The Barefoot Boy

Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!

Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!

Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!

Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!

John Greenleaf Whittier (1855)

Dedicated to my nephew, Mason, who turned 1 year old yesterday.

Painting courtesy http://harmonybybarbara.com.

Mississippi Burning

"Outsiders had never been welcome in Neshoba County, whether they were Yankee calvary, carpetbaggers, or federal revenuers..."*



"Mississippi Burning", a movie starring Gene Hackman and Willem Dafoe, is based on a true story which took place during Freedom Summer in rural Mississippi.  On April 24, 1964, the KKK had burned crosses in 66 separate locations, in an effort to scare blacks from signing up to vote.  On June 21 of that year, three civil rights activists from the North, Goodman and Schwerner (white) and Chaney (black), headed south to Mississippi for the summer to help register black voters.  That evening, they visited a burnt out church and on their way back to Meridian, they were arrested by the local sheriff and taken to the county jail.  They were released that same night, but disappeared on a rural road on their way home from the jail. 

     Two FBI agents, a Northern Liberal, played by Willem Dafoe, and a Southern Conversative, played by Gene Hackman were sent to Mississippi Neshoba County to investage the mystery.  The sheriff's office, linked to the KKK, refused to cooperate with them.  In fact, the duo encountered hostitily at the hands of the police.  The local black community was tortured, many of their houses set on fire.  More FBI agents were recruited.  Although 1000 Mississippians were interviewed, not the white community nor the black community was willing to divulge any information, leading Hackman's and Dafoe's characters to resort to other tactics. 

     "Mississippi Burning" won Academy Awards, including one for cinematography and one for best actor, Gene Hackman.  It is a frightening tale of the American Civil Rights era and how those who protested the Jim Crow laws, whether black or white, were in the line of fire of the KKK and even the local authorities.

Note:  For further information, read We Are Not Afraid:  The Story of Goodman, Schwerner and Chaney and the Civil Rights Campaign for Mississippi (Cagin & Dray, 1988).

Image courtesy www.movieposterb.com.

The Graduate

We arrived promptly at 5:00 pm at the school.  I, in my old red dress from 15 years ago, and Thomas, in his new black suit with red shirt and tie walked up the walkway into the school.  In the foyer, we met Lance and Nicole, Thomas' birthparents, who had just arrived from London.  We chatted for a bit and then opened the double doors to the gym.  Inside, it was an Under the Sea Wonderland.  Moving aside the seaweed hanging from the door, we made our way to the corner where a fountain was running surrounded by greenery, donated by one of the Grade 8 parents, with a backdrop of large white bubbles.  The lettering on the bubbles said:  CLASS OF 2012. 

We snapped some shots of Thomas and his best friend Riley, aka his YouTube video subject, in front of the fountain.  We made our way around the gym to admire the handiwork of the students, teachers and parent volunteers.  There were fish on the wall, one for each student.  There were drivers' licences personally designed by each student.  Lance spotted Thomas which proclaimed "IMAU2BER".  Lance says that he has seen all of Thomas' videos.  Another corner featured colourful composites of each of the students.  Above us, undersea creatures hovered; plants, hung by Thomas' classmate Kennan, sprung from the basketball nets.  And the head table was a masterpiece:  each student had a bag of candy in front of his or her place setting.  Each student had his or her own name card written in cursive writing.  Nothing was left to chance. 

Delicious scents wafted from the kitchen as the Grade 7 parents prepared our dinner (I have good memories of doing it last year).  Chatter filled the room as parents conversed with each other, many for the hundredth time, some for the first time.  The graduates took their places at the head table, looking like little adults in their tuxes and dresses.  Where did the past ten years go?  Didn't I just drop Thomas off at Kindergarten? 

Mr. Hartholt, our principal, and our Grade 8 teacher (yes, he teaches, like all principals used to do -- he's the "principal teacher") asked us to take our seats.  By this time, Rob had also arrived from London after teaching his class.  The four of us found our name cards and took our seats beside the Werkman's and the Bray's.  Mrs. Murray said a beautiful grace.  The graduaties were the first to line up to be served a meal of:  chicken, roast beef, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans and corn.  My son, as a teenage boy, is always hungry.  He sets to work devouring his dinner. 

Then the adults join the queue.  Beautiful glass fish decorate the food table.  The Grade 7 parents serve us, pleasant smiles on their faces, eventhough some of them have been the kitchen cooking for the better part of the day.  Back at our table, we enjoy conversing with the other couples.  It is nice that Lance and Nicole were able to join us for the evening.  They have always been a part of his life and this is such a big occasion.  We also talk with the Bray's, who are a delighful couple, full of energy and life.  Mrs. Bray and I got to spend a couple of hours together yesterday taping bubbles to the wall.  What a small world!  I find out that Mr. Bray grew up in Toronto's East York and attended Danforth Tech, the same high school as my Dad. 

An hour later, with everyone's tummy full, we sit back to listen to a play written and performed by Mr. Summerhays and the Grade 7 class.  Rob gets out our dinosaur-like video camera and starts filming.  The play is a roast of the Grade 8 students, all done in good fun.  Rob says that Mr. Summerhays has definitely pegged Thomas and Riley, who forget their gym clothes in one scene, and sit out while the other students participate in physed.  However, when they are gone, Thomas and Riley start filming one of their youtube videos, jumping around like madmen.  The Grade Seven's return to find Thomas and Riley quietly sitting as they were when they left them. 

At 7:30 pm we all climb into our cars and head to our church for the ceremony.  I pull into the parking lot with Nicole (Lance drove with Rob) to see Jacqueline in her party dress, her hair in a French braid, sitting on the front lawn with her friends (their older siblings were also graduates).  We slowly made our way into the church, the foyer full of parents, siblings and grandparents.  We found my parents and in-laws already seated in a pew and we filed in beside them.  Jacqueline "adopted" my new camera as her own, as Thomas said.  She took about a hundred snapshots of the graduates.

The praise team took their place at the front and played a song, sounding like professionals.  Thomas was on electric guitar, another boy played drums, a couple of people played acoustic guitars and a few people sang.  Then one by one the graduates were handed their diplomas.  And one by one each graduate delivered his or her speech.  Everyone thanked God for all of the blessings he has given them, especially Brantford Christian School.  One girl thanked her anonymous sponsor who made it possible for her to attend the school.  The awards were distributed ex. music, academics, physed, citizenship.  Then Mr. Oudik, the Grade i's student teacher for the year, delivered a speech about the big picture, complete with a drawing of a green grass and trees and birds.  "Without God, we have nothing" was the message he gave the graduates.  Finally, the praise team played one last song and then the graduates filed out of the sanctuary, Jacqueline snapping pictures as fast as the graduates walked. 

We mingled for a bit with the other guests.  Thomas and Riley changed into their regular clothes for the graduation party to be held at Josiah's house.  The graduates were excited about the party.  Rob pointed out how nice it was that the class had come together so well over the last couple of years.  There was the core group of students who had been together since Kindergarten.  However, there was a second group of students who had transferred to BCS in the last 3 or 4 years and they had blended in well.  The Grade 8's really enjoyed each other's company. 

As dusk descended on Brantford and the last of the cars pulled out of the church parking lot, I thought of how blessed we have been at BCS.  They do not do anything halfheartedly.  The graduation was unforgettable.  Thank you, BCS!  And congratulations to our graduates!

Image courtesy http://2.bp.blogpsot.com.

From Cocoon Forth a Butterfly

From Cocoon Forth a Butterfly

From Cocoon forth a Butterfly
As Lady from her Door
Emerged -- a Summer Afternoon --
Repairing Everywhere --

Without Design -- that I could trace
Except to stray abroad
On Miscellaneous Enterprise
The Clovers -- understood --

Her pretty Parasol be seen
Contracting in a Field
Where Men made Hay --
Then struggling hard
With an opposing Cloud --

Where Parties -- Phantom as Herself --
To Nowhere -- seemed to go
In purposeless Circumference --
As 'twere a Tropic Show --

And notwithstanding Bee -- that worked --
And Flower -- that zealous blew --
This Audience of Idleness
Disdained them, from the Sky --

Till Sundown crept -- a steady Tide --
And Men that made the Hay --
And Afternoon -- and Butterfly --
Extinguished -- in the Sea --

 

Emily Dickinson

 

 

Photo courtesy www.androidmb.com.

 

 

A Day at the Splash Pad

The boys and girls ran back and forth through the sprinkling water at the splash pad underneath the giant oak trees.  They stood in line for a chance to be doused with pail after pail of water.  After several turns, they went back to running through the sprinklers, squealing with delight.  As the cirrus clouds slowly made their way across Brantford, the kids made the grade 3 students made their way over to the picnic area for a snack of chips, licorice and drinking pouches.  They laid out their towels and munched on their snacks.  Then it was time for the playground.  They waited for a turn on the swing or a climb on the monkey bars.  Some of them returned to the splash pad for another dousing or sprinkling.  And so it continued for two hours.  The teacher and the volunteers had a chance to chat.  A smiling parent brought us each an iced cappucino.  Not a coffee drinker, I politely accepted the drink which tasted a bit like coffee ice cream.  I appreciated drinking something cold on a hot day.  Before we knew it, the afternoon was over.  The boys and girls headed to the washrooms to change out of their wet bathing suits.  With their hair wet and askew and their plastic bags full, they followed their designated parent to the parking lot to head back to school.  What a great day at the splash pad!

Photo of splash pad courtesy http://www.mygrowingcity.com.

Stroud's Fruit Market

Bette, a 13-year-old girl wearing a skirt, blouse and saddle shoes, walked down Simcoe Street in Oshawa, accompanied by her two sisters, Marlene and Sandra.  They had just left their high school, Oshawa Collegiate, and were ready for an evening of work in their father's store.  Cars, mainly General Motors products, drove back and forth down the two lane street.  The girls passed the millinery shop, lovely hats gracing its windows, the Armouries, and the Queen's Hotel, where unsavoury characters sometimes lingered at night.  After five blocks, they came to a stop at a brick building with with large windows that said Stroud Fruit Market on a large sign.  They entered the store, donned their white frocks, put on their name tags and took their places at the three cash registers.  "Boxes or paper bags?" asked the girls as each customer passed through the line. 

Occasionally, between customers, the girls faced the shelves, brought the cans to the front to make the display neat; swept the wooden floor; waited on the customers (ex. weighing their bananas);  climbed on the counter and cleaned the windows with Windex and newspaper, watching the cars whiz by. 

Stroud Fruit Market had three aisles:  one offered fruit and milk (19 cents a bottle) and butter (59 cents a pound); the second offered bread (16 cents a loaf) and baked goods; the third offered canned goods and household items (Kleenex 2 x 33 cents).  A sweets section offered chocolate bars (small - 5 cents, big -10 cents).  The city of Oshawa was a growing community in the 1950's: however, despite competition from a local meat store, a Loblaw's, an A&P and a Dominion, the Stroud Fruit Market still enjoyed a brisk business.

Mr. Stroud, would man the butcher counter, purchasing fresh beef and pork at the St. Lawrence Market three times a week along with fresh fruits and vegetables.  The girls looked forward, on occasion, to accompanying their dad to Toronto to purchase meat and produce.

On this particular day, the sisters waited on Mrs. Humphries, Mrs. Walker and Mr. Drew, the owner of the Fruit Market building.  After the customers paid their bills, young boys bagged their groceries and carried them out to their vehicles.  At closing time, the three Stroud girls hopped into their father's car and headed north along Simcoe Street to their house, tired after a hard day's work.

The Patchwork Path: A Quilt to Freedom

                                                

Ten-year-old Hannah learned the secret messages of her Mama’s precious quilt. Though Mama passes away and her sister Mary has been sent to a far-off plantation, Hannah still has her precious quilt and the words her mother taught her that will help her find her way to Canada and freedom. Each pattern has its own shape and meaning, from monkey wrench to bear’s paw to bowties and all the way to stars, and each shape points the way and gives inspiration to Hannah and her father when the time comes for them to flee. This fictionalized account of an oral history, illustrated with stylized oil paintings, tells the now-familiar story of the nighttime escape of slaves. The frequent visual and oral references to the quilt patterns seem somewhat contrived but act to hold the story together. Stroud and Bennett tread a similar path to the one walked by Clara in Deborah Hopkinson’s landmark Sweet Clara and the Freedom Quilt (1993). (afterword) (Picture book. 4-9)

Kirkus Reviews (December 15, 2004)

Cover image courtesy http://erinbanks.files.wordpress.com.