Because everyone loves a good story
When Spring Is Underground
We recently celebrated the first day of spring. There was still frost on the ground when I got up. My lilac trees are just shivering skeletons, and the naked maple in my front yard still lets all the sunshine filter down between its branches. We still have to wear hats and coats when we play outside. But do you know what else? The daffodil shoots by my downspout are already eight inches high. I saw a purple crocus blooming in my neighbor’s garden. And even though it still feels like winter, I know spring is coming.
Seven Weeks and Counting
You may remember that my baby, Eva, is in NICU. It has been seven weeks that we’ve made the daily trek back and forth between home and hospital. I still feel the strain of this double life, but I have so much to be thankful for. Slowly but surely, Eva is getting better. Thank you, God!
Just over a week ago, we were afraid that she would need a second, corrective surgery. From what we could tell by the amount of fluid being pumped out of her stomach, the first surgery site seemed to be obstructed or inadequate. The surgeon was patient: she offered us two ways to try fixing the problem before jumping right into the second, more invasive surgery. The first strategy was to give Eva some IV medication to encourage her stomach to contract and pass more fluid down. There could be side effects, she warned us, but they weren’t likely. Given the dangers of a second, non-laparoscopic surgery, we felt the risks of the medication were worth it.
The Threat of Impending Surgery
But I could decipher the surgeon’s tone. The medication was worth a shot, but it may not be enough. I left that conversation almost resigned to the idea of a second surgery. It seemed just about inevitable. After all, we had been begging God to heal Eva for weeks. Hundreds of people had been bringing her tiny body before the throne of God every day, and yet it seemed he hadn’t answered. My heart would leap when I heard that her fluid output had gone down during one shift, but it would sink again when she put out even more fluid the next time. She just didn’t seem to be getting better.
Before the surgeon would move on with either medication or surgery, she had planned an x-ray to see the flow of fluid through Eva’s stomach and organs. They had done this same test on Eva two weeks after the initial surgery, and the fluid that made it through her system was little and slow. Based on what I could see on the outside of Eva, this test wouldn’t yield much better results. But still we prayed for a miracle.
Requested but Not Expected
On the day of Eva’s test, I was nervously waiting for news at home. I logged in to her online medical records and refreshed the page again and again, hoping the results would post and put my mind at rest. Nothing posted. Finally, after I’d put my son down for a nap, I received a text message from the surgeon.
“Hi there! I just reviewed today’s study. Things look a lot better this time! Like really good!! Are you guys around today so I can come by and we can chat?”
My heart had been on a roller coaster of ups and downs for weeks, but now it shot up like a geyser. “Really good,” she said! “Really good!!” We planned to talk with her as soon as possible, and she confirmed that Eva’s stomach was able to pass fluid much better than she’d expected. Hopefully, with medication, Eva would be able to avoid another surgery after all!
Progress
I was shocked. Maybe dumbfounded and flabbergasted are better descriptions. I kept on whispering to myself, “Jesus, how did you do that??” He had been so sneaky! While I was hovering between hope and fear, my eyes glued on her fluctuating external progress, God was busy healing her inside. I couldn’t see it, but he had been at work all along.
We still have a way to go before Eva can come home, but she has made wonderful progress in the past few weeks. She is finally rid of the infernal stomach pump tube that had been down her throat her entire life. (In fact, she registered her complaint of the tube by yanking it out eight times in four days.) The mystery rash on her face is slowly getting better. And most exciting of all—she’s finally able to drink my milk! They’re slowly increasing the amount she can have each feeding, and we’re praying she can keep it down and continue to digest it well. Please pray that she will make speedy progress so we can be rid of her IV fluid and all the complications it causes. Once she’s free of that, she’ll be free of NICU, Lord willing. We can’t wait to have our little princess home with us!
Grace to Trust
My half-hour commute to and from the hospital is usually quiet. I don’t have much extra mental bandwidth for music, books, or podcasts at the moment. But the one album I keep coming back to is Shane and Shane’s live Hymns album. The lines from one old song sucker punch me every time:
“Jesus, Jesus, how I trust him.
“Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus” by Louisa M. R. Stead
How I’ve proved him o’er and o’er.
Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus,
O, for grace to trust him more.”
That last line is my prayer. I believe, Lord. Help my unbelief.
Spring Is Coming
Let’s be honest: God knows the extent of my belief (puny, apparently) and of my unbelief (fairly extensive). I know for a fact that he can heal Eva in an instant if he wants to. I just don’t know for a fact that he will do that. And I’m not sure which of those qualifies as belief anyway. After all, God isn’t a genie I can summon and force to do my bidding. He certainly hears and answers our prayers in his time, but he also knows best and will do what is best. And the best may not be what I’ve asked for.
So while I will continue to pray for the miracle of a quick recovery, I will also remember the miracle of a slow healing. When the frost is on the ground and the lilac trees shiver, spring is still coming. We’ve seen the crocus bloom, and we know the rest of the flowers are underground gearing up for a grand blossoming. God is still at work.
“O, for grace to trust him more.”
My Double Life
I feel like I’ve been living two lives lately.
No, this isn’t some confession of a duplicitous, devious second self. I mean it for real. Although I don’t usually blog about details of my personal life, I think I’ll make an exception today. After all, I’ve posted every week or two for the past three years, and now that pattern may be disrupted for a little while.
Why? Because I have a NICU baby.
Foiled Plans
Several months ago, we found out that the baby girl I was expecting was at risk for four different complications, three of which basically ruled out our plan for a home birth. To say I was bummed out doesn’t quite sum it up. I had delivered my first baby at home with a wonderful midwife and a superstar birth team including my husband and sister. That birth was no walk in the park, but at least I knew and trusted everyone who was present. We were all on the same page about what was best for baby. I didn’t have to worry about them whisking him away as soon as he (eveeeeentually) popped out. I felt safe.
But as it became apparent that Baby Girl might require immediate assistance even for breathing or circulation, the dream of a second home birth was washed out to sea by the waves of The Greater Good. But that’s all right. Worse things have happened, right?
Expecting the Unexpected
Then I underwent several tests so the doctors could figure out what, exactly, we could expect when she arrived. They tossed out scary-sounding diagnoses. Polyhydramnios. Duodenal atresia. Dilated esophagus. Trisomy 21. Missing hepatic portion of the inferior vena cava. Of course I knew that not every baby is born perfectly healthy. There are myriad problems that can surface even before birth. I just never applied that fact to my baby. But there we were, meeting with five medical professionals from different departments, all bracing us for surgery and an extended NICU stay when Baby finally arrived. This was certainly not in my plans.
What’s In a Name?
We decided on a name just over a month before Baby Girl was due. Because I’m slow to commit to anything, that was a big deal for me. We didn’t officially name our son until we were already holding him. But with our daughter, we wanted a name sooner. The doctors were telling me that, because I had a humongous excess of amniotic fluid, I might pop early. We wanted to be prepared for at least one thing: her name.
We chose Evangeline Sparrow. Evangeline means “bringer of good news.” While much of the news from doctors had been far from good, there was still much to be thankful for. The complications they expected weren’t fatal. With surgery and care, they were surmountable. That was plenty to rejoice in! But the good news we had in mind was the news of God’s love in the gospel. We wanted Eva’s story to bring hope of God’s mercy and grace wherever it was told.
We chose Sparrow because of the comforting truth in Matthew 10:29-31. Jesus assures his disciples that not a sparrow falls to the ground apart from the Father’s sovereign will. If God cares even for something as cheap and common as a sparrow, how much more will he care for our baby, whom He had chosen for this special task of spreading His glory?
Special Delivery
So we kicked our nursery preparations into high gear. She was due on February 28, but I had a sneaking suspicion we’d be meeting her sooner. Sure enough, my regular “practice contractions” started getting more serious on Friday, Jan. 29. I went through days of trying to take it easy. We wanted her to bake until she was 37 weeks, at which time the surgeons said they would be comfortable operating on her. On Jan. 29, I wasn’t even at the 36-week mark yet.
By Tuesday, Feb. 2, I couldn’t deny that the contractions weren’t for practice anymore. Early Wednesday morning, at 36 weeks and three days, we headed to the hospital. At 6:01 A.M., Eva made her grand entrance into the world, breathing, crying, and filling us all with thankfulness for the health she had. She was a full six pounds and looked great. I got to snuggle with her for 30 minutes (another miracle!) before they took her away for tests. Miracle of miracles: of the four concerns they’d had for her, only one remained! Thank you, God!
A Short Surgery and a Long Recovery
The one issue they’d expected all along turned out to be true: she had duodenal atresia, which is a blocked intestine below the stomach. Without surgery she wouldn’t be able to digest anything. They planned the surgery for the very next morning. Afterward, the surgeon drew us pictures of what “normal” insides looked like compared to what Eva’s insides looked like. God was really getting creative when he knit her together; many of her organs were in unexpected places. The surgeon connected things as well as she could, hoping that food would be able to pass through the stomach and into the intestines. So began the waiting game.
They had let us know in advance that this surgery could take up to a month to heal. So far we’ve been watching and praying for two and a half weeks with very little visible progress. There have been scary moments and encouraging moments, but it sure has added up to a lot of moments. I wanted God to tell the story my way—if Eva had to have surgery, I wanted the world’s fastest recovery so everyone could celebrate God’s miraculous healing, and then we could take our baby home. But He must have a different story in mind because we’re still waiting.
Blessings In Disguise
And this is where I find myself—living a double life. I spend the mornings at home with my husband and son. We play, eat, and do all the normal things we’ve always done. Then in the evenings I go see Eva. I sit in a quiet room holding my (usually) sleeping girl and listen to the beeping of her machines, the chatter of the nurses, the breathing of my baby. Hours go by pretty quickly there. Then I come home, go to bed, wake up, and do it all again.
And through it all, God has lavished his love on us. Eva’s surgery isn’t healing as quickly as we’d like, but it’s not infected. She seems comfortable most of the time, apart from the tube that pumps the fluid from her stomach and out of her mouth. She’s getting rest and growing stronger. Our family and friends have stepped in to help with everything from watching our son and bringing us meals to washing our dishes and fighting off a monstrous raccoon that stole the cornbread muffins from our front porch. (True story!) Many people have given money to help with medical expenses. Hundreds of people are praying. We are humbled on a daily basis by these tangible acts of love. God is good!
One Day at a Time
Yes, my heart feels the strain of this double life—sometimes more, sometimes less, but always present. We long for the day that we can bring Eva home. Until then, I’m thankful for the chance to spend time with both of my babies. God is sovereign over all of it, and as much as I’d like Him to tell the story my way, I’m learning to trust His plan.
So if I don’t send out a blog post as often as usual, I’m sure you’ll excuse my tardiness. And if you think of it, please pray for Eva and pray for us. May God be glorified. Thank you, friends!
2021: In These Certain Times
It’s 2021. If there’s anything that last year taught me, it’s now quickly I could get sick of a phrase like, “In these uncertain times.” Well, that and how much time and money I was actually spending at Hobby Lobby.
But seriously, folks, I know a lot of people really struggled to process all that 2020 brought our way. Global, national, and personal struggles flocked to 2020 like carp to spit. The mantra has been, “Is it 2021 yet?” As soon as the ball drops in the Covid-induced ghost town of Times Square, the year of nightmares will be over, and all our hopes and dreams will come true.
…Right?
But What If
Personally, 2020 wasn’t as hard on me as it was on many. I don’t watch the news, I don’t get worked up about politics, and I didn’t lose a job or a loved one to Covid. I know these are blessings from God, and I’m so thankful for them. This year I mostly just minded my own business and kept plugging away at life.
For me, uncertainty comes not so much from big, global events as from smaller, personal concerns. The day-to-day things are what cause me to stress, worry, and overthink. Currently I’m seven months pregnant with my second baby, a little girl. My hubby and I are deeply in love with her already, and we can’t wait to smooch her. But there’s some uncertainty. The ultrasounds showed a slight area of concern that could completely change my birth plans. Her first few weeks may look different than what I’d hoped. It’s possible that I’ll be put in a situation where I have no control over anything, and that, my friends, is one of my worst nightmares.
The Illusion of Control
But when I stop and think about it, do I ever actually have control anyway? I like to think so, but it’s not reality. And that’s the lesson that 2020 drove home in so many ways to so many people: We’re not in control. That’s really what made the year seem so rotten, isn’t it? The curtain was pulled back just a little bit, and our eyes followed the puppet strings up, up, up to a hand that was not our own. And that’s scary. Whose hand is that?
That’s the million dollar question. The way you answer it determines whether you get ulcers or get rest. If it’s the hand of blind fate or a maniacal deity (or even “The Man”), then there’s nothing to rest in. You’re on your own, and it’s you against the world. What a thought. It reminds me of those cheery modern poets like Stephen Crane.
A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
A sense of obligation.”
The Reality of Our Creator
In contrast to this dismal outlook, the Bible offers hope. I’ve spent some time in Isaiah 44 recently, and there is so much truth and comfort there. Uncertainty comes from not knowing if the future is going to be like the past, for good or for ill. If we’re on our own in a senseless universe, that’s a valid concern. But the good news is that the One who formed us in the past is the One who will hold us in the future. In verse 6, God says, “I am the first, and I am the last, and there is no God besides me.” Verse 7 says that God not only established the ancient nation and can also declare the things that are coming. And this is meant to give us comfort.
“Do not tremble and do not be afraid; Have I not long since announced it to you and declared it? And you are My witnesses. Is there any God besides me, or is there any other Rock? I know of none” (v8). There is no other Rock. If God is not our fortress, our protection, and our comfort, then there’s nowhere to go.
Reading God’s claim here reminded me of the exchange between Jesus and his disciples in John 6:67-69. “…Many of his disciples turned back and no longer walked with him. So Jesus said to the twelve, ‘Do you want to go away as well?’ Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life, and we have believed, and have come to know, that you are the Holy One of God.’” There’s nowhere else to go. And that’s good news.
Finding Certainty
So if 2020 took its toll on you, don’t despair. 2021 is a new year indeed, and I pray it will bring good tidings of great joy to all people. But this new year is in the hands of the Ancient of Days, just like last year and every other year since forever. We may not always be comfortable with what God chooses to do, but we can know that He has chosen to do it in wisdom and love. If that doesn’t give you certainty in these uncertain times, I don’t know what will.
Happy New Year, friends, and may God bless you!
Source: Crane, Stephen. “A Man Said to the Universe.” https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44049/a-man-said-to-the-universe
Tolkien’s “Father Christmas Letters”
If you’ve read much of this blog, you know I’m infatuated with J.R.R. Tolkien. I’ve enjoyed multiple readings of The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion, not to mention various short stories and essays. But this year I’m enjoying something brand new to me: Tolkien’s Letters from Father Christmas.
It’s just what it sounds like: Tolkien wrote a series of letters to his children addressed from Father Christmas at the North Pole. The first letter was delivered in 1920 when his oldest boy was three years old, and the letters kept on coming for the next twenty years! And it wasn’t just a few slipshod letters here and there; it was an extensive correspondence, complete with drawings of the goings-on at the top of the globe.
I’ve just finished the collection, and I’m absolutely smitten. If Tolkien seems inaccessible and heady to you, these letters may be just the cure. He is witty, goofy, and tons of fun as he, from the perspective of Father Christmas, writes about weather, presents, northern lights, and various characters that make up his day-to-day experiences. But the best part, in my opinion, is the character of the North Polar Bear.
NPB, as he’s called, is always into some kind of mischief, usually ending in injury or disaster. In 1926, for example, the bear caused an uproar that upset even the cosmic balance!
“It was the biggest bang in the world,” bemoans Father Christmas, “and the most monstrous firework there ever has been. It turned the North Pole BLACK and shook all the stars out of place, broke the moon into four—and the Man in it fell into my back garden. He ate quite a lot of my Christmas chocolates before he said he felt better and climbed back to mend it and get the stars tidy.” Apparently what happened was that NPB found the tap to the “Rory Bory Aylis fireworks…and turned on all the Northern Lights for two years in one go.”
Father Christmas is all in a kerfuffle about it, but the North Polar Bear thinks it was quite a hoot. NPB annotates the letter (as he often does) and adds, “You would have laughed too!…It was a lovely firework. The reindeer will run quick to England this year. They are still frightened!” (p 26-29)
The NPB also manages to break the actual North Pole (a big pole of ice) in half, catch whooping cough, shove the Man on the Moon under Father Christmas’s couch, get lost in goblin caves, and cause havoc in general. But my favorite debacle is as follows:
“What do you think the poor dear old bear has been and done this time?” writes Father Christmas. “Only fell from top to bottom of the main stairs on Thursday!” (“Who’d left the soap on the stairs? Not me!” notes NPB.) “We were beginning to get the first lot of parcels down out of the storerooms into the hall. Polar Bear would insist on taking an enormous pile on his head as well as lots in his arms. Bang Rumble Clatter Crash! Awful moanings and growlings. I ran out to the landing and saw he had fallen from to top bottom on to his nose leaving a trail of balls, bundles, parcels and things all the way down—and had fallen on top of some and smashed them. I hope you got none of these by accident?” (p 36-41)
Tolkien’s letters are such a thoughtful, memorable tradition that it makes me want to start doing it myself. But even if I don’t get around to writing my own, I will certainly read the Father Christmas Letters to my children as they grow. If you’re looking for a fun addition to your Advent, consider picking up a copy of the Letters and reading one or two a night. You’ll be glad you did. Until next time, may your Christmas be merry and bright!
Tolkien, J.R.R. Letters from Father Christmas. Boston, Houghton Mifflin Company, 1999.
Adorning the Dark: Introduction
I still remember buying my first Andrew Peterson CD.
I was a mere junior high student browsing a wall of music at the local Christian bookstore. I squatted down to look at the bottom shelf (my sweat pants hiking up awkwardly to mid-shin, no doubt), and there it was: an unobtrusive little album called Carried Along. The cover art featured a greyscale picture of a hammock, but what really caught my eye was the yellow discount sticker: $7.99.
Sold.
Becoming a Fan
It’s odd that I remember the purchase in such detail but fail to remember my initial impression of the album itself. I’m sure I liked it. I must have, because I went on to buy all the rest of his albums as they came out. Besides, his folksy, poetic writing style was (and is) just up my alley. Every time I’d open a new CD, I’d eagerly check to see which of my favorite authors he’d quoted on the “flyleaf” this time. I was never disappointed. Gerard Manley Hopkins, J.R.R. Tolkien, all kinds of stuff that proved we were cut from—if not the same cloth, at least complimentary cloths.
The years went on, and my enjoyment of Peterson deepened even as his craft and style matured. I remember a three-month stretch where I played Resurrection Letters, Volume II every morning as I got ready. My copies of Behold the Lamb of God and The Burning Edge of Dawn should be worn thin, and yet I still tear up listening to several of those songs. Skeptical? Go ahead and listen to “The Sower’s Song” or “Behold the Lamb of God.”
From Tunes to Tomes
Then he started writing books. Be still, my heart. His youth fiction series, The Wingfeather Saga, is one I’m proud to own. I’ve read it through twice and enjoyed it even more the second time. They carry overtones of other books I love (Harry Potter and Narnia most notably), but they’re liberally basted with silliness, humor, and redemption. Good stuff.
But the book I got most excited about is the one I’d like to spend several posts discussing with you. It’s called Adorning the Dark: Thoughts on Community, Calling, and the Mystery of Making. Once I got this book for Christmas last year, I couldn’t stop reading it. His style is so engaging and personal that it feels more like a conversation than a lecture. But the content is exactly what I needed to hear. It’s a gentle encouragement and a kick in the britches all at once. Let me show you.
Sneak Preview
His book isn’t strictly about writing; it’s about creating, and that could be anything from paintings and songs to meals and gardens. But anything creative takes discipline to some degree, and that’s the part that often feels like a kick in the britches. Peterson doesn’t let you off the hook for doing the hard stuff. Instead, he says, “The best thing you can do is to keep your nose to the grindstone, to remember that it takes a lot of work to hone your gift into something useful, and that you have to learn to enjoy the work—especially the parts you don’t enjoy” (2). And he adds a real zinger a few pages later: “Being a writer doesn’t just mean writing. It means finishing” (15). Ouch.
But he also kindles the smoldering flame of creativity and offers encouragement to those who are struggling. “Those of us who write, who sing, who paint, must remember that to a child a song may glow like a nightlight in a scary bedroom. It may be the only thing holding back the monsters. That story may be the only beautiful, true thing that makes it through all the ugliness of a little girl’s world to rest in her secret heart. May we take that seriously. It is our job. It is our ministry. It is the sword we swing in the Kingdom, to remind children that the good guys win, that the stories are true, and that a fool’s hope may be the best kind” (123).
Exciting Stuff on the Horizon
Those are just a few of the nuggets that can be mined from Adorning the Dark, but believe you me—there’s more where that came from. I’m stoked to study the book together with you! Until next time, keep your nose to the grindstone, but keep your eyes on the goal. Take heart: all your acts of creativity can be kingdom work, even (especially) making Christmas cookies. Which is what I’m off to do right now. But I think I’ll listen to Behold the Lamb of God while I bake, making it a doubly-holy pursuit.
Amen and amen.
Peterson, Andrew. Adorning the Dark. Nashville, B&H Publishing, 2019.
When the Frost is on the Punkin
Fall is hard to describe. Well, fall is hard to describe without using hackneyed descriptions of familiar images. But the primary job of the poet is to describe things—from the indescribable to the mundane—in fresh, concrete terms that bypass the head and go straight to the heart. In his poem “When the Frost is on the Punkin,” James Whitcomb Riley does just that.
While many folks have already shifted into full-on Christmas mode, leaving behind all things fall, it’s still a fact that November is a time of harvest, early frosts, and leaf raking. Lots and lots of leaf raking. So in celebration of the changing season, I’d like to present you with this delightful little poem. I hope it reminds you of the cozy aspects of fall as you rake your endless piles of leaves.
Stuff About the Poet
James Whitcomb Riley was born in Indiana in 1849. He published over 50 volumes of poetry, and some of his best-known and most well-loved poems are written for children. One thing you’ll notice right off the bat is his use of dialect. His children’s poems are written to model children’s speech, and many of his adult poems use the dialect of rural Indiana.
This was sort of his trademark. He became popular for his mastery of the rural speech patterns when he went on tour reading his poems (!) with an author named Bill Nye (!!!). And while it’s clear that he loved nature and fall, it is unclear whether he had to spend much time raking. That almost certainly would have tainted his opinion.
Why I Like the Poem
The poem I wanted to share with you today is a prime example of the old Indiana dialect. In fact, it may take a minute for you to warm up to it, just like when you read Uncle Tom’s Cabin or Huckleberry Finn. Personally, I’m not a huge fan of written accents, but I’ll forgive Riley because the overall poem is great. What I really love is the imagery. To me, it evokes the feelings of fall in the country.
I wasn’t raised on a big farm, but I would consider it a quasi-farm at least. We lived on fifteen acres off a dirt road, and our yard was surrounded by corn fields and poplar trees on every side. My mom grew a gigantic garden every year and spent weeks harvesting and preserving the fruits (and vegetables) of her labors. We had goats and chickens, ducks and rabbits, cats and birds. We even tried to cut and store our own hay one year. That wasn’t much fun. But we didn’t have any deciduous trees, so at least we didn’t have to rake.
Reading Is Better Than Raking
So when I see Riley’s descriptions of “The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,/And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn,” I can picture just what he means. His description is so concrete that it makes me smile. Even if you feel a bit standoffish about his first stanza, press on. Finish it. Enjoy the poem in all its rural splendor because afterward you’ll probably have to go back out and rake. In that case, read the poem twice.
Happy fall, friends!
When the Frost is on the Punkin
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here—
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover over-head!—
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! …
I don’t know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me—
I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the whole-indurin’ flock—
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!
Sources:
Biography: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/james-whitcomb-riley
Poem Text: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44956/when-the-frost-is-on-the-punkin
My Side of the Mountain
I don’t know where (or when) you might be reading this, but today is a blustery Michigan day smack in the middle of fall. Truth be told, I saw the first tiny snow flakes drifting through the frigid air this morning. This kind of weather makes me want to batten down the hatches of my cozy home, make some hot soup, and wait for spring to do its thing.
But that’s just the comfort-loving, lazy side of me. (All right, it’s the majority of me.) But I still have a spark of adventure that wants to face nature head-on, even if it shivers me timbers. This is the same kind of independent spirit that sent twelve-year-old Sam Gribley out of his comfortable New York City home and into the heart of the Catskill mountains.
Realistic
This week I read My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George. I’d never read it before but did so at the suggestion of my 11-year-old niece. She was spot on. It’s just the kind of book I would have loved at her age and still do love today. It’s the tale of a boy who decides to leave civilization behind and forge a life for himself in the wilderness. But rather than being fanciful and Snow White-esque, the story is actually quite realistic.
It is fiction, but it’s so informative that you almost forget it’s not a journal or field guide. The author’s father was a scientist and naturalist who taught him all kinds of survival skills, so the pages are chock-full of what to eat, what to avoid, and how to survive. The author also had experience with falconry, which makes Sam Gribley’s capture and training of a peregrine falcon a little more believable. In fact, the only thing that pushes this book beyond credulity is the fact that Sam is only twelve. Call me skeptical, but I doubt a modern pre-teen could live the way Sam does for very long. Regardless, the story is still great.
Relatable
The author knows that it’s every kid’s dream to run away from home and rough it for a while. He tried it as a boy, his daughter tried it when she was small, and I’d guess that you tried it at some point too. This universal appeal is part of what makes the book wonderful. In fact, if I’d read this book as a kid, I may have lasted a little longer when my sister and I ran away to the back yard.
We’d packed our handkerchiefs, tied them around sticks in true hobo fashion, and set off for the wilderness. We settled on a nice, weedy spot just behind our garden, but as we put the finishing touches on our new floor (a gasoline-stained sheet we found in the garage), we saw my mother coming toward us. Apparently she wanted to do a bit of gardening.
Our cover was blown. We ran for it, but our adventure came to a screeching halt when my barefoot sister ran across a jagged piece of metal fence post. Sadly, our biggest adventure that day was to the walk-in clinic.
Surviving
The reality of my running away may have died there in the back yard, but the dream still remains. The story of Sam’s year-long adventure stirs up the old longings again. I know I wouldn’t have made it three days without starving, but Sam manages to find roots, nuts, berries, and other edibles in the forest. He fishes the streams and trains a falcon to catch wild game. He even traps a few deer for food and clothing. The lad is quite resourceful.
He also makes a home inside the trunk of an old tree—apparently the only free-range sequoia in New York, since Sam and two full-grown men are able to sleep in there at the same time. He passes the long months by gathering and preparing food, exploring, and making journal entries and drawings on birch bark. He spends much of the winter in his cozy tree house, snug by his mud fireplace. Personally, I’d have gone mad without some books, but Sam was just fine with the company of his falcon and the few visitors who discovered him.
Carpe Diem
My Side of the Mountain won several prestigious awards for children’s literature, but I think the book is well worth the read for humans of any age. For that matter, it may be an enjoyable read for falcons, too. Although the ending feels a bit anticlimactic, it’s still fun to picture Sam Gribley living off the land and to imagine myself doing the same.
This is why we camp. This is why we explore. This is why we go backpacking through beautiful, desolate wilderness. The dream of outsmarting the elements and surviving by our own wits is alive in all of us, whether we choose to live in a condo or a tree. And even though I won’t be running away to the weeds any time soon, I’ll still go adventuring as often as the opportunity presents itself. But I’ll probably pack more food and books than dear old Sam.
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