Haiku Views 4

splashes of rain
on the autumn wind
sad story sniffles
faintly the moon
shows up before sundown
sibling rivalry
lost on country roads
new territory to explore
GPS complains
discarded antlers
one last hard knock
sheds the load*

*In these parts, discarded deer antlers are called sheds, and there are some people who go around gathering them for decorations or crafts. Gathering sheds you’re apt to get lost on country roads. 🙂

Hot & Hazy Haiku

Here on the Canadian prairies the weather is a favorite conversation-opener. As one book character puts it, “There’s so much of it about.” And our beloved Saskatchewan is the driest province in Canada — overall and especially some years.

It’s not the coldest part of the country, obviously; the far north holds that honor. Still, a week of -40 C/F at the end of December is the norm. My husband recalls back in the 50s seeing the temp dip to -50 F in south-central SK. According to one book of SK trivia, our provincial record is -56.7 C — that’s -70 F — at Prince Albert in 1893.

Our summer so far has consisted of a few really warm days and a lot of moderate one, for which we’re very thankful when we read about heat waves elsewhere. We’ve had more rain this summer than in the past couple of summers, which means the crops are looking great.

And now a couple of weather-ish haiku verses I hope you’ll enjoy:

Image by M Ameen — Pixabay
gray dawn
all the way to the sun
trying...trying

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sizzling day
some kid has to try
asphalt eggs
Image by Richard Eisenmenger — Pixabay

Worlds Old and New

We started out the morning on a dreary note: cool, cloudy, rain in the night left the lawn wet. I was up at 5:30 am and went out to feed and water the resident birds. We get mostly grackles, sparrows and finches, the odd mourning dove, sometimes a brown thrasher will join the birds on the lawn. During the day robins, goldfinches, northern flickers and western kingbirds also visit my water bowls.

It’s so nice to step outside and hear a rousing cheer, even if it is just birds waiting for me and all excited when I appear. Sometimes I get a surprise, like three mornings ago when I looked out the half-open door and saw a young buck on my lawn maybe twenty meters away. He must be a yearling, not very big yet and just growing his first set of antlers.

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is ANCIENT. Well, My Heritage has supplied me with a bit of ancient this morning: my grandfather nine generations back, Samuel Allen II, was born in Braintree, Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1632. (Now the city of Boston.) So I guess I have some Puritan ancestry.
Their children’s names were also ancient. One record lists them as:
Samuel, Asahel, Mehitable, Sarah, Bethiah, Nathaniel, Ebenezer, Josiah, Elisha, Nehemiah. (I also have record of a Benjamin, Jonathan, Joseph, and a few others, but family records do sometimes get scrambled.)

Another e-mail, a newsletter from Malwarebytes, fast-forwards me four centuries, bringing me to the cutting edge of technology: “How to free your cell phone from ad-ware.”

The sun has come out now and I shall be on my way to the Villa seniors home for Wed morning Coffee time. Wishing you all a great day.

The Weaver’s Shuttle

Our Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is DOORMAT. Well, there is snow on ours again this morning, and on our steps, and the lawn. Just a dusting, with light flakes still coming down.

When I got up just after 5pm and looked out on another white morning, a type of depression started to cloud my mind. You may have heard me say we’ll welcome any moisture here, however it comes, but I’ve had quite enough of snow for now. I contemplated crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head. However, that wouldn’t change the scene out my window so, rather than wimp out, I made myself a cup of coffee and faced this day. The temp at 6:30 is 1 C, so the snow won’t stay for long.

Shuttle of the Weaver

We had a dear friend, Nora Weaver, who passed away four months ago. Nora was no doormat. Though she had rheumatic fever as a child and was left with a damaged heart, she was an inspiration to all with her zest for life. Nora married Adam Weaver, they had five sons, and she carried on in her quiet way at their home in southern Pennsylvania. She loved homemaking, her family, church family, and gardening. Nora was known for her love of flowers. In her later years her weak heart gave her serious woes so she needed several major heart surgeries, plus she fought several bouts with cancer — the last one took her life. I trust she is at peace now in a much better place.

Her husband decided to fill some of his quiet hours at home by starting a blog. He needed to take several years off to care for Nora, but now he’s back to driving a motor coach for the Old Order people there in PA, so he’s calling his blog THE SHUTTLE OF THE WEAVER. Yesterday he writes about taking a group of Old Order Amish school children to the Ephrata Cloister. You can read his post here.

Like me, Adam was born in 1953. However, we came from totally different worlds. Adam and Nora grew up Old Order Mennonite — the “horse & buggy people” — whereas I grew up a city girl, living with my aunt & uncle in Saskatoon. My five siblings lived with my parents near Melfort, SK, two hours away. None of us had nothing to do with church. So it’s amazing in a way that, as adults, Adam & Nora, Bob & I, have joined the same Mennonite church and became good friends.

The weather’s still damp and chilly and the sky is slate gray, but reading a few of Adam’s blog posts has cheered me up. Now I’ll see how other bloggers have responded to this prompt, then get on with my day. 🙂

Capricious Climate

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is SECURITY

The calendar may say Spring starts March 21st, but here in the northern clime we have no security in that. Today is gray, gray, and a frigid blast from the northwest is driving small snowflakes past our window, sometimes lots, sometimes less. My phone tells me it’s -9 C at 11 am. So not spring!

As I looked out this morning I thought of a poem I read in an old IDEALS magazine. Apart from the autumn sky it fits well. This poem, full of personification — at least I think that’s what it’s called — was written by Oliver Herford. (See bio below.) It was included in a poetry book titled An American Anthology, 1787-1899:

BELATED VIOLET

Very dark the autumn sky,
Dark the clouds that hurried by;
Very rough the autumn breeze
Shouting rudely to the trees.
Listening, frightened, pale, and cold,
Through the withered leaves and mould
Peered a violet all in dread—
“Where, oh, where is spring?” she said.
Sighed the trees, “Poor little thing!
She may call in vain for spring.”
And the grasses whispered low,
“We must never let her know.”
“What's this whispering?” roared the breeze;
“Hush! a violet,” sobbed the trees,
“Thinks it 's spring,—poor child, we fear
She will die if she should hear!”
Softly stole the wind away,
Tenderly he murmured, “Stay!”
To a late thrush on the wing,
“Stay with her one day and sing!”
Sang the thrush so sweet and clear
That the sun came out to hear,
And, in answer to her song,
Beamed on Violet all day long;
And the last leaves here and there
Fluttered with a spring-like air.
Then the violet raised her head,—
“Spring has come at last!” she said.
Happy dreams had Violet
All that night—but happier yet,
When the dawn came dark with snow,
Violet never woke to know.

And here’s one I think we can all identify with:

To Music
Here's to Music,
Joy of joys!
One man's music's
Another man's noise.

This bio comes from publicdomainpoetry.com

Oliver Herford, 1863-1935, was a British born American writer, artist and illustrator who has been called “The American Oscar Wilde”. As a frequent contributor to The Mentor, Life, and Ladies’ Home Journal, he sometimes signed his artwork as “O Herford”. In 1906 he wrote and illustrated the “Little Book of Bores”. He also wrote short poems like “The Chimpanzee” and “The Hen”, as well as writing and illustrating “The Rubaiyat of a Persian Kitten” (1904), “Cynic’s Calendar” (1917) and “Excuse It Please” (1930). His sister Beatrice Herford was also a humorist.