Hopscotch Singing

The Ragtag Daily Prompt today is GLARE, and this response is just like these girls who grab a word and fly away with it.

Open ClipArt Vectors — Pixabay

THE EARWORM

“Way down in London airport in hanger number five–”

My sister Jane glared at me. “Will you quit!”

“What’s wrong with singing a little tune?”

“Bits and pieces of that song have been popping our of your mouth all afternoon.”

“I guess I have an ear worm.”

“Well flush it out once! What brought this on anyway?”

“I got it at the mall this morning. This old lady was standing beside me when a girl with purple hair walked by. The old lady shook her head and said, ‘Forever more!’ The song Biplane Evermore popped into my head and has been stirring around ever since.”

“You’re sounding like a broken record. Replace it with another song – something current. That’s so old!”

“I resolved to change my tune but before long I was heartily singing, “And as he rose into the storm the big jets hung their wings, and wished—”

“That you’d sing something else,” Jane yelled, giving me another glare. “Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly…”

“Speaking of being so old, I read once that song is from the Thirties,” I told her. “It expressed a melancholic longing for things to get back to where they were before the economic crash and the drought. But I guess it was followed shortly by ‘Brother can you spare me a dime?’ since things were out of kilter for ten years. ”

The Big Rock Candy Mountain came in there somewhere, too.”

Which started us both off. “Rocky Mountain High in Colorado…

Hopscotching from tune to tune, Jane and I can sing in bits and snatches for hours.

My Aunt’s Bonnet

A smile for you this morning. 🙂

My Aunt’s Bonnet
by Edgar A. Guest

They say life’s simple — but I don’t know.
Who can tell where a word will go?
Or how many hopes will rise and fall
with the weakest brick in the cellar wall?

Or how many hearts will break and bleed
as the result of one careless deed?
Why, my old Aunt’s bonnet caused more dismay
than a thousand suns could shine away.

She wore it high through her top-knot pinned,
a perfect kite for a heavy wind,
but the hat would stick, though a gale might blow,
if she found the place where the pins should go.

One Sunday morning she dressed in haste,
she hadn’t a minute which she could waste,
she’d be late for church. Now the tale begins:
she didn’t take care with those bonnet pins.

Oh the wind it howled, and the wind it blew
and away from her head that bonnet flew!
It swirled up straight to select its course,
first brushing the ears of the deacon’s horse.

With a leap he scampered away in fright
and scattered the children, left and right.
A stranger grabbed for the horse’s head,
but stumbled and fractured his own instead.

After the bonnet a small boy ran,
knocked over a woman and tripped a man.
The deacon’s daughter married the chap
who rescued her from the swaying trap.

And she lived to regret it later on;
In all that town there abided none
whose life wasn’t changed on that dreadful day
when my old Aunt’s bonnet was blown away.

Some were crippled and some went mad,
some turned saintly and some turned bad;
birth and marriage and death and pain
were all swept down in that bonnet’s train.

Wives quarreled with husbands! I can’t relate
the endless tricks which were played by fate.
There are folk today who had not been born
had my Aunt stayed home on that Sunday morn.

From the book, Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest,
©1934 by the Reilly & Lee Co

Soon Comes Spring!

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is SHILLY-SHALLY. An interesting alliteration, pall to dilly-dally, I suppose. M-W claims this morphed from folks of olden times dithering, asking “Stand shall I? Shall I?” I’ll use it in this verse:

Spring is Coming!

Though daylight hours be few
when February’s due
though deep the heaps of snow
and bitter winds that blow
though temps still shilly-shally
around the minus twenty
don’t despair, for seasons swing
we’re on our way to spring.

Power Out That Grease!

Today’s Bloganuary challenge asks What chore do you find the most challenging to do?

My super-quick answer: Clean the oven.

The answer springs readily to mind, having nagged at me for over a week now. A rather juicy casserole ran over in my oven last week and I haven’t gotten around to cleaning it yet. Shame on me! The grease by now is thoroughly baked on — and this oven is an old one, not one of the self-cleaning sorts. Needs serious elbow grease.

Another blogger, Louis Carreras, writes that the most challenging part of a task is getting started. I can agree with that. Few chores are as hard to execute as they are to keep dodging around. As stated in my last blog post. (See Edgar Guest’s poem It Couldn’t Be Done. )