Cottage Blessings

An Old Woman of the Roads

Exactly two years ago, "An Old Woman of the Roads" by Padraic Column appeared as the first Cottage Blessings post. This is a poem I've always loved that touches upon the theme intended for this blog--gratitude for the simple blessings of home and family. It has become a custom of mine to repeat the poem every year--I hope you will love it as much as I do.

An Old Woman of the Roads
by Padraic Colum (1881-1972)

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping the hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loath to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house, a house of my own,
Out of the wind's and the rain's way

A Step Back in Time

The Roman city of Pompeii, suddenly decimated by the wrath of Mount Vesuvius, is, as you know, a perfectly preserved example of an Ancient Roman town. There to this day you will find uncracked eggs gathered in a bowl, a leashed dog curled in endless sleep, pots and pans left set to boil upon the fire--the precise and permanent picture of life as it was at a distinct moment in time.

This was exactly the way we found things here at home upon our return from San Francisco.

The truth is that I had done no preparation for our three month trip, hurling some clothes in a box to be shipped to our destination one or two days before leaving New York and that's about it. Upon our return, I was amazed to find the house exactly as we had left it, the perfect time capsule of our life back in May. A script from A Midsummer Night's Dream sat splayed on its spine; a Scrabble game in progress awaited a next move on the coffee table; a pitcher of pink peonies drooped forlornly on the mantle, the centerpiece from our almost forgotten Rhododendron Tea.

The Mary Garden outside, long neglected and left to nature, reminded me of Sleeping Beauty's Castle, the green things embracing Our Lady so that we could hardly find her. Full grown melons we had never planted huddled beneath the hostas, their vines and yellow blooms crocheted in a chain stitch throughout the unruly bed. Tomatoes sprang up mysteriously, the evidence of a child's afternoon snack all those months ago.

It was only yesterday--believe it or not--that I entered the learning room in the cottage for the first time, surprised to find scrap paper, books, blocks--all left in their places since May. I reached for a garbage bag, tossing the useless papers indiscriminately, when my eye fell upon a bright yellow sheet covered in numbers. It was Agnes' scrap paper from last year's foray into Algebra. Words were written on one side that made me laugh out loud--the "doodling" of a student whose mind was evidently more on Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night's Dream (not to mention escape!) than anything else.

Here is her simple [she's only changed a few words from the original], yet amusing, parody of Nick Bottom's speech to the "Wall" from Pyramus and Thisbe, the play within a play:

O grim-look'd math! O math with print so black!
O math, which ever art when play is not!
O math, O math! alack, alack, alack,
I fear my mother's promise is forgot!
And thou, O door, O sweet, O lovely door,
That stand'st between the smaller house and mine!
Thou door, O door, O sweet and lovely door,
Show me thy pane, to blink through with mine eyne!

Thanks, courteous door:
Jove shield thee well for this!
But what see I?
No recess do I see.
O wicked door, through whom I see no bliss!
Cursed be thy wood for thus deceiving me!

*******

I must admit to enjoying this visit to our lives as they were in May.

Still, I think it may be time for a bit of spring cleaning to bring us back into the present!

[This is the 500th Cottage Blessings post.]

For mothers, a poem worth considering

Any Woman

I am the pillars of the house;
The keystone of the arch am I.
Take me away, and roof and wall
Would fall to ruin me utterly.

I am the fire upon the hearth,
I am the light of the good sun,
I am the heat that warms the earth,
Which else were colder than a stone.

At me the children warm their hands;
I am their light of love alive.
Without me cold the hearthstone stands,
Nor could the precious children thrive.

I am the twist that holds together
The children in its sacred ring,
Their knot of love, from whose close tether
No lost child goes a-wandering.

I am the house from floor to roof,
I deck the walls, the board I spread;
I spin the curtains, warp and woof,
And shake the down to be their bed.

I am their wall against all danger,
Their door against the wind and snow,
Thou Whom a woman laid in a manger,
Take me not till the children grow!

--Katharine Tynan (1861-1931)

[My father's favorite poet, William Butler Yeats, advised Katharine Tynan to specialize in Irish Catholic poetry. I think he made the right call.]

From Cottage to Castle

After two Cottage Garden performances of A Midsummer Night's Dream, the children had the honor of presenting the show at a local Museum and formal Garden. As you will see from the photographs below, the setting was perfect for our frolicking fairies, with lush lawns, a glassy pool, and even a Greek Theatre.

Titania and her attendants were a page out of an Arthur Rackham fairy book:

Oberon, Titania, and Puck:

Sprinting Sprites:

Misunderstanding rages:

Hermia restrained:

Mischievous Puck and Hapless Bottom:

The cast at the Greek Theatre:

A Woodland Fairy:
[HT for this last lovely photo: MacBeth]
*******

My friend, Almamater, of the lovely blog, Soul of the Home, was kind enough to write:

Absolutely gorgeous! I hope you will offer more commentary on how all of this was organized...how often were rehearsals, how were roles assigned (auditions?), etc. A hearty congratulations to ALL involved with the production!

Many thanks for asking, Almamater! Here is the long version, told I fear, in about as many words as the unabridged play itself:

In late September of 2005, we collaborated with four or five families to put on a skit called "Comus." My friend Kari had read that this play is presented every year at Ludlow Castle on the Feast of St. Michael the Archangel and thought it would be a wonderful tradition to begin with our children. Kari wrote our version based on a fabulous picture book adapted from John Milton's original work by Margaret Hodges and illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman. Kari directed, MacBeth created the scenery, and I hosted the practices and performance. We called ourselves "The Front Lawn Players," with a humorous tip of the hat to my front lawn. Our oldest cast member was then about twelve. The skit, which took six weeks to prepare and perform, was so enjoyable and successful, that we planned to repeat it as a yearly event.

Then in the Summer of 2006, Kari suggested we try instead an adaptation of A Midsummer Night's Dream from the out of print book, Shakespeare for Young Players: from Tens to Teens by Gertrude Lerner Kerman. She assigned parts to the original Front Lawn Players without audition, expecting to prepare and perform in the same six week time frame as Comus. From start to finish, the play would have taken about twenty minutes to a half hour to complete. Puck was the central character in the abridged version, and my daughter Margaret, the perfect eight-year-old imp for the role, learned her lines in a day. This made Kari wonder if we might not be able to do a longer version, particularly when we realized that the play had not only been cut down in the abridgement, but also altered significantly in form and language. Who wants to perform Shakespeare that isn't really Shakespeare?

The other mothers and I were all for performing the full length version, but this changed matters significantly. We would not be able to work in the planned six week time frame, but would need the entire school year to practice and learn the parts. One or two cast members could not make the commitment and dropped out, but we managed to fill all the roles with children from our local homeschooling group. We met weekly at our house from October 2006 to the time of our performances in May, with all the mothers helping to bring the production together. Mary Smith and a group of the children designed and created the wonderful costumes. MacBeth and another contingent worked on the sets and program. Caroline, Mary Ellen, Tracey, Julie, Tricia, Patrice and Patty helped behind the scenes with everything from sewing and snacks to props and baby-holding. The talented Libby Derham, Ryan Barrett, and Sean Tuffy provided the music. It was an amazing collaboration and group effort with each person offering something unique and necessary.

In the end, we performed twice in the Cottage Garden and once in the gracious setting pictured above. Each and every time, the cast was applauded by a large and appreciative crowd. It was amazing to see these young children put heart, soul and effort into their performances. The cast lived and breathed Shakespeare for a year, and what an experience it was! [Does anyone remember six-year-old Marie's Spoons from last year?] From October to May, the children grew into their parts and soared, putting on a memorable and heartfelt performance defying their young ages (averaging about ten, with the roles of Puck and Nick Bottom pulled off by two nine-year-olds). The Museum was only too happy to host the final production, welcoming us with open arms and even sending a PR person to photograph.

I cannot stress enough what a delightful, edifying, and worthwhile project this was for all of us, and the children--already close friends--are as affectionate toward one another as cousins after this shared experience. Best of all, everyone in my house from thirteen to three is able to quote Shakespeare and quote it well. Maureen, our three year old, makes a plucky miniature Puck if ever there was one!

From now on, my prayer is that Springtime will always mean Shakespeare in the Garden!

Wise Men's Gifts, Plan C, or a Bit of Unexpected Poetry

It was getting late in the day when I asked Agnes to write the three letters to Jesus on behalf of our family for our Christmas and Epiphany Tea. I told her my vision for the project, rattling off the top of my head something akin to the sample I posted here yesterday. She said, "Sure, Mom," and returned 45 minutes later with these, each separate letter written in careful script with a line drawing of the individual Wise Man kneeling before the Infant to offer his gift.

Letter Number One:

Dear Jesus,

Melchior brought
His gift of gold
For he had legions
Of wealth untold.
But You were poor
And had nought but rags
And a stable to shut out the cold.

So do we give
The gold that we make
Away to the Church
For Your people's sake.
And with Your help,
May we not withhold
From those that You love
The least scrap of our Gold.

Letter Number Two:

Dear Jesus,

Caspar was wise
And he knew not to bring
A gift that was meant
For an earthly king.
He neither gave livestock,
Nor clothing, nor wine--
He gave you a gift
That was for the Divine.
May all that we offer--
Our thoughts and our prayers--
Rise to heaven like incense
For all of our years.
To Thee do we cry, Lord,
For You we are yearning--
May the incense we offer You
Never stop burning.

Letter Number Three:

Dear Jesus,

As Balthazar watched
A tear came to his eye--
How could he tell Mary
Her Son would soon die?
He knew of the sorrow
It would give to her.
He spoke not a word
Yet he offered You myrrh.

As, surrounding the manger,
We witness Your birth,
Let us offer our sorrow
As well as our mirth.
When You leave the world
It will be a great loss--
Perhaps, by our pains,
We can lighten Your cross.

Baby Jesus was not the only one to receive three gifts today.

An Old Woman of the Roads

If you visit the January 2006 Cottage Blessings archives and scroll down to January 1, 2006, you will find three faltering posts written on the blank slate of this brave new blogging world, so unfamiliar to me at the time. Padraic Colum assisted with the first one, lending his stirring poem, "An Old Woman of the Roads," to help me dip a toe into unchartered blogging waters. The other two entries featured photos of my husband's traditional New Year's Day Breakfast and our tower of cupcakes honoring Mary, Mother of God.

Just for fun, I would like to share three similar pieces here tonight, proving that, although these years are fleeting, there is comfort in their very constancy. Maybe that is the key to why we all love simplicity and tradition so much.

You will note that the "Old Woman" looks a bit better this year. Perhaps it is because she is relieved to have settled in our Cottage and is humming an ancient tune to herself by the fireside.

Or maybe it is just that a year later, I know how to work Typepad fonts:

An Old Woman of the Roads

by Padraic Colum (1881-1972)

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping the hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loath to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house, a house of my own,
Out of the wind's and the rain's way

Not to be missed

My dear friend Amy's poetry goes beyond the Haiku of a Homeschooler in this witty look at Advent Preparation: 'Twas the Night Before Advent.

And Amy, I can't thank you enough for including Cottage Blessings in your poem!

When the frost is on the punkin'

Please head out to the Cottage Garden to read Theresa's thoughts on the wonders of Autumn.

"Where I'm From" by Agnes, age 12

I am from the Linden House, from Hershey bars and Egg-Land's Best.
I am from the sprawling fields and the cottage I call home...
The steadfast lamp-post and the sound of whistling wind within the pines,
The smell of night that sets the stars in an endless sapphire dome.

I am from the Rhododendron and the rough-edged dandelion,
I am from barbecues and babies every year
From Neil and Alice (all of them) and Gunthers with O'Briens,
I am from "Living Books" and Little Flowers here.

From: "Someday, pick a man like Dad" and parents who would never fight.
I am from the Catholic church, the Easter Vigil masses.
(The "Exsulset" and "Lauda Sion" stun me with their glory,
I've heard them many times, and yet their beauty never passes.)

I'm from the Empire State, from Ireland and Germany's Black Forest,
Dad's eggs and tacos that it isn't Saturday without;
The murderous maneater lurking in the depths of Matawan Creek
(My grand-uncle nearly became his prey, but my great-grandfather heard his cry
and rescued him--his shirt became a compress for his wound.)

My grandfather whose marble grave is weighted down with stones
and photographs in Ziplock bags; the warm smile of my mother.
I am from the photo albums and from all our online "Blogs"
And all the places where we've been together with each other.

The pond where the blackbird's crimson wings flash in the evening light
And the goblin-like catfish come to eat from our hands
The candlelit procession through the streets on Mary's night
The turf near the 'Thunderpath' and the docks by the Crystal Beach

The bungalow in Barryville, the pageants at St. Paul's,
But mostly there's the Linden House, the place that I call home,
For I feel we've been there always, just my family and me,
And I'll return there when I have a family of my own.

HT: Lissa

The Feast of St. Joseph the Worker

A year or so ago, Agnes wrote a poem for my husband appropriate for today's feast. May God bless and keep all our husbands and fathers!

Protector of the Family

by Agnes (about age 11)

In different times and places do they stand,
Saint Joseph and the sturdy father who,
Works hard and long each day to feed his band,
Of merry little ones, their mother, too.
Yet none can name a difference between
Saint Joseph, and the man who at the door,
Is greeted by his wife and tiny son,
Such is the payment he has waited for!
Saint Joseph, please protect and bless this man,
Who shields us from the wicked things below,
Who, in his turn, protects his family,
Just as you did, so many years ago.