseeched his listeners to recall the Christmas story and its message in their lives, for gratitude was a choice as well as a gift. He would pray for better times for them all, he said, and closed by reminding them to offer charity for everyone in God’s fold.
As was his custom, he invited anyone in the congregation who chose to do so share any prayers in their hearts this Christmas morning, and bowed his head to pray silently with them.
To his surprise, one voice after another spoke up to lead the rest in prayer. Nor did the speakers hesitate or whisper, as was usual, but called out each petition in clear voices, with the whole gathering responding with a resounding Amen. And such prayers, too, for new employment for Master John to feed his growing brood, for a new walking stick or better legs for old Granny Marabelle, for a doctor’s care for the sickly newborn baby Abel, for dolls and sleds for the children, and white flour and teas for the parents. There were prayers for good harvest and warm fires, for groaning larders and better health. In spite of himself, the minister lifted his head and opened his eyes.
The church flickered with candlelight. He gazed out in amazement as each prayer was read from a tiny slip of paper, and another candle was lit with each petition. Somehow, his people had managed to pick up the petitions and replace them with straw, and were reading each other’s. His eyes blurred until the church seemed filled with light and joy.
For the closing hymn, he chose Ding Dong Merrily on High, the merriest song he could think of, to celebrate the joy of a community who understood the spirit of Christmas and the gift of sharing.
“May God bless you and send you a Happy New Year…”
Fantasy, Books, and Daily Life
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