Happy New Year!
Our New Year's bonfire is quickly approaching. We light the fire tomorrow evening just after dark, and keep it going well into New Year's Day.
Each year we ask friends and family to send troubles to burn in the fire, and this year we continue the tradition. If you haven't sent troubles to be burned yet, now's the time to send them along. We've not gotten many this year, a hopeful sign that things are going well for those we love.
Feel free to email a simple "burn this" message, and we'll be sure your troubles, whatever they may be, go up in smoke. And please forward to anyone you think needs a place to get rid of a few troubles.
With hope for the coming year, and a joyful heart,
Granny Sue
Monday, December 31, 2007
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Food, Friends, Family and Fun
Weekend: Fiddler by the fire...
Friend Odie Parkins plays some tunes late Saturday night
Redbird in the pear tree (you can't see them, but there were five cardinals in the tree, waiting for us to leave so they could continue their breakfast)...
Who is that little Druid beside Jared's Jeep? Jared and friend Taylor and Aaron spent a long chilly day installing a new radio in Jared's wheels, and Michaela visited with a tall sunflower stalk that looked very like a wooden staff...
Friend Odie Parkins plays some tunes late Saturday night
Redbird in the pear tree (you can't see them, but there were five cardinals in the tree, waiting for us to leave so they could continue their breakfast)...
Jaime knitting as I cooked breakfast for the second time for late-rising and late-arriving teenagers. Michaela helped Mommy (oh yeah...)
James with his two favorite Christmas presents--goofy glasses and a Whoopie cushion. The Whoopie cushion sustained a blowout, and in true mountaineer fashion, we repaired it with, what else, duct tape! (I could have saved a lot of money; could have bought him ten Whoopie cushions and he'd have been on top of the world)...
Raven trying out James' shades...
And Tigger getting some loving from Michaela...
Who is that little Druid beside Jared's Jeep? Jared and friend Taylor and Aaron spent a long chilly day installing a new radio in Jared's wheels, and Michaela visited with a tall sunflower stalk that looked very like a wooden staff...and on the porch, very muddy pink hikers testify to a wet, busy day outside.
Corn and Cheese Chowder
This is all that was left tonight of a large pot of delicious chowder
I tend to not be exact with proportions when cooking, so all of these ingredients can be considered "abouts." Adjust to suit your own taste.
One quart (32 oz) of canned or frozen corn
16 oz of chicken broth, or 2 chicken boullion cubes and 1 pint water
1 cup water
Bring corn, water and broth to a boil. Then add:
1-2 cups chopped celery
1 cup chopped onion
4 cups potatoes, cut into 1" pieces
1 tsp dried chopped garlic, or 1 clove of garlic, chopped
1/2 tsp crushed red pepper
1/2 tsp ground black pepper
1 tsp salt
Simmer until the vegetables are soft. Then add:
1 quart of milk (I use 2%)
1 or 2 cups grated cheddar cheese
Stir until the cheese is melted and the soup is hot all through.
This recipe made enough for 4 men with healthy, outside-all-day appetites, 2 women and 2 children, with about a quart left over to enjoy tomorrow for lunch.
A Possum Tale
A conversation on Storytell reminded me of this less-than-stellar moment in my dogs' history:
Two years ago Larry was working away from home. My youngest son Tommy was still living at home, but one evening while he was out, there was an awful ruckus down in the chicken house.
"Shoot!" I said. It was dark and cold and raining and I did not want to drag out in the bad weather to see what the problem was. So I walked out on the deck and hollered. All got quiet and I went back to the fireside and my book.
A few minutes later, the noise started again--chickens sqawking, flying around. I deaded the walk down there--it's a slippery slope literally and I have fallen more than once trying to negotiate that hill in the dark. So this time I took the old foxhorn, really a cowhorn made to use to cll foxhounds by my late neighbor Mr. Winemiller. I gave it a mighty blow and instantly the ruckus stopped. I went back inside--but of course as soon as I closed the door, hens started squawking.
I sighed. Where were my dogs? They are usually on to anything stirring around the place but on this cold wet night they were nowhere in sight. I didn't have a flashlight that worked so I grabbed my car keys and went out to the car. I moved it to a spot where I could see in the chicken yard, but there was nothing moving except one soaked hen (and a sorrier sight there can't be except for a wet cat).
Everything was quiet once again and I went inside. But within minutes, I had to go back out. This time I moved the car again, and in the light of the headlights I gingerly picked my way down to the coop. When I got there, I shouted, "What the hell's going on in there?" (I was cussin' agravated by this time.)
At that moment out the chicken house door waddled a fat possum. He didn't pay me any mind, but this time I yelled loudly for my dogs, and lo and behold they came running. Tigger saw the possum and
tore through the wire fence to get at him. But the possum--played possum. He dropped as dead as could be to the ground. Tigger sniffed a few times, looked at me in a disgusted way and came back through the fence.
Tigger the Intrepid Goofball
"Tigger, you dummy (Okay, I didn't say dummy) that possum isn't dead!" But he didn't listen at all.
"Raven, go git it!" Raven, my black Lab, tore through the fence; she apparently had more sense than the Golden, and grabbed that ol' possum and hauled him out of there. I closed the yard door to the coop and told Raven what a good girl she was. She wagged her tail--and dropped the possum!
Raven the Warrior Queen
So of course, Tigger picked it up and started prancing around and growling like he'd killed it. I groaned aloud then, because I knew what would happen--he'd carry it around a while, then get bored because it was unresponsive and drop it. The possum would bide his time and escape when the dogs left.
Since I don't shoot (being left-handed and right-eyed you can see why) I knew that possum had lived to see another day.
Two years ago Larry was working away from home. My youngest son Tommy was still living at home, but one evening while he was out, there was an awful ruckus down in the chicken house.
"Shoot!" I said. It was dark and cold and raining and I did not want to drag out in the bad weather to see what the problem was. So I walked out on the deck and hollered. All got quiet and I went back to the fireside and my book.
A few minutes later, the noise started again--chickens sqawking, flying around. I deaded the walk down there--it's a slippery slope literally and I have fallen more than once trying to negotiate that hill in the dark. So this time I took the old foxhorn, really a cowhorn made to use to cll foxhounds by my late neighbor Mr. Winemiller. I gave it a mighty blow and instantly the ruckus stopped. I went back inside--but of course as soon as I closed the door, hens started squawking.
I sighed. Where were my dogs? They are usually on to anything stirring around the place but on this cold wet night they were nowhere in sight. I didn't have a flashlight that worked so I grabbed my car keys and went out to the car. I moved it to a spot where I could see in the chicken yard, but there was nothing moving except one soaked hen (and a sorrier sight there can't be except for a wet cat).
Everything was quiet once again and I went inside. But within minutes, I had to go back out. This time I moved the car again, and in the light of the headlights I gingerly picked my way down to the coop. When I got there, I shouted, "What the hell's going on in there?" (I was cussin' agravated by this time.)
At that moment out the chicken house door waddled a fat possum. He didn't pay me any mind, but this time I yelled loudly for my dogs, and lo and behold they came running. Tigger saw the possum and
tore through the wire fence to get at him. But the possum--played possum. He dropped as dead as could be to the ground. Tigger sniffed a few times, looked at me in a disgusted way and came back through the fence.Tigger the Intrepid Goofball
"Tigger, you dummy (Okay, I didn't say dummy) that possum isn't dead!" But he didn't listen at all.
"Raven, go git it!" Raven, my black Lab, tore through the fence; she apparently had more sense than the Golden, and grabbed that ol' possum and hauled him out of there. I closed the yard door to the coop and told Raven what a good girl she was. She wagged her tail--and dropped the possum!Raven the Warrior Queen
So of course, Tigger picked it up and started prancing around and growling like he'd killed it. I groaned aloud then, because I knew what would happen--he'd carry it around a while, then get bored because it was unresponsive and drop it. The possum would bide his time and escape when the dogs left.
Since I don't shoot (being left-handed and right-eyed you can see why) I knew that possum had lived to see another day.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Winter Wiggle Breaks
Got a storytime to do for preschoolers or kids who have been trapped indoors too long?
Storyteller Karen Chace asked for ideas for an upcoming winter program. I brainstormed a little and came up with these. Remembering the snowy days with my grandchildren in December prompted some ideas.
Snowball Patch
Have the children pick up imaginary snow, make snowballs, and then build snow forts. Have children form a circle. Put "Susie" in the center and circle around as you sing this song, modified from Paw Paw Patch :
Where oh where is dear little Susie
Where oh where is dear little Susie
Where oh where is dear little Susie
Where oh where is dear little Susie
Way down yonder in the snowball patch
Way down yonder in the snowball patch
Stop the circle, and start making imaginary snowballs
Picking up snow and making snowballs
Picking up snow and making snowballs
Picking up snow and making snowballs
Way down yonder in the snowball patch
Way down yonder in the snowball patch
Start stacking snowballs to make pretend snow forts.
Stacking up snow balls, gonna make a snow fort
Stacking up snow balls, gonna make a snow fort
Stacking up snow balls, gonna make a snow fort
Way down yonder in the snowball patch
Way down yonder in the snowball patch
Get back in the circle and go around again, putting another child in the center.
Come on boys, let's play with her
Come on boys, let's play with her
Come on boys, let's play with her
Way down yonder in the snowball patch
Continue for as long as you can stand it!
Another activity is to have children stand up, then pretend to "slide" on ice
Sliding
You're going to fall!
(have them sway back and forth, waving their arms like they are trying to regain balance).
Slide on one foot!
Slide on two feet!
Slide backwards!
Slide bent over!
Slide with a partner!
Slide in a circle!
(join hands and "slide" around in a circle)
Sit back down!
Sit back down!
Build a Snowman
This game relies on imagination. Have children pretend to:
Roll the snow to make the BIG bottom ball of the snowman.
Roll the snow to make the second ball of the snowman.
Roll the snow to make the snowman's head.
Now:
Stack the snow
Smooth the snowman
Stick in eyes, mouth, and carrot nose,
stretch tall to put on his hat.
Do the activities slow first, then fast, then faster.
(That is a big snowflake on my camera lens, not a hole in the picture. Our snowman looked mildly manic by the time we were through with him--then the next day we found that their dog had practiced his aim on our creation, leaving yellow snow!)
You could add a song to this activity, based on the melody of Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush
This is the way we roll the snow, roll the snow, roll the snow
This is the way we roll the snow, we're making a snowman!
This is the way we make his body, make his body, make his body
This is the way we make his body, we're building a snowman!
This is the way we make his body, we're building a snowman!
This is the way we make his head, make his head, make his head,
This is the way we make his head, we're building a snowman!
This is the way we stack him up, stack him up, stack him up
This is the way we stack him up, we're building a snowman!
This is the way we make his face, make his face, make his face
This is the way we make his face, we're building a snowman!
This is the way we put on his hat, put on his hat, put on his hat,
This is the way we put on his hat, we're building a snowman!
Websites:
Author Jan Brett offers stories, games and activities about snow on her fantastic website for children.
Links to all sorts of snow information and activities at Kennesaw State University's snow page.
Books about snow activities:
Winter Day Play! Activities, Crafts, and Games for Indoors and Out by Nancy F. Castaldo offers all sorts of fun for snowy days.
ISBN-13: 978-1556523816
The Kids Winter Handbook by Jane Drake, Ann Love , and Heather Collins (Illustrator) has more things to do and see in winter.
ISBN-13: 978-1550749694
Discover Nature in Winter: Things to Know and Things to Do by Elizabeth P. Lawlor and Pat Archer (Illustrator) introduces children to the wilder side of winter--stargazing, winter shrubs and trees, animal behavior and more.
ISBN-13: 978-0811727198
Remembering Mom: Edna June Connelly
She was the light
of our life,
the foundation
on which
we were built,
the knitter
who held the strings
that kept us
together.
Her voice was a song
with an English melody
and her arms softly
welcomed all sorrows.
She left without warning,
and the hole in our hearts
has not begun to heal.
Two years have passed,
and yet
I still expect
the phone to ring
and hear her asking,
"Hello, dear,
how are you?"
and actually
want to know.
June Connelly:
June 13, 1937-December 28, 2005
of our life,
the foundation
on which
we were built,
the knitter
who held the strings
that kept us
together.
Her voice was a song
with an English melody
and her arms softly
welcomed all sorrows.
She left without warning,
and the hole in our hearts
has not begun to heal.
Two years have passed,
and yet
I still expect
the phone to ring
and hear her asking,
"Hello, dear,
how are you?"
and actually
want to know.
June Connelly:
June 13, 1937-December 28, 2005
Thursday, December 27, 2007
What is Storytelling?
I caught up with the discussion sbout the definition of storytelling at Priscilla Howe's blog, Storytelling Notes.
The discussion has ebbed and flowed for a long time--it was a hot topic when I joined my fist online storytelling listserve in 1996. Just what is this thing we call storytelling? Is it art, craft or skill? Priscilla got me thinking about it again.
Every time I try to answer the above questions, I find myself seeing Ray Hicks. I experienced his simple, straightfoward, classic delivery of a tale on the street in Jonesborough, Tennessee, a few years before he passed away.For me Ray Hicks defined storytelling clearly and eloquently as he told us a Jack tale in front of the old log cabin, standing easily in his bib overall and felt hat.
What was it about that experience that remains so vivid in my mind?
The discussion has ebbed and flowed for a long time--it was a hot topic when I joined my fist online storytelling listserve in 1996. Just what is this thing we call storytelling? Is it art, craft or skill? Priscilla got me thinking about it again.
Every time I try to answer the above questions, I find myself seeing Ray Hicks. I experienced his simple, straightfoward, classic delivery of a tale on the street in Jonesborough, Tennessee, a few years before he passed away.For me Ray Hicks defined storytelling clearly and eloquently as he told us a Jack tale in front of the old log cabin, standing easily in his bib overall and felt hat.
What was it about that experience that remains so vivid in my mind?
- His inclusion of every listener in the tale. Ray used eye contact and gestures to make a connection with each person in the circle around him--not singling people out, but looking at each one directly and intently to be sure they were following along with the story.
- Pacing. He didn't hurry, he didn't drag the story out for effect (something I've observed other tellers do, trying to make a 5-minute story into a 20 minute telling). He paused when the story called for a dramatic stop, hurried when Jack was hurrying. The pace was natural, like that of a conversation on a summer evening.
- Voice. Ray's voice sank low, rose high, got louder and softer as he told the story because he was in the story with us, not presenting it. He knew all the people in the tale, where they lived and who their people were. He wore the story like a favorite coat.
- He loved the story. His enjoyment and interest in what he was telling us was evident with every word he spoke, and with those he didn't. He didn't use extra words--he let his eyes, voice and gestures say things for him. And we understood.
Okay, so what is my definition, given the above?
Storytelling is sharing experience, through word and gesture, with listeners.
I can hear you thinking, "experience? What about folktales? Ray Hicks didn't experience that Jack tale!" Ah, but he did, every time he told it. He was right there in the story, experiencing each and every thing that happened, seeing it all unfold as he told it, and making sure his listeners were right there with him. That is storytelling.
And that is the kind of storyteller I want to be. I'm not dramatic, or artistic. I don't know how to do mime or how to dance. Others can do those things and for them it expresses what they want to say, adding different ways to communicate with their listeners. Sometimes I sing the story in a ballad. It's one more way to use words, to use my voice, to share the experience of the tale.
My goal as a storyteller: Tell--from my heart, from my life, from my experience--tell stories.
Winter Story: Grandfather Frost
A few days ago I posted information about Grandmother Winter from German folklore. In Russia Grandfather Frost (also called Father Frost) or Ded Moroz was the folkloric figure of winter, and also the Russian Santa Claus. (Time magazine posted a funny true story about Grandfather Frost this morning.)
There was once upon a time a peasant-woman who had a daughter anda step-daughter. The daughter had her own way in everything, and whatever she did was right in her mother's eyes; but the poor step-daughter had a hard time. Let her do what she would, she was always blamed, and got small thanks for all the trouble she took; nothing was right, everything wrong; and yet, if the truth were known, the girl was worth her weight in gold--she was so unselfish and good-hearted. But her step-mother did not like her, and the poor girl's days were spent in weeping; for it was impossible to live peacefully with the woman.
The wicked shrew was determined to get rid of the girl by fair means or foul, and kept saying to her father: 'Send her away, old man; send her away--anywhere so that my eyes sha'n't be plagued any longer by the sight of her, or my ears tormented by the sound of her voice. Send her out into the fields, and let the cutting frost do for her.'
In vain did the poor old father weep and implore her pity; she was firm, and he dared not gainsay her. So he placed his daughter in a sledge, not even daring to give her a horse-cloth to keep herself warm with, and drove her out on to the bare, open fields, where he kissed her and left her, driving home as fast as he could, that he might not witness her miserable death.
Deserted by her father, the poor girl sat down under a fir-tree at the edge of the forest and began to weep silently. Suddenly she heard a faint sound: it was King Frost springing from tree to tree, and cracking his fingers as he went. At length he reached the fir-tree beneath which she was sitting, and with a crisp crackling sound he alighted beside her, and looked at her lovely face.
'Well, maiden,' he snapped out, 'do you know who I am? I am King Frost, king of the red-noses.'
'All hail to you, great King!' answered the girl, in a gentle, trembling voice.
'Have you come to take me?'
'Are you warm, maiden?' he replied.
'Quite warm, King Frost,' she answered, though she shivered as she spoke.
Then King Frost stooped down, and bent over the girl, and the crackling sound grew louder, and the air seemed to be full of knives and darts; and again he asked:
'Maiden, are you warm? Are you warm, you beautiful girl?'
And though her breath was almost frozen on her lips, she whispered gently, 'Quite warm, King Frost.'
Then King Frost gnashed his teeth, and cracked his fingers, and his eyes sparkled, and the crackling, crisp sound was louder than ever, and for the last time he asked her:
'Maiden, are you still warm? Are you still warm, little love?'
And the poor girl was so stiff and numb that she could just gasp,'Still warm, O King!'
Now her gentle, courteous words and her uncomplaining ways touched King Frost, and he had pity on her, and he wrapped her up in furs, and covered her with blankets, and he fetched a great box, in which were beautiful jewels and a rich robe embroidered in gold and silver. And she put it on, and looked more lovely than ever, and King Frost stepped with her into his sledge, with six white horses.
In the meantime the wicked step-mother was waiting at home for news of the girl's death, and preparing pancakes for the funeral feast. And she said to her husband:
'Old man, you had better go out into the fields and find your daughter's body and bury her.' Just as the old man was leaving the house the little dog under the table began to bark, saying:
'YOUR daughter shall live to be your delight;
HER daughter shall die this very night.'
''Hold your tongue, you foolish beast!' scolded the woman. 'There's a pancake for you, but you must say:
"HER daughter shall have much silver and gold;
HIS daughter is frozen quite stiff and cold."
But the doggie ate up the pancake and barked, saying:
'His daughter shall wear a crown on her head;
Her daughter shall die unwooed, unwed.'
Then the old woman tried to coax the doggie with more pancakes and to terrify it with blows, but he barked on, always repeating the same words. And suddenly the door creaked and flew open, anda great heavy chest was pushed in, and behind it came the step-daughter, radiant and beautiful, in a dress all glitteringwith silver and gold. For a moment the step-mother's eyes were dazzled.
Then she called to her husband: 'Old man, yoke the horses at once into the sledge, and take my daughter to the same field and leave her on the same spot exactly; 'and so the old man took the girl and left her beneath the same tree where he had parted from his daughter.
In a few minutes King Frost came past, and, looking at the girl, he said:
'Are you warm, maiden?'
'What a blind old fool you must be to ask such a question!' she answered angrily.
'Can't you see that my hands and feet are nearly frozen?'
Then King Frost sprang to and fro in front of her, questioning her, and getting only rude, rough words in reply, till at last he got very angry, and cracked his fingers, and gnashed his teeth, and froze her to death.
But in the hut her mother was waiting for her return, and as she grew impatient she said to her husband:
'Get out the horses, old man, to go and fetch her home; but see that you are careful not to upset the sledge and lose the chest.'
But the doggie beneath the table began to bark, saying:
'Your daughter is frozen quite stiff and cold,
And shall never have a chest full of gold.'
'Don't tell such wicked lies!' scolded the woman. 'There's a cake for you; now say: "HER daughter shall marry a mighty King."
At that moment the door flew open, and she rushed out to meet her daughter, and as she took her frozen body in her arms she too was chilled to death.
From Andrew Lang's "TheYellow Fairy Book." Available online at www.gutenburg.org
Another version of the story is online at Surlalune Fairy Tales.
The recent history of this folk figure is interesting. Celebrations of Christmas and its traditions were banned in Russia after the Russian Revolution in 1917. Some traditions were kept alive by shifting them to New Year's Day (removing any Christian connotations)--like the Christmas tree which became the New Year tree, and visits by Grandfather Frost and his snowmaiden Snegurochka, who brought gifts on the holiday. The ban on Christmas celebrations was lifted in 1991, but is still celebrated on January 7th (or 6th, depending on the source).
There was once upon a time a peasant-woman who had a daughter anda step-daughter. The daughter had her own way in everything, and whatever she did was right in her mother's eyes; but the poor step-daughter had a hard time. Let her do what she would, she was always blamed, and got small thanks for all the trouble she took; nothing was right, everything wrong; and yet, if the truth were known, the girl was worth her weight in gold--she was so unselfish and good-hearted. But her step-mother did not like her, and the poor girl's days were spent in weeping; for it was impossible to live peacefully with the woman.
The wicked shrew was determined to get rid of the girl by fair means or foul, and kept saying to her father: 'Send her away, old man; send her away--anywhere so that my eyes sha'n't be plagued any longer by the sight of her, or my ears tormented by the sound of her voice. Send her out into the fields, and let the cutting frost do for her.'
In vain did the poor old father weep and implore her pity; she was firm, and he dared not gainsay her. So he placed his daughter in a sledge, not even daring to give her a horse-cloth to keep herself warm with, and drove her out on to the bare, open fields, where he kissed her and left her, driving home as fast as he could, that he might not witness her miserable death.
Deserted by her father, the poor girl sat down under a fir-tree at the edge of the forest and began to weep silently. Suddenly she heard a faint sound: it was King Frost springing from tree to tree, and cracking his fingers as he went. At length he reached the fir-tree beneath which she was sitting, and with a crisp crackling sound he alighted beside her, and looked at her lovely face.
'Well, maiden,' he snapped out, 'do you know who I am? I am King Frost, king of the red-noses.'
'All hail to you, great King!' answered the girl, in a gentle, trembling voice.
'Have you come to take me?'
'Are you warm, maiden?' he replied.
'Quite warm, King Frost,' she answered, though she shivered as she spoke.
Then King Frost stooped down, and bent over the girl, and the crackling sound grew louder, and the air seemed to be full of knives and darts; and again he asked:
'Maiden, are you warm? Are you warm, you beautiful girl?'
And though her breath was almost frozen on her lips, she whispered gently, 'Quite warm, King Frost.'
Then King Frost gnashed his teeth, and cracked his fingers, and his eyes sparkled, and the crackling, crisp sound was louder than ever, and for the last time he asked her:
'Maiden, are you still warm? Are you still warm, little love?'
And the poor girl was so stiff and numb that she could just gasp,'Still warm, O King!'
Now her gentle, courteous words and her uncomplaining ways touched King Frost, and he had pity on her, and he wrapped her up in furs, and covered her with blankets, and he fetched a great box, in which were beautiful jewels and a rich robe embroidered in gold and silver. And she put it on, and looked more lovely than ever, and King Frost stepped with her into his sledge, with six white horses.
In the meantime the wicked step-mother was waiting at home for news of the girl's death, and preparing pancakes for the funeral feast. And she said to her husband:
'Old man, you had better go out into the fields and find your daughter's body and bury her.' Just as the old man was leaving the house the little dog under the table began to bark, saying:
'YOUR daughter shall live to be your delight;
HER daughter shall die this very night.'
''Hold your tongue, you foolish beast!' scolded the woman. 'There's a pancake for you, but you must say:
"HER daughter shall have much silver and gold;
HIS daughter is frozen quite stiff and cold."
But the doggie ate up the pancake and barked, saying:
'His daughter shall wear a crown on her head;
Her daughter shall die unwooed, unwed.'
Then the old woman tried to coax the doggie with more pancakes and to terrify it with blows, but he barked on, always repeating the same words. And suddenly the door creaked and flew open, anda great heavy chest was pushed in, and behind it came the step-daughter, radiant and beautiful, in a dress all glitteringwith silver and gold. For a moment the step-mother's eyes were dazzled.
Then she called to her husband: 'Old man, yoke the horses at once into the sledge, and take my daughter to the same field and leave her on the same spot exactly; 'and so the old man took the girl and left her beneath the same tree where he had parted from his daughter.
In a few minutes King Frost came past, and, looking at the girl, he said:
'Are you warm, maiden?'
'What a blind old fool you must be to ask such a question!' she answered angrily.
'Can't you see that my hands and feet are nearly frozen?'
Then King Frost sprang to and fro in front of her, questioning her, and getting only rude, rough words in reply, till at last he got very angry, and cracked his fingers, and gnashed his teeth, and froze her to death.
But in the hut her mother was waiting for her return, and as she grew impatient she said to her husband:
'Get out the horses, old man, to go and fetch her home; but see that you are careful not to upset the sledge and lose the chest.'
But the doggie beneath the table began to bark, saying:
'Your daughter is frozen quite stiff and cold,
And shall never have a chest full of gold.'
'Don't tell such wicked lies!' scolded the woman. 'There's a cake for you; now say: "HER daughter shall marry a mighty King."
At that moment the door flew open, and she rushed out to meet her daughter, and as she took her frozen body in her arms she too was chilled to death.
From Andrew Lang's "TheYellow Fairy Book." Available online at www.gutenburg.org
Another version of the story is online at Surlalune Fairy Tales.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Five Ways to Celebrate New Year's Eve
Beyond making resolutions and staying up too late, how do other people celebrate the coming of the new year? Here are five ways you might consider:1. Did you know that in Brasstown, NC, they celebrate New Year's Eve with a Possum Drop? Read all about it at Clay's Corner. And while you're there catch up on your "possumology" as storyteller Doug Elliott calls the science of possum study.
2. You have to do things right on the first day of the year, of course. Sherrie Norris tells you eactly what to do and what to avoid. For heaven's sake, don't take out the trash on New Year's Day, and don't do the laundry either!
Sherrie includes recipes for some traditional New Year's fare so you can be sure to eat the foods that bring health and luck.
3. My mother often talked about "first-footers." It was good luck for a fairhaired man to cross the threshold first on New Years Day. Since I married a blonde man, I guess I assured my luck. You don't want a dark-haired lady to be the first to enter, certainly. And that fair-haired man better come in the front door and leave through the back! I've heard people mention this tradition here in the mountains, although like so many of the old ways, it is probably becoming obsolete. Others apparently think the first footer should be dark-haired, so take your choice!)
4. The New Year's Baby is the first baby born in our county each year. Sometimes we have to wait almost a week for a baby to be born, but the baby and parents are always featured in the next newspaper. (I'm not sure this is a race I want to enter any more...a little long in the tooth for it, I think.)
5. At my house we burn a New Year's bonfire, throwing in bits of paper with people's troubles written on them. It's been our tradition since the year 2000, or perhaps before that. We look forward to it every year.
Of course, you should never start the new year with a dirty house! So get it cleaned up, get the dishes done and laundry caught up so you can really enjoy the festivities. Who wants to bring old dirt into a new year?
For lots more New Year's Day lore, visit the Wilson Almanac and check out his Book of Days and all the other amazing information collected by Australian Pip Wilson. I just visited his site today, and already I know I'll be a regular visitor. It's a storyteller's paradise.
And for a list of New Year's superstitions, visit Old Superstitions. You'll find plenty of ways to assure your year starts out with a guarantee of prosperity and health. And here's hoping that all my readers enjoy the same!
Sherrie includes recipes for some traditional New Year's fare so you can be sure to eat the foods that bring health and luck.
3. My mother often talked about "first-footers." It was good luck for a fairhaired man to cross the threshold first on New Years Day. Since I married a blonde man, I guess I assured my luck. You don't want a dark-haired lady to be the first to enter, certainly. And that fair-haired man better come in the front door and leave through the back! I've heard people mention this tradition here in the mountains, although like so many of the old ways, it is probably becoming obsolete. Others apparently think the first footer should be dark-haired, so take your choice!)
4. The New Year's Baby is the first baby born in our county each year. Sometimes we have to wait almost a week for a baby to be born, but the baby and parents are always featured in the next newspaper. (I'm not sure this is a race I want to enter any more...a little long in the tooth for it, I think.)
5. At my house we burn a New Year's bonfire, throwing in bits of paper with people's troubles written on them. It's been our tradition since the year 2000, or perhaps before that. We look forward to it every year.
Of course, you should never start the new year with a dirty house! So get it cleaned up, get the dishes done and laundry caught up so you can really enjoy the festivities. Who wants to bring old dirt into a new year?
For lots more New Year's Day lore, visit the Wilson Almanac and check out his Book of Days and all the other amazing information collected by Australian Pip Wilson. I just visited his site today, and already I know I'll be a regular visitor. It's a storyteller's paradise.
And for a list of New Year's superstitions, visit Old Superstitions. You'll find plenty of ways to assure your year starts out with a guarantee of prosperity and health. And here's hoping that all my readers enjoy the same!
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
A Merry Christmas
We've had a lovely day--a quiet start, then a few phone calls with friends and family, and finally dinner at Derek's house with his children and girlfriend. We enjoyed watching as they opened the gifts we brought them. Hannah liked the globe--she and I played with it and I showed her where her Dad was and where we were, and where Uncle Tommy was in Germany. It helped her visualize the distances, and to have a way to "see" Iraq as a real place, not just a word.
But there was a surprise in store in the evening--Tiffany had set up a webcam and Derek
had one too, so through the internet we were able to IM with him and actually see him on-screen. He got to see the kids, and they showed him their favorite gifts--Jared's tee-shirt with a gift tag on the front that said "To: Women From: God"; Haley's bike, Hannah's great big "diamond" I found for her at a gift shop.
While the webcam wasn't perfect--slow speed on our end made the connection jerky--it sure was nice to see Derek and to get a glimpse of where he is. He got up at 4:30 AM to get online with us, so he looked a little groggy. But what pleasure to be able to share, in some part, the fun of Christmas with him.
And now, to all a good night!
But there was a surprise in store in the evening--Tiffany had set up a webcam and Derek
had one too, so through the internet we were able to IM with him and actually see him on-screen. He got to see the kids, and they showed him their favorite gifts--Jared's tee-shirt with a gift tag on the front that said "To: Women From: God"; Haley's bike, Hannah's great big "diamond" I found for her at a gift shop.While the webcam wasn't perfect--slow speed on our end made the connection jerky--it sure was nice to see Derek and to get a glimpse of where he is. He got up at 4:30 AM to get online with us, so he looked a little groggy. But what pleasure to be able to share, in some part, the fun of Christmas with him.
And now, to all a good night!
Where's My Present?
(I posted this to Storytell, and then decided to share it here too)My gift from Larry was not under the tree.
In fact, it's not even bought yet.
What I want is chickens--laying hens. I've had chickens for lamost all of the past 40 years, but for the past two months I've been chicken-less. Our hens got too old to lay and went to that great chicken house in the sky. We re-did the henhouse, bought new nestboxes, whitewashed the walls, spread lime, got everything ready.
But we still haven't bought any chickens. So when Larry asked me what I wanted for Christmas, the answer was easy: chickens. He wasn't surprised. Last year I asked for 10 tons of gravel for my parking place. I got tired of dodging the mud trying to get to work and still look professional when I got there (muddy shoes don't make the cut). The gravel has delighted me all year, and it should hold for another two years.
Chickens will last a while too--I can usually keep them laying for 5 years or longer. And it's a gift that keeps giving. Like the gravel.
Some people tell me I'm easy to please when it comes to gifts. But you try wrapping a chicken or a ton of gravel. My husband deserves sainthood.
Merry Christmas, 111th Engineers!
The 111th Engineers as they left Charleston, WV this summer, bound for Iraq.Merry Christmas to all the 111th Engineers from Eleanor/Buffalo, West Virginia, who are currently serving in Iraq (with my son Derek).
Those of us at home are thinking of you and hoping that your Christmas is peaceful and as bright as it can be away from home.
Christmas Arrives
Midnight.
I stand still, listening.
The night is quiet save for the rustling
of leaves in the woods behind me.
A full moon frosts the land with blue,
reflects in the clear ice on the deck.
Quiet. Stars shine above, telling no secrets.
At twelve o'clock exactly,
the windchimes ring
one...two...three...four...
twelve times. Then silence once more.
The moon continues its path,
the stars make no comment,
but I know.
It is Christmas, come at last.
I stand still, listening.
The night is quiet save for the rustling
of leaves in the woods behind me.
A full moon frosts the land with blue,
reflects in the clear ice on the deck.
Quiet. Stars shine above, telling no secrets.
At twelve o'clock exactly,
the windchimes ring
one...two...three...four...
twelve times. Then silence once more.
The moon continues its path,
the stars make no comment,
but I know.
It is Christmas, come at last.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Missing Tommy
Tommy and Jordan (our granddaughter), Christmas 2002For 22 years, Tommy has been with us at Christmas. The first year he was still in the womb, and our announcement of his presence was the Christmas surprise for my older sons, who were between 12 and 16 years old at the time.
Tommy in 2005, again at Christmas.The year after he was born, we had baby toys under the tree for the first time in years, and his brothers laughed as they watched him do his "big eyes" look at the tree and presents. The next year he was afraid of Santa but tore into the presents like a pro.
In 2003, when we were tearing down and moving the old log cabin. What a mess--you can see what Tommy thinks of it!The year he was four, my husband shot a deer a few weeks before Christmas. Tommy was upset--he was sure Daddy had killed Rudolph. To reassure him, I took him outside to show him that this deer's nose was not red. Bad idea--the deer, hanging upside down in preparation for skinning, had blood all over its nose! Traumatic would not be a strong enough word to describe Tommy's reaction to that. It took a little while to explain and convince him that this was a doe and not a reindeer; then he watched the skinning process with interest.
Each year as he grew, he delighted in Christmas. The brothers grew up and moved out, one by one. Last year it was just Tommy, Larry and I gathered at the tree on Christmas morning, and instead of parents and child it felt more like three adults--and it was very comfortable.
This year he is in Germany, unable to get leave from the Air Force to come home. It's his first Christmas away from family, and it will be our first Christmas morning without a child to enjoy it with us. (To tell the truth, it will be the first ever in my life without a child present!) He is joining some Air Force buddies, and staying overnight with another soldier who couldn't make it home. We miss him and he misses us, but we'll all get through it with the help of the telephone and memories.
I wish the APO mail service had managed to get his package to him--even though one I mailed only a week ago got there, the one with his Christmas tree, the photo album I made for him and the homemade cookies didn't arrive--and it was mailed on December 11th. Go figure. He'll need that WVU sweatshirt before the bowl game on January 2nd, certainly. But military mail doesn't follow the same path as private mail, and there is no telling when he might get that package.
Tomorrow morning we'll get up to a quiet house. We'll make breakfast and enjoy listening to carols and to the birds at our feeders. We'll call Tommy around 8 am (2pm his time) and share the holiday long distance. Then later on we'll pack up to travel to Derek's house to make dinner and share gifts with his children and girlfriend, and this time the sharing (we hope) will be live via the internet and a webcam to Iraq.
Two soldiers in the family, miles from home, and yet still connected with the strength of family and love. Derek's been there-done this many times before. For Tommy, I suppose it will be a rite of passage--and perhaps it will be the same for me.
Merry Christmas A1C Larry T. Holstein. Your family is proud of you.
Eggnog
Some people love it, others quiver with distaste when the word is spoken.
We're in the "love it" category. My husband, raised in the West Virginia mountains, is a convert. When I first mentioned making eggnog to him, his lip curled. "Yuck. Hate that stuff."
"Have you had homemade?" I asked.
"No, just the kind in the cartons at the store. It's nasty."
"Ah, then you haven't had eggnog."
RAW EGG ALERT:
My recipe uses raw eggs, which come with the risk of salmonella poisoning. I believe I'm in more danger for my health by drinking the cartoned variety with its mix of chemicals, but be aware of the risk of salmonella if you use my recipe.
There are other recipes online that call for cooking the eggs, and others that recommend aging the eggnog for several weeks (huh? but read the recipe and it makes more sense). There is good information about eggnog, salmonella and how alcohol can reduce the risk at the Iowa State University's food safety webpage. Now isn't that a good reason to spike it!
and at Cooks.com, one of my favorite websites, there are 390 recipes for eggnog and derviatives thereof. 390! Who would have thought it!
My mother made eggnog every Christmas and New Year's Eve, a spiked bowl for adults in the kitchen, and the unspiked kind for kids in the dining room. So the aduts got salmonella protection while we kids had to tough it out.
Here's my recipe--not very exact because I learned it from my mother, the queen of "a bit of this" and a "pinch of that."
6 eggs, whites and yolks separated into two different bowls
About 2 cups of sugar
About a half gallon of milk
about 2 tablespoons of vanilla
ground nutmeg
Beat the egg yolks with a fork. set aside.
With an electric mixer set on high, beat the egg whites and sugar together in a large bowl (I use my punch bowl) until stiff peaks are formed. Add the beaten yolks. 1/2 teaspoon of nutmeg and vanilla and beat until mixed well. Add the milk until the punch bowl is about 3/4 or more full. Continue to beat until a foam covers the top of the mixture. Sprinkle ground nutmeg on top for garnish.
That's it. Your eggnog will be light, foamy and delicious. My grandchildren love it, and beg me to make it--they will even get out the punch bowl and ingredients to get me moving!
How to separate eggs, in case you're scratching your head: Crack the shell carefully in two, holding both halves of the shell upright so the contents don't spill out. Over a bowl, carefully tip one halve into the other, letting the white slide out into the bowl below. Keep tipping back and forth until only the yolk remains in the shell. If you break the yolk during the process and some of the yellow gets into the whites, you may not get stiff peaks when you beat the whites and sugar.
We're in the "love it" category. My husband, raised in the West Virginia mountains, is a convert. When I first mentioned making eggnog to him, his lip curled. "Yuck. Hate that stuff."
"Have you had homemade?" I asked.
"No, just the kind in the cartons at the store. It's nasty."
"Ah, then you haven't had eggnog."
RAW EGG ALERT:
My recipe uses raw eggs, which come with the risk of salmonella poisoning. I believe I'm in more danger for my health by drinking the cartoned variety with its mix of chemicals, but be aware of the risk of salmonella if you use my recipe.
There are other recipes online that call for cooking the eggs, and others that recommend aging the eggnog for several weeks (huh? but read the recipe and it makes more sense). There is good information about eggnog, salmonella and how alcohol can reduce the risk at the Iowa State University's food safety webpage. Now isn't that a good reason to spike it!
and at Cooks.com, one of my favorite websites, there are 390 recipes for eggnog and derviatives thereof. 390! Who would have thought it!
My mother made eggnog every Christmas and New Year's Eve, a spiked bowl for adults in the kitchen, and the unspiked kind for kids in the dining room. So the aduts got salmonella protection while we kids had to tough it out.
Here's my recipe--not very exact because I learned it from my mother, the queen of "a bit of this" and a "pinch of that."
6 eggs, whites and yolks separated into two different bowls
About 2 cups of sugar
About a half gallon of milk
about 2 tablespoons of vanilla
ground nutmeg
Beat the egg yolks with a fork. set aside.
With an electric mixer set on high, beat the egg whites and sugar together in a large bowl (I use my punch bowl) until stiff peaks are formed. Add the beaten yolks. 1/2 teaspoon of nutmeg and vanilla and beat until mixed well. Add the milk until the punch bowl is about 3/4 or more full. Continue to beat until a foam covers the top of the mixture. Sprinkle ground nutmeg on top for garnish.
That's it. Your eggnog will be light, foamy and delicious. My grandchildren love it, and beg me to make it--they will even get out the punch bowl and ingredients to get me moving!
How to separate eggs, in case you're scratching your head: Crack the shell carefully in two, holding both halves of the shell upright so the contents don't spill out. Over a bowl, carefully tip one halve into the other, letting the white slide out into the bowl below. Keep tipping back and forth until only the yolk remains in the shell. If you break the yolk during the process and some of the yellow gets into the whites, you may not get stiff peaks when you beat the whites and sugar.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Moon and Stars: Tracking the Moon Home
It was too beautiful to pass up--I had to try to take a few photos of the moon this evening on our way home from town. My camera either isn't made for night shots, or else I just don't know how to operate it (probably the latter) but I tried anyway.
Just outside town. It was frustrating, trying to find a place without electric lines marring the view, but we finally found a spot. Mmy husband is a patient man, pulling over obligingly and waiting while I tried to take pictures.
On Joe's Run, the moon appeared again just on the horizon and beaming down the road ahead of us.
As we reached the ridge, it was almost completely dark, but I tried one more time.
What a lovely, lovely night.
Treats Complete
Baking is almost done--a few more batches tomorrow and I'll be finished. I've included two recipes that are easy to make, looke great, and taste wonderful.
Today it was Buckeyes, and since there was leftover dipping chocolate from that recipe, I dipped marshmallows and decorated them too. These might end up being an annual recipe--they're good (well, bad for you, I'm sure but good!). 
Sugar cookies, home-baked but I cheated and used prepared dough. Hey, a woman only has so much time. Again, I had leftover chocolate, this time from the Chocolate-Covered Cherry cookies, so I used it as a filling and made star-shaped sandwich cookies with cherry-chocolate filling.
The date bars I made last week actually taste better a week later--which according to the old recipe I had, is how it's supposed to be. These are cookies made to keep for a while, or to send through the mail.
Peanut Butter Kisses and Yellow Plum Jam-Filled cookies, and cranberries ready to make Cranberry Bread. I made the Yellow Plum cookies last week with leftover crumb crust from the date bars, and I think I like these even better than the date bars. The white on them is powdered sugar--I tried it to see if I liked it, but decided I like them better without.
48 Hershey Kisses candies, unwrapped
1 egg
2 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
Today it was Buckeyes, and since there was leftover dipping chocolate from that recipe, I dipped marshmallows and decorated them too. These might end up being an annual recipe--they're good (well, bad for you, I'm sure but good!).Here's the recipe for Buckeyes. Talk about easy!
1 stick butter
1 box of powdered sugar
1 1/2 cups peanut butter
1 tsp vanilla
Mix these ingredients all together into a paste-like consistency. You will probably have to mix them with your hands. Roll into balls the size of shooter marbles.
Then melt 1 -12 oz package of chocolate chips with some paraffin (I didn't use much, but can't say exactly how much it was--maybe half of a stick? I've also made them without the paraffin, and I've used prepared dipping chocolate too) in a double boiler. When the chips and paraffin are melted, dip the balls into the chocolate with a toohpick, covering only the bottom half of each ball with chocolate.
Allow to dry on waxed paper. These are absolutely a favorite with my family.
Sugar cookies, home-baked but I cheated and used prepared dough. Hey, a woman only has so much time. Again, I had leftover chocolate, this time from the Chocolate-Covered Cherry cookies, so I used it as a filling and made star-shaped sandwich cookies with cherry-chocolate filling.The date bars I made last week actually taste better a week later--which according to the old recipe I had, is how it's supposed to be. These are cookies made to keep for a while, or to send through the mail.
Peanut Butter Kisses and Yellow Plum Jam-Filled cookies, and cranberries ready to make Cranberry Bread. I made the Yellow Plum cookies last week with leftover crumb crust from the date bars, and I think I like these even better than the date bars. The white on them is powdered sugar--I tried it to see if I liked it, but decided I like them better without.Peanut Butter Kisses
48 Hershey Kisses candies, unwrapped
1/2 cup shortening
3/4 cup creamy peanut butter
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar
3/4 cup creamy peanut butter
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup packed light brown sugar
1 egg
2 tablespoons milk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1-1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
Granulated sugar
Heat oven to 375°F.
Heat oven to 375°F.
Beat shortening and peanut butter in large bowl until well blended.
Add 1/3 cup sugar and brown sugar; beat until fluffy.
Add egg, milk and vanilla; beat well.
Stir together flour, baking soda and salt; gradually beat into peanut butter mixture.
Shape dough into 1-inch balls. Roll in granulated sugar; place on ungreased cookie sheet.
Bake 8 to 10 minutes or until lightly browned.
Immediately press a chocolate into center of each cookie (the cookies will crack around the edges).
Remove from the cookie sheet to a wire rack. Makes about 48 cookies (and if it doesn't, you get to eat the unwrapped chocolates!)
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Solstice and Welcoming the Yule
A full moon at Solstice! A rare event indeed. Is it technic
ally solstice tonight, or did it arrive last night? According to the charts, the official time was 1:08 am, or very early this morning. So our moon wasn't quite full at Solstice, but very close.
ally solstice tonight, or did it arrive last night? According to the charts, the official time was 1:08 am, or very early this morning. So our moon wasn't quite full at Solstice, but very close.Today we welcomed in the Yuletide by attending a Celtic 
celebration with music, mummers and carols. The Celtic group Blackbirds and Thrushes held their annual Christmas show at Heritage Farm Museum near Huntington, West Virginia and it was an experience I am glad I did not miss. Combining old carols, poetry, music, a mummers play, and a step dancer, the show was fast-paced and yet a solemn tribute to the music and customs of the past.
celebration with music, mummers and carols. The Celtic group Blackbirds and Thrushes held their annual Christmas show at Heritage Farm Museum near Huntington, West Virginia and it was an experience I am glad I did not miss. Combining old carols, poetry, music, a mummers play, and a step dancer, the show was fast-paced and yet a solemn tribute to the music and customs of the past.This poem was one of those read by a member of the group, and I came home to seek it out online:
So the shortest day came,
and the year died,
And everywhere down the centuries
of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive,
And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, reveling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us - Listen!!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
This shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, fest, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!!
Susan Cooper, The Shortest Day
I can't imagine a more fitting way to greet winter. It's a long night and a short day, but that means that slowly but surely light is returning to earth.
Wikipedia tells us that "the word solstice derives from Latin, Winter Solstice meaning "Sun set still in winter." Worldwide, interpretation of the event varies from culture to culture, but most hold a recognition of rebirth, involving festivals, gatherings, rituals or other celebrations.
So if you're celebrating the Yule with music, bonfire, friends and food, you're right on track with the ancients.
My mother always prepared what she called a Yule log, but hers was not a log to be burned on Solstice. Instead, it was a part of the trunk of the past year's Christmas tree, drilled with holes and cut to lay flat. We decorated it with bits of greenery and berries, and three red candles in the center. Since we lived in town and had no fireplace, perhaps this was as close as we could get to the real thing? I wonder if my mother knew what old traditions laid behind her efforts?
The Solstice lit in the official start to Christmas merriment, as this poem by Robert Herrick describes:
Come, bring with a noise,
My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas Log to the firing;
While my good Dame, she
Bids ye all be free;
And drink to your heart's desiring.
With the last year's brand
Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
On your Psaltries play,
That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a-tinding.
Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a-shredding;
For the rare mince-pie
And the plums stand by
To fill the paste that's a-kneading.
Robert Herrick, Ceremonies for Christmas
The Llewellyns recommend making a solstice wishing candle. A bit late for this year, but perhaps you might make one to burn at New Year's Eve, as we burn our bonfire.
So enjoy the dark and quiet of this first full night of winter, for the coming days will be filled with noise and excitement, and your days will become longer once again.
Welcome, Yule!
Friday, December 21, 2007
Snow Way!
I've been running across bits of interesting stuff about snow lately. For centuries people have sought explanations for cold weather. Today we worry about global warming, but past cultures worried about unusual weather too, and developed stories and myths to explain what they saw. The internet is full of references to these old stories.
For example, in Germany it was was once thought that "Old Mother Frost" made it snow by shaking the feathers out of her featherbed. When the feathers fell to earth, they were snow. The Grimm Brothers collected a story about her, called, surprisingly, Old Mother Frost.
In Europe, a badger's shadow used to tell people whether or not sp
ring was coming. If the badger saw his shadow, then there would be more winter. If the badger didn't see his shadow, then spring was on the way. Sound familiar? We call it Groundhog's Day now in the US, and celebrate it in February by bothering a poor old groundhog in Pennsylvania.
The Japanese had a legend about a spirit called Snow Woman who induced sleep in travelers, which led to their death (hypothermia?). Snow Woman's name is Yuki-onna.
An Australian aboriginal myth told that frost comes from the seven stars of the constellation called the Seven Sisters, or the Pleiades. The sisters, who lived on earth in those times, were so cold they sparkled with icicles. They would fly up into the sky and every year they would pull off their icicles and throw them down to Earth, causing winter.
The February Moon was called the Moon of Ice by ancient Celts.
A Bulgarian story tells of three saints who went to the sun to beg for winter. When each one returned he would shake his beard and snow would fall. This next story is from the website We Love Bulgaria:
"A very cold, snowy and long winter became the reason for the birth of the Milky Way, a Bulgarian folk story tells. A poor peasant ran out of straw for his kettle, and the spring with its fresh grass was still too far ahead. So one night, the poor man decided to sneak into his best man’s house and steal some of his straw. In the morning the best man noticed that someone had been into his home and following the straw covered traces came to the poor man’s house. He felt very offended that it was namely the man who should respect him the most, that had done him such an evil and said to him: “Why didn’t you ask me for some straw? I was going to give it to you readily!” Ashamed, the poor man denied to have stolen the straw from him. Then the best man said: “Let the stolen straw come afire and burn forever, so that it can be known and remembered when a groom stole from his best man.” And so, this is what happened. The burning trace rose to the sky and has been shining there ever since. That’s why peasants call this starry path “best man’s straw” and we know it as the Milky Way."
For example, in Germany it was was once thought that "Old Mother Frost" made it snow by shaking the feathers out of her featherbed. When the feathers fell to earth, they were snow. The Grimm Brothers collected a story about her, called, surprisingly, Old Mother Frost.
In Europe, a badger's shadow used to tell people whether or not sp
ring was coming. If the badger saw his shadow, then there would be more winter. If the badger didn't see his shadow, then spring was on the way. Sound familiar? We call it Groundhog's Day now in the US, and celebrate it in February by bothering a poor old groundhog in Pennsylvania.The Japanese had a legend about a spirit called Snow Woman who induced sleep in travelers, which led to their death (hypothermia?). Snow Woman's name is Yuki-onna.
An Australian aboriginal myth told that frost comes from the seven stars of the constellation called the Seven Sisters, or the Pleiades. The sisters, who lived on earth in those times, were so cold they sparkled with icicles. They would fly up into the sky and every year they would pull off their icicles and throw them down to Earth, causing winter.
The February Moon was called the Moon of Ice by ancient Celts.
A Bulgarian story tells of three saints who went to the sun to beg for winter. When each one returned he would shake his beard and snow would fall. This next story is from the website We Love Bulgaria:
"A very cold, snowy and long winter became the reason for the birth of the Milky Way, a Bulgarian folk story tells. A poor peasant ran out of straw for his kettle, and the spring with its fresh grass was still too far ahead. So one night, the poor man decided to sneak into his best man’s house and steal some of his straw. In the morning the best man noticed that someone had been into his home and following the straw covered traces came to the poor man’s house. He felt very offended that it was namely the man who should respect him the most, that had done him such an evil and said to him: “Why didn’t you ask me for some straw? I was going to give it to you readily!” Ashamed, the poor man denied to have stolen the straw from him. Then the best man said: “Let the stolen straw come afire and burn forever, so that it can be known and remembered when a groom stole from his best man.” And so, this is what happened. The burning trace rose to the sky and has been shining there ever since. That’s why peasants call this starry path “best man’s straw” and we know it as the Milky Way."
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Time to Send Your Troubles for the New Year's Fire
It's time again to send your troubles to be burned in our New Year's Fire.
This is, I think, the 7th year we have done this and each year many people send things to be burned. Most just tell us "BURN THIS" and we do, sending a little prayer along with the paper to fly heavenward with the flames.
You can burn your troubles--a job you hate, a job you lost, a relationship gone sour, bad health, whatever you want to get rid of in your life--by sending me an email at grannysueholstein@yahoo.com , or add a comment to this post and I'll see that it gets to the fire. Please feel free to forward this message on to friends and family who might have something to send.
New Year’s Bonfire
The wood is piled
In pyramid form
Black against black night
A match is struck
Light flares out
And circling faces shine
Slowly, slowly
Fire takes hold
The pile begins to blaze
Dark orange, red and gold
Tongues lick the velvet night
And consume the long-dry timbers
Toss the troubles in, one by one
--a job that’s lost, a child in pain
not enough money, not enough love
too much worry, too much shame
burn, burn, burn
Troubles written
On pieces of paper
Or notes that only say
“Burn this. I’ll know what it’s for.”
Toss them in, one by one
To burn in New Year’s glow
Burn, burn, burn
Let all these troubles go
The wood is piled
In pyramid form
Black against black night
A match is struck
Light flares out
And circling faces shine
Slowly, slowly
Fire takes hold
The pile begins to blaze
Dark orange, red and gold
Tongues lick the velvet night
And consume the long-dry timbers
Toss the troubles in, one by one
--a job that’s lost, a child in pain
not enough money, not enough love
too much worry, too much shame
burn, burn, burn
Troubles written
On pieces of paper
Or notes that only say
“Burn this. I’ll know what it’s for.”
Toss them in, one by one
To burn in New Year’s glow
Burn, burn, burn
Let all these troubles go
Getting to Know Iraq
I listen to the news and try to figure out just where they are talking about in relation to where my son is stationed. Diyala province for example--exactly where is it? I found a map of all the provinces and now I can see exactly how far away each news report is from Tikrit.
This map is from the following website:
http://www.goalsforamericans.org/gallery/v/maps/1-17-05ColorizedIraqMap.jpg.html
Click on it to see an enlarged version. 
The military posted this map, which shows many of the major cities. It's so odd to see places I learned about in ancient history and know that my son is there now. He brought back pictures before of some of the sites he's seen, like the Hanging Gardens. So ancient, so threatened, so beautiful.
What should be one of the most treasured parts of our world is instead a battleground. It's sad and frightening to think what people are willing to do to get their own way.
Winter Story: The Twelve Months
Unfortunately a spammer's comments caused me to take this story down from my blog. I'm reposting in the hope that the spammer will not return.
This is a good story for the winter months. This is an adaptation by France Jenkins Olcott in her book Good Stories for Great Holidays. It's in the public domain now and available as an e-text from the Electronic Text Center at the University of Virginia Library. At the end of the story, I'll include links to other online information.
This is a good story for the winter months. This is an adaptation by France Jenkins Olcott in her book Good Stories for Great Holidays. It's in the public domain now and available as an e-text from the Electronic Text Center at the University of Virginia Library. At the end of the story, I'll include links to other online information.
The Twelve Months
There was once a widow who had two daughters, Helen, her own child by her dead husband, and Marouckla, his daughter by his first wife. She loved Helen, but hated the poor orphan because she was far prettier than her own daughter.
Marouckla did not think about her good looks, and could not understand why her stepmother should be angry at the sight of her. The hardest work fell to her share. She cleaned out the rooms, cooked, washed, sewed, spun, wove, brought in the hay, milked the cow, and all this without any help.
Helen, meanwhile, did nothing but dress herself in her best clothes and go to one amusement after another.
But Marouckla never complained. She bore the scoldings and bad temper of mother and sister with a smile on her lips, and the patience of a lamb. But this angelic behavior did not soften them. They became even more tyrannical and grumpy, for Marouckla grew daily more beautiful, while Helen's ugliness increased. So the stepmother determined to get rid of Marouckla, for she knew that while she remained, her own daughter would have no suitors. Hunger, every kind of privation, abuse, every means was used to make the girl's life miserable. But in spite of it all Marouckla grew ever sweeter and more charming.
One day in the middle of winter Helen wanted some wood-violets.
"Listen," cried she to Marouckla, "you must go up the mountain and find me violets. I want some to put in my gown. They must be fresh and sweet-scented-do you hear?"
"But, my dear sister, whoever heard of violets blooming in the snow?" said the poor orphan.
"You wretched creature! Do you dare to disobey me?" said Helen. "Not another word. Off with you! If you do not bring me some violets from the mountain forest I will kill you."
The stepmother also added her threats to those of Helen, and with vigorous blows they pushed Marouckla outside and shut the door upon her. The weeping girl made her way to the mountain. The snow lay deep, and there was no trace of any human being. Long she wandered hither and thither, and lost herself in the wood. She was hungry, and shivered with cold, and prayed to die.
Suddenly she saw a light in the distance, and climbed toward it till she reached the top of the mountain. Upon the highest peak burned a large fire, surrounded by twelve blocks of stone on which sat twelve strange beings. Of these the first three had white hair, three were not quite so old, three were young and handsome, and the rest still younger.
There they all sat silently looking at the fire. They were the Twelve Months of the Year. The great January was placed higher than the others. His hair and mustache were white as snow, and in his hand he held a wand. At first Marouckla was afraid, but after a while her courage returned, and drawing near, she said:
"Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? I am chilled by the winter cold."
The great January raised his head and answered:
"What brings thee here, my daughter? What dost thou seek?"
"I am looking for violets," replied the maiden.
"This is not the season for violets. Dost thou not see the snow everywhere?" said January.
"I know well, but my sister Helen and my stepmother have ordered me to bring them violets from your mountain. If I return without them they will kill me. I pray you, good shepherds, tell me where they may be found."
Here the great January arose and went over to the youngest of the Months, and, placing his wand in his hand, said:
"Brother March, do thou take the highest place."
March obeyed, at the same time waving his wand over the fire.
Immediately the flames rose toward the sky, the snow began to melt and the trees and shrubs to bud. The grass became green, and from between its blades peeped the pale primrose. It was spring, and the meadows were blue with violets.
"Gather them quickly, Marouckla," said March.
Joyfully she hastened to pick the flowers, and having soon a large bunch she thanked them and ran home. Helen and the stepmother were amazed at the sight of the flowers, the scent of which filled the house.
"Where did you find them?" asked Helen.
"Under the trees on the mountain-side," said Marouckla. Helen kept the flowers for herself and her mother. She did not even thank her stepsister for the trouble she had taken. The next day she desired Marouckla to fetch her strawberries.
"Run," said she, "and fetch me strawberries from the mountain. They must be very sweet and ripe."
"But whoever heard of strawberries ripening in the snow?" exclaimed Marouckla.
"Hold your tongue, worm; don't answer me. If I don't have my strawberries I will kill you," said Helen.
Then the stepmother pushed Marouckla into the yard and bolted the door. The unhappy girl made her way toward the mountain and to the large fire round which sat the Twelve Months. The great January occupied the highest place.
"Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills me," said she, drawing near. The great January raised his head and asked: "Why comest thou here? What dost thou seek?"
"I am looking for strawberries," said she.
"We are in the midst of winter," replied January, "strawberries do not grow in the snow."
"I know," said the girl sadly, "but my sister and stepmother have ordered me to bring them strawberries. If I do not they will kill me. Pray, good shepherds, tell me where to find them."
The great January arose, crossed over to the Month opposite him, and putting the wand in his hand, said: "Brother June, do thou take the highest place."
June obeyed, and as he waved his wand over the fire the flames leaped toward the sky. Instantly the snow melted, the earth was covered with verdure, trees were clothed with leaves, birds began to sing, and various flowers blossomed in the forest. It was summer. Under the bushes masses of star-shaped flowers changed into ripening strawberries, and instantly they covered the glade, making it look like a sea of blood.
"Gather them quickly, Marouckla," said June.
Joyfully she thanked the Months, and having filled her apron ran happily home. Helen and her mother wondered at seeing the strawberries, which filled the house with their delicious fragrance.
"Wherever did you find them?" asked Helen crossly.
"Right up among the mountains. Those from under the beech trees are not bad," answered Marouckla.
Helen gave a few to her mother and ate the rest herself. Not one did she offer to her stepsister. Being tired of strawberries, on the third day she took a fancy for some fresh, red apples.
"Run, Marouckla," said she, "and fetch me fresh, red apples from the mountain." "Apples in winter, sister? Why, the trees have neither leaves nor fruit!"
"Idle thing, go this minute," said Helen; "unless you bring back apples we will kill you."
As before, the stepmother seized her roughly and turned her out of the house. The poor girl went weeping up the mountain, across the deep snow, and on toward the fire round which were the Twelve Months. Motionless they sat there, and on the highest stone was the great January.
"Men of God, may I warm myself at your fire? The winter cold chills me," said she, drawing near.
The great January raised his head. "Why comest thou here? What does thou seek?" asked he.
"I am come to look for red apples," replied Marouckla.
"But this is winter, and not the season for red apples," observed the great January.
"I know," answered the girl, "but my sister and stepmother sent me to fetch red apples from the mountain. If I return without them they will kill me."
Thereupon the great January arose and went over to one of the elderly Months, to whom he handed the wand saying:
"Brother September, do thou take the highest place." September moved to the highest stone, and waved his wand over the fire. There was a flare of red flames, the snow disappeared, but the fading leaves which trembled on the trees were sent by a cold northeast wind in yellow masses to the glade. Only a few flowers of autumn were visible. At first Marouckla looked in vain for red apples. Then she espied a tree which grew at a great height, and from the branches of this hung the bright, red fruit. September ordered her to gather some quickly. The girl was delighted and shook the tree. First one apple fell, then another.
"That is enough," said September, "hurry home."
Thanking the Months she returned joyfully. Helen and the stepmother wondered at seeing the fruit.
"Where did you gather them?" asked the stepsister.
"There are more on the mountain-top," answered Marouckla.
"Then, why did you not bring more?" said Helen angrily. "You must have eaten them on your way back, you wicked girl."
"No, dear sister, I have not even tasted them," said Marouckla. "I shook the tree twice. One apple fell each time. Some shepherds would not allow me to shake it again, but told me to return home."
"Listen, mother," said Helen. "Give me my cloak. I will fetch some more apples myself. I shall be able to find the mountain and the tree. The shepherds may cry `Stop!' but I will not leave go till I have shaken down all the apples."
In spite of her mother's advice she wrapped herself in her pelisse, put on a warm hood, and took the road to the mountain. Snow covered everything. Helen lost herself and wandered hither and thither. After a while she saw a light above her, and, following in its direction, reached the mountain-top.
There was the flaming fire, the twelve blocks of stone, and the Twelve Months. At first she was frightened and hesitated; then she came nearer and warmed her hands. She did not ask permission, nor did she speak one polite word.
"What hath brought thee here? What dost thou seek?" said the great January severely.
"I am not obliged to tell you, old graybeard. What business is it of yours?" she replied disdainfully, turning her back on the fire and going toward the forest.
The great January frowned, and waved his wand over his head. Instantly the sky became covered with clouds, the fire went down, snow fell in large flakes, an icy wind howled round the mountain. Amid the fury of the storm Helen stumbled about. The pelisse failed to warm her benumbed limbs. The mother kept on waiting for her. She looked from the window, she watched from the doorstep, but her daughter came not. The hours passed slowly, but Helen did not return.
"Can it be that the apples have charmed her from her home?" thought the mother. Then she clad herself in hood and pelisse, and went in search of her daughter. Snow fell in huge masses. It covered all things. For long she wandered hither and thither, the icy northeast wind whistled in the mountain, but no voice answered her cries.
Day after day Marouckla worked, and prayed, and waited, but neither stepmother nor sister returned. They had been frozen to death on the mountain.
The inheritance of a small house, a field, and a cow fell to Marouckla. In course of time an honest farmer came to share them with her, and their lives were happy and peaceful.
What a great tale! And on the Children's Literature Web Guide, the Cinderella page lists many ideas for classroom use and actiivities to do with this story. Another, slightly different version of the story is on the Sacred Texts website, and on this one. And there is an article in Wikipedia about a Soviet film version of the story, made in 1956.
A Greek version of the story, told by my friend and storyteller Cathy Mosley, is available on H-Net. And then there is this Czech version, which is more like the Olcott story above.
The Baldwin Project offers many classic children's stories, and there is a version of the Twelve Months from the book Fairy Stories Every Child Should Know by Kate Douglas Wiggin & Nora Archibald Smith .
For more information than you'll ever need about calendars, Bill Hollon's site is the place to go with a good bibliography, a FAQ and well-organized information.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Scones: My Mother's Recipe
I learned to make scones from my English mother, who learned from her mother. These will not taste like the scones you buy at a coffee shop. They are not as sweet, and not as fatty. Think sweet biscuit, but with a denser consistency.
They are best eaten warm from the oven; they will keep and freeze well, but you definitely will want to warm them a little in a microwave or toaster because they get hard on cooling ("Stones" is what my sons called cold scones!). Like many old-time recipes, these were probably made to keep for longer periods of time without special storage like refrigeration (like fruitcake--made right and sealed in a tin, it can keep for at least a year).
We always made our scones with raisins, but you can vary the recipe with currants, cranberries, and whatever you think might work. Easy to make and delicious warm with real butter!
Scones
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 c. sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 c. butter
2 c. raisins
enough milk to mix the above ingredients.
Mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder. Add raisins. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender.
Add milk and mix into a dough to about the consistency of biscuit dough. Pat out to about 1" thick on a floured pastry board and cut into squares.
Bake in a 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes.
(My mother rarely measured anything, so her recipes had a lot of "about" and "pinch" and "a bit" in them.)
They are best eaten warm from the oven; they will keep and freeze well, but you definitely will want to warm them a little in a microwave or toaster because they get hard on cooling ("Stones" is what my sons called cold scones!). Like many old-time recipes, these were probably made to keep for longer periods of time without special storage like refrigeration (like fruitcake--made right and sealed in a tin, it can keep for at least a year).
We always made our scones with raisins, but you can vary the recipe with currants, cranberries, and whatever you think might work. Easy to make and delicious warm with real butter!
Scones
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
2 1/2 c. all-purpose flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/2 c. sugar
pinch of salt
1/4 c. butter
2 c. raisins
enough milk to mix the above ingredients.
Mix together the flour, sugar, salt, and baking powder. Add raisins. Cut in the butter with a pastry blender.
Add milk and mix into a dough to about the consistency of biscuit dough. Pat out to about 1" thick on a floured pastry board and cut into squares.
Bake in a 400 degree oven for about 20 minutes.
(My mother rarely measured anything, so her recipes had a lot of "about" and "pinch" and "a bit" in them.)
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Ice Crystals
Photo from wikimediaMy grandson shows me how it works— hold the can six inches from the window and spray.
A frost appears,
just like Jack Frost painted
years ago
on the windows in our big drafty house with single-paned windows that let in every puff of winter's breath,
funhouse windows that provided a waved and bubbled view
of Quarry Road and the houses across the way.
Icy fronds and furls etched in delicate ice
glinted pink with the first rays of a December morning sun
as we dreamed of faraway snowy places like Russia,
and the Snow Maiden and Silverhoof.
Sometimes the ice would be thick
at the bottom of the window,
at the bottom of the window,
mounded in ribs like a frozen tree trunk
spreading into branches with icy fern foliage
until finally it was only a thin sheet of clear ice
that we licked with warm red tongues,
or melted with our fingertips,
lifting off in pieces with fingernails to eat,
delighted at the taste of winter
and frozen window grime.
and frozen window grime.
The can of spray in my hand lists directions,
but nowhere on the lable does it mention
how to dream of Russia, ice ferns or magic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
