Covid Journal, Day 205: Differences and a Story

After a brilliant afternoon, rain came in the night and today is much cooler. 62 this morning, and not much above that now. But after a cloudy morning, we've had a bright blue sky.

We started the day with a power outage. This one was planned. Well, actually, so was the outage yesterday. Apparently the power company is doing maintenance, so that's a good thing, right? It just makes for a few awkward hours as we figure out what to do with our power-less time. I mostly used it for cleaning, or at least, cleaning where I could see well enough to do it. And painting. I've got several projects in the pipeline so I got them into places where I had some light and could work.

Plenty of light outside!

Today, I continued with cleaning, and decided to sort out my husband's dresser drawers. No matter that I sort and fold his clothes for him to put away, he manages somehow to unfold them and then stuff them willy-nilly into the drawers. And new socks and t-shirts don't seem to convey the message to get rid of the old ones, so I had a lovely clean-out, and he now has much more space. And everything organized. I wonder how long that will last. 

It is funny how different we are about some things. I want my dresser neatly organized, and when I was working I even had my closet organized by color. I like my kitchen the same way, and everything put back in the same place so I can easily reach for what I need. The same holds true for my work areas in my ebay room and the furniture workroom. Although to most people my ebay room probably looks like chaos, it's organized chaos and I can usually find what I need quickly. 

In the other workroom I try to keep my worktable and cabinets of paint, screws, nails etc organized, with clear space to actually, umm, work. But unfortunately I have to share the space with Larry, and he cheerfully spills over into my space until there is literally no room for me. The table will be covered, the cabinets open and things pulled out, nails and screws on the floor, the pegboard empty of tools. He's the kind that likes to have everything out where he can see it--so like my mother that it's a wonder the two of them weren't blood relatives! We both get things done, and I constantly marvel at how he manages to do so in such a cataclysmic mess. But there it is--he does.

All this reminds me of the old folktale of the husband and wife that decided to trade jobs for a day. The man was so sure his wife had an easier time of it, you see, and that he would do her work with no trouble at all. Here's the story--this version is from the National Museum of Wales, but there are other versions. Most agree that the story originated in Sweden.

The Farmer Who Does His Wife's Housework

Lewis T Evans (1882-1975)

There was an old farmer, and his wife could not please him at all with the housework, and no food pleased him, nor doing anything at all. But one day she says to him:

'Good gracious, John! You shall work in the house tomorrow and I shall go with the servants.'

'All right', he said, 'I'll set you a good example.'

And that's what happened. The woman went out next morning with the men, and he went at it. He had to churn to begin with. There was a churn in the house, and there was a cow that needed to be taken to a piece of land by the side of the house. And there was a big cliff there, and he was afraid she would fall over it. And what did he do but tie a rope round her horns and put a rope down the chimney and tied it round his leg. And then he went to churn. He left the churn for a little while and the sow came in and turned it over. He took a floor brush and killed the sow dead.

And it was high time for him to make dinner by then. He thought of making porridge. He put the pot on the fire, with water and oats in it. And lo, the cow went over the cliff and pulled him up the chimney.

And the men came home - the wife as well - and the first thing they saw was the cow hanging over the cliff. And they came into the house and they cut the rope, and what did they see but the sow dead in the middle of the butter milk, and the old farmer had come down the chimney head first into the pot of porridge.  Source: https://museum.wales/collections/folktales/?story=12 

In other versions, the husband puts the cow on the roof of the house--the house had a grass roof, like some in northern Europe and Iceland. 

Well, I have to admit, my man is very good at housework. He can cook, clean, sweep, do laundry and almost all the things I do, while I on the other hand cannot, or really don't want to, do the things he does, like tractor work, roof repair, plumbing, etc. etc. So I try not to complain about his messy ways. It works for him, and that's all that matters, right? I promise I'm not gritting my teeth as I type!

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Blowing Hot and Cold

This is really getting annoying. I am thankful now that the weather turned cold again so I don't have to feel bad about dragging around! This time it's a head cold, nothing serious but no fun either.

The funny thing about a cold is that while it is called a cold, I feel hot. My head feels warm, my breath heated. At the same time, my feet and hands are cold and I want to bundle up in a sweatshirt and blanket and huddle by the fire.

Which reminded me of this story from Aesop:

Hot and Cold with the Same Breath

A man and his new friend once sat down to drink a toast to their friendship. It was a cold winter day, and the man put his fingers to his mouth and blew on them.

"Why are you blowing on your fingers?" the friend asked.

"My fingers are so cold, I am blowing on them to warm them up," the man explained.

Later that day the man and his friend sat down to eat. Steam rose from their bowls; the food was very hot. So the man held the bowl to his lips and blew across the soup.

"What are you doing?" asked the friend. "Are you trying to warm your soup? I assure you, it is boiling hot already!"

"Oh no," said the first man, "I am blowing on it to cool it down. It is so hot it would burn my mouth."

"Well, I cannot remain friends with you," said the second man. "One who blows hot and cold with the same breath is not one to be trusted."

Have you heard the saying, "he blows hot one minute and cold the next"?  Now you know its source.

I am off to have some more chicken noodle soup. I made a new pot today as it seems to be the only thing I really want to eat right now. So soup, and tea, and fire, and a good book are my prescription for the rest of today.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Downsizing, Hans Style

My life is intertwined with stories. Whatever I do or think about seems to remind me of a story. Today some friends were discussing downsizing, and the conversation reminded me of this story.

Hans in Luck

from the Brothers Grimm

Hans had served his master faithfully for seven years.

One morning Hans said to his master, "Master, it is time for me to go back home to my mother. Please pay me what you owe me for my work."

"You have been a good worker, Hans. You have earned your pay." He gave Hans a huge piece of gold! Hans tied the gold up in his handkerchief   put it on his shoulder, and started down the road. The gold was quite heavy but Hans kept on, one foot in front of the other.

Soon a man approached on horseback. Hans was sweating by now, and he called out to the rider, "What a fine thing it is to ride! There you sit, saving your shoes, and making your way without even breaking a sweat."
The rider stopped and called out, "Hello, Hans! Why are you going on foot?"
"I've got this big lump of gold that I have to carry home, and no horse to ride. It's fair wearing me out."
"Tell you what," said the rider. "Let's trade. I will give you my horse, and you can give me that heavy lump."
"Thank you!" said Hans.So Hans got the horse and rode off quite happy with his trade. You can imagine how the rider felt! He called out to Hans, "If you want him to go faster, just call jup, jup!"

"I will!" shouted Hans.

After a little while Hans wanted to go faster, so he clicked his tongue and called out, "jup, jup." The horse started a fast trot, so fast that he threw Hans off into a ditch. Fortunately a peasant was passing by and caught the horse. The peasant's cow stood patiently waiting at the end of a rope.

Hans said, "This riding is no good for me, especially with a horse like this one that throws a man off into the ditch! Now I like your cow, she's quiet and you can have milk, butter, and cheese every day. How I would love to have a cow instead of this ornery horse!

"Well," said the peasant, "I'd be happy to trade my cow for your horse."

The deal was made, and Hans walked off happy with his new bargain. The day grew hotter and hotter, and soon Hans saw that he would have to cross a moor, with hot noon sun upon him. "Before I start that part of my journey, I'll milk my cow and refresh myself." he sat down to milk, but this was something he'd never done before. He tried and tried, but got not one drop of milk, and the cow was getting more and more restless and irritable. Finally she upped with her back foot and gave Hans such a kick that he rolled over and over down a small hill, and when he stopped his head was spinning.

When he could finally see straight again, he saw a butcher coming toward him with a wheelbarrow. In the wheelbarrow was a young, fat pig. The butcher helped Hans up and Hans told him of his troubles with his cow.

"Well it's no wonder!" said the butcher. "That is an old beast! She'll not be giving milk again in her lifetime."

"Oh," cried Hans, "I have been fooled! What a fool am I"

"Now then,"said the butcher, "Here's what we can do. I can trade you my pushcart and pig for your old cow. I can get something from her for meat, I think."

The deal was made. Hans took the pig, tying a rope around its neck to lead it, and was well pleased. The butcher took the cow's lead rope and went on his way, happy to have such a fine young milker to add to his barn.

"This is fine," thought Hans. "I shall have bacon and ham and..."

But the pig slipped from its rope and ran over the hill. Hans chased after it, falling into briars and mud and until he was quite scratched and dirty by the time he caught the pig.

A boy carrying a fat white goose watched Hans walk back to the road.

"You'd be better off with this goose," the boy said. "See how fat she is! And how quietly she lays in my arms. She'll be a fine feast, and her feathers will stuff a lovely pillow." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "And I hear that someone stole the mayor's pig out of his sty. I do believe the pig you have there looks very much like it. I can help you out of this mess though. I can trade you my goose, and take that pig where I am going, no one there knows about the mayor's pig. And you will not be in trouble for having it when you go through town."

"Oh please," cried Hans, "please take this pig! I do not want to be thrown into jail!"

The trade was made and the boy led the pig away at a fast pace. Hans, relieved to be rid of it, set off for home with the goose under his arm.

"I do believe I made a good deal there," he said to himself. "I will have a fine meal of it with my mother, and a soft pillow to lay my head on too."

As he was going through the last village, he saw a scissors grinder with his cart. As the grinding wheel spunm the man sang,

I sharpen scissors and quickly grind, My coat blows out in the wind behind.

Hans stood and watched, and then said, "You seem a very merry man, with your grinding."

"Yes," answered the scissors grinder, "this trade is as good as gold in my pocket. But where did you buy that fine goose?"

"I did not buy it, I traded my pig for it."
"But where did you get the pig?"
" I got it for a cow."
"And how did you come by the cow?"
"I got it for a horse."
"And what about the horse?"
"For that I gave a lump of gold as big as my head."
"How in the world did you get the gold?"
"Well, that was my pay for seven years' work."

"You know how to look after yourself," said the grinder. "Now if you were a grinder like me, you'd have your fortune made, money jingling in your pockets all the time."
"Yes! I would like that! How do I become a grinder?"
"Well, all you need is skill and a good grindstone. People will flock to you, money in their hands! Listen, I have an old stone here, a little worn but but perfectly good. I'd be glad to trade it to you for your goose." the man walked behind a bush and picked up an old fieldstone. "This one, you can get it back in shape in no time at all, a smart boy like you."
"Really?" answered Hans. "I am the luckiest man alive! Money whenever I put my hand in my pocket, and I will never have to want for anything again!" He handed over the goose and took the stone.

Hans went on his way, as happy as he could be. "I must have been born lucky," he cried. "Now I have a real trade!"

It was getting late and Hans was feeling the effects of his long walk and many trades. The stone was heavy too, so his steps were dragging when ahead of him he saw a well. "Ah, a cool drink will refresh me for the rest of my journey." He laid his stone carefully on the edge of the well, and bent over to pull up the bucket. But his elbow hit the stone and knocked it over the edge, and down down down into the deep well.

Hans watched it fall and heard the splash when it hit the water.

"Ah me!" he cried, What a lucky lad I am! Now I have nothing to burden me! I am as free as a bird to walk and go about as I like!" And with a light heart he ran all the rest of the way home, where his dear old mother was delighted to see him.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

A Story from China: The Cracked Pot

Many of us who like vintage things have a cracked bowl, plate, cup, or other item that we continue to use despite its damage. This story from China illustrates why we continue to use something less than perfect. 

A man once owned two pots. Each day he carried the pots on a pole across his shoulders to a nearby river where he would fill the pots carefully, then carry them back to his home. Water dripped from the cracked pot as he walked and by the time he reached his house half of the water in that pot was gone, while the other was still full. 

A neighbor watched the man carrying the broken pot and dripping the water along the path for months until his curiosity got the best of him.

"Friend," he said, "You seem like an intelligent man. But why do you continue to carry that cracked pot to the river each day? I have watched you fill it many times, and always the water drips out along the path until by the time you reach your home it is only half full. Why do you not get the pot repaired, or buy a new one?"

The water bearer looked at his neighbor, and then pointed to the path along which he was walking. 

"I have always known about the flaw in this pot," he replied. "See the flowers on this side of the path? See how beautiful they are, how full of bloom? I planted them here. I have known about the crack in my pot and I have used it to water the flowers which I pick for my table. Without this old cracked pot, I would not have had such a bounty of blooms for my home. It serves its purpose well, just as it is."

This story could apply to any of us who are not perfect ourselves, couldn't it? All of us "cracked pots" can still spread beauty and love, and be useful, even with our flaws.


Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

England, Day 4: Swaffham

One of the first stories I told was a folktale called The Pedlar of Swaffham. I loved that story, and still do. I thought when I first learned it that it was a story about a fictitious town and a fictitious event. Later I learned that the town was real, but I still thought the story was just a folktale and nothing more.

And then this trip to England came up and when I looked at a map I saw how close we would be to the town of Swaffham. Would my cousins take me there, on a sort of story pilgrimage? Indeed they would. Swaffham, they told me, was a place they used to stop at as children, traveling to the coast with their parents. So why not also go to the coast? I was thrilled; we had wanted to go to Dover to see the site made famous in World War II but that was too far away. Hunstanton, Les said, was where his family often went, and my mother also went there in her childhood. So we planned a day trip to see both places.

Swaffham was busy, busy when we arrived. It is a market town and although it was not market day the town was jammed with people.

We decided to have tea first, and stopped at a neat little tea shoppe in town, one Les remember stopping at many times with his father.

I do like the tea shoppes; tea is easier on my stomach than coffee, and often you get a pot of tea instead of just a cup. Better and better.

 

Check out these scones!

I had a vague memory of having once seen online a sculpture of the Pedlar. Cousin John did not think there was such a thing, but he did know that in the church there were carvings of a pedlar and his dog. So once more, to the church we went. And what a church it was!

 

We found out the cause for the bustle: the town was getting ready for the Harvest Festival the next day. A lady named Maggie Clewes told me about the festival as she arranged her flowers, and graciously allowed me to take her photograph.

The church was full of people decorating, arranging flowers, cleaning, etc.

There was an arrangement of wheat, pumpkins and another vegetable that looked like an overgrown white beet. I asked Mrs. Clewes what it was and she told me it was a sugar beet; John said that these are one of the larger crops in the area.

A group of school children were there making sketches and playing on the pipe organ. Well, not actuall playing, making noise is more like it. I found it enjoyable, actually--how often do children get to play on such an instrument? Perhaps one of them will go on to actually become an organist.

But what about the pedlar? Was he real? We found the carvings; they were ornaments on the end of two pews, beautifully wrought in wood.

 

John Chapman

and his dog

 



 

and the aisle he paid to have restored.

 

 

 

There was also a stained glass window of the pedlar and his family, but my photo did not come out well at all. Cousin John knew a bit more about the story that I had not heard before: apparently the pedlar came into wealth and donated much of it to restore the north wing and roof of the church, and the parishoners were so grateful they dedicated that side to him and had the pedlar and his dog carved onto the pews.

As we were leaving we asked about any other sculptures of the pedlar. Well, said Mrs. Clewes, there was a sign with him on it. Perhaps that was what I was thinking of? We set off in search.

 

We found it, and yes, it was what I had seen. I had thought it was a sculpture but when I saw the wood sign, I realized my memory wasfaulty. So, mission accomplished. I had seen Swaffham where the story took place, I now knew that the pedlar's name was John Chapman and that he had had a stall in the market and that this was more than just a tale, this was a legend with some basis in fact. When I came home, I went looking for more information about this fascinating story, and found that the tale is well-documented in many records. So, if you would like to read the story yourself, here is one very good version.

The bottom line is that John Chapman was a very real person, he was a pedlar, and he did give a large amount of money toward restoration of the church. As to how he came by the money, that is less clear. Personally, I prefer to believe the popular version of the tale. How about you?



Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.