Effigy Mounds National Monument

It sounded like raindrops. Looking up from our steep path, it was leaves, dripping from the very tops of the maples and hickories and walnuts. Slowly at first, then gaining speed, they cascaded into one another as we watched them from our perched path.

More than 200 mounds are located in this national monument.

It is quiet as is fitting for a sacred place

It is breathtakingly beautiful.

The path we took was steep and strenuous in parts with many switch backs. It was worth every step.

Come with me for a spell, won’t you?

Be sure to click on the next picture to find the fisherman in the boat. You may need to click a second time.

We did not take pictures of the mounds. They are sacred and we honor that. The mounds are believed to have been built more than a thousand years ago in much of the eastern and midwestern United States. Some mounds are conical and are believed to hold human remains. Other mounds are in the shape of bears and birds. This is the largest grouping of effigies in the States. It was dedicated as a national monument by President Harry Truman in 1949.

Monuments are not always statues and stones.

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Rainbow Connections

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.   Robert Frost

On our trip up north last week, we first went west, across the Mississippi and into Iowa. What a sweet journey it was as we travelled on a scenic route through corn and soy fields, past vineyards, and into small towns.

Our first stop was a visitor center and rest stop just over the Illinois/Iowa border. We both agreed that it was one of the nicest and most interesting rest areas we have seen with attractive pavilions for picnicking, paths for dog and people walking, and this interesting sculpture, which looked like silos and marked the many forms of agriculture in Iowa. Can you find the pig in among the soybean and ear of corn?

We spent the afternoon in Williamsburg, where Tom’s father grew up, and that is the subject of a blog of its own. After walking about and even picking up a few pieces of family history, we angled northeast and through some of the prettiest pieces of America you can imagine.

Cattle and corn, church steeples and farms dotted the rolling hills as the storm clouds gathered toward the west. We could see rain in the distance and long lines of rain miles away. At one point, the rain reached us, with the sun shining in the east. I remarked that there had to be a rainbow out there somewhere, and there was, just as we reached the outskirts of Strawberry Point.

Doesn’t everyone get out of their car, rain falling with the sun shining, and start clicking pictures of a double rainbow with perfect arcs? Did I mention we stopped in the parking lot of a funeral home? That’s us. Death defying travel.

A few miles later, the rain abated, and we were treated to this magnificent sunset.

It was dark and we were tired by the time we reached our motel. We had to wait until  dawn to see the Mighty Mississippi flowing just outside our window.

We drove through Iowa in search of family roots. We went to Minnesota to spend some time with a growing family branch. What we  found along the way was family all around us. In the rolling hills and valleys. In the rainbows and the sunsets. It really does make a difference when we take the road less traveled.

Thanks, Tom, for the rainbows and sunsets!

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My Shadow

My Shadow

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow -

Not all like proper children, which is always very slow;

For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,

And he sometimes goes so little that there’s none of him at all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close behind me, he’s a coward you can see;

I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;

But my lazy little shadow, like and arrant sleepy-head,

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed.

 From “A Child’s Garden of Verses” by Robert Louis Stevenson.

Kezzie reminded me of it the other day as she discovered her shadow in the park.

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Teetering

When asked if I really had a teetering pile of books after a recent comment, I decided to photographing a few of them. I meant to post them before we left on our little trip, but, packing and baking and all that goes into leaving got in the way.  So, here they are, teetering and tottering, with just a bit of primping to impress you.

Below is my most recent hoard from two libraries. Those two art books on the bottom were a challenge to carry to the car. Do you ever have to wrestle over-sized books?

The real teeter-totter of book lust in in the bedroom. I straightened these up a bit, in part to save myself from embarrassment and in part because I was afraid the pile would fall over in the middle of the night.

How about you? Are you a book at a time sort of person, or do have piles of books nearby?

I do have shelves of books, thanks to Tom’s design and carpentry skills. I featured our library here.

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Legend of the Falls

Legend has it that I learned to walk with this doll. It explains a lot about me. I’ve been known to trip and fall both up and down stairs, walk into plateglass windows, topple backwards while sitting writing, feet dangling from my chair . . . oh, the agony and humor of it all.

The doll was given to me the Christmas I turned one. It was given to me by my godparents. Sophie and Bill were both related to me on different sides of the family. It took me years to figure it out. In fact, I still have to think about it. Sophie was my grandmother’s niece and Bill was my grandfather’s nephew. They were both exceedling  kind and generous to me, visiting often, attentive to my birthdays,  holidayss, and religious observances. They were a remarkable presence in my life.

The doll has no given name, for some odd reason. She does have a bisque head and is wearing clothes that were mine. Her eyes  open and close with  the thickest eyelashes you could ever imagine.  She has spent most of her 60 years in a box, wrapped up to keep her safe, and labeled “Penny’s Doll”, yet, she still has the sweetest of smiles upon her rosy-cheeked face.

She stands on rollers, much like roller skates. The are covered with  rubber-like shoes. They are original. In fact, ”Penny’s Doll” is an original, in my mind at least. There is a wind-up key on her side and a pull-out lever on her back. A few turns of the key and a slight pull of the lever allows her to walk on the floor. Her head turns from side to side and her one arm swings back and forth as she glides across the floor. She lost the use of the other arm a long, long time ago, but, when I set her in motion I am always amazed at how well she gets on in spite of her slight afliction.

Legend has it that I was on the floor watching my doll take a stroll across the kitchen when I  made my first, tentative steps at walking. I can only imagine the scene this caused; the excitement, the noise, the pride and the panic.

“Look, Pete, Penny’s walking”.

“Violet, she’s walking funny. Like the doll”.

“Oh, Pete, should we stop it?”  

Yep. It explains a lot about me and my unique coordination. I did, after all, learn to walk observing a mechanical, rolling  doll.

We are up north observing our real rolling doll, Kezzie, who runs as much as she walks, with much more agility than her grandmother ever has shown and will be rolling on back to the cutoff soon.

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Young at heart

It was one of those September days that makes one’s heart sing and one’s hands extend forward to welcome in Autumn.

The temperatures hovered around 70° Farenheit, the wind danced and made shadows with the sun, and the crisp call of fall was noticeably sitting in the wings.

There was the sweet potato vine, reaching for the corner of the house,

and the oak leaf hydrangea, just starting to turn red; a hint of what is to come,

while the setting rays of the shifting sun sent shadows against the wall.

It brought to mind the lines of an old song and Frank Sinatra: fairy tales do come true, they can happen to you, if you are young at heart.      www.youtube.com/watch?v=bslSxYwgwlE

I hope nature brings you weather to enjoy today, dear friends. I’ll be off line for a few days. See you soon.

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Presenting Louisa May

My admiration of Louisa May Alcott is known among my friends and documented on these cyber-pages. I can still see the tear stained pages of my first copy of Little Women as Beth takes her last breath; how I tried not to sob on my library book, failing miserably.  I was a young girl, a not-so-young girl, a granny, and I’ve treasured Alcott’s books and books about Alcott ever since that first schoolgirl reading.

We walked around Walden Pond a few years ago. I imagined Jo and Laurie skating on ice there and Meg falling in. I imagined Alcott’s friend, Henry Thoreau, talking to a young Louisa as she looked on in admiration. We walked through the rooms of Orchard House in Concord, Massachusetts and I marveled at the simple desk she penned her most famous novel and many more works and we visited Concord’s cemetery, Sleepy Hollow. Author’s Ridge is high on top, overlooking the town, and it is there that Emerson, Hawthorne, and Thoreau are buried and there where Louisa May rests in the simple grave above the famous town.

When my friend Sharon told me of a presentation of Alcott at the Elmhurst Historical Museum, I just knew I had to go.

Leslie Goddard, in period costume, a deep purple day dress with long, flowing sleeves and lace collar, gave a riveting impersonation of Louisa May Alcott, speaking about her experiences as a Union war nurse during the Civil War. Taken from Alcott’s “Hospital Sketches”, Ms. Goddard excelled in bringing the author to life with the wit and compassion found in Alcott’s writing.

Goddard, as Alcott, told of her eagerness to be part of the war and how she enlisted as a nurse with Dorothea Dix. She told of the hardships of war and the horrible injuries suffered and of the dying man she tended to, staying with him until his last breath, holding his hand and then carefully prying it away, his grip still tight after he passed away. She also told of the illness she suffered, typhus pneumonia, after only being at the hospital for three weeks and which ended her military nursing.

It was an amazing dramatization. I wish you could have been there to see it. Thank you Sharon for telling me about it and sharing the experience. It so gratifying to spend time with friends, learn new things, and be further enlightened about a favorite author.

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The Return of Captain John Emmett

While I have read many books about World War II and its aftermath, I really haven’t read many about World War I. I’m not sure why. I just haven’t. I know of the horrors of World War I through history classes and documentaries. I know my grandfather fought in that war and there is a button or two from his uniform that my mother kept. Still, novels and biographies of this time have, for the most part, escaped my reading, until a review of The Return of Captain John Emmett caught my attention. Danielle wrote such a compelling review of this first time novel of Elizabeth Speller, that I knew I would soon be reading it.

Easier said than done.

The Return of Captain John Emmett was just released in the States in July and while there are copies in the various libraries in my library system, most of them have been on hold. I did finally secure a copy and held on tight, wanting to finish it but finding time for reading scarce. I will have a hefty fine to pay on Tuesday. It was worth every cent!

The story begins in Kent, England. November. 1920. The railroad station is dark but the platform is filled with people; women, both young with children and old, a few men, soldiers. All are waiting solemnly for a train to pass through, carrying the body of an unknown soldier whose remains are to be buried at Westminster Abbey. An internment symbolic of the thousands of soldiers lost in the battlefields during the Great War.

Laurence Bartram leads a solitary life in a few rented rooms, writing a book about churches. His wife and son died while he was away fighting and he has all but given up on life. He receives a letter from Mary Emmett, the sister of a school chum, who asks him to find out about her brother, John, who has committed suicide while being housed in an asylum. John has what was then termed as shell shock. John also has the burden of a dark secret of war.

With the help of his friend, Charles, a great fan of Agatha Christie, Laurence begins to investigate John’s death.  He comes to believe that John’s death wasn’t a suicide after discovering several other deaths, all men who were part of the execution of an officer during the war.

The Return of Captain John Emmett is a beautifully rendered story of a terrible time and horrendous actions. It is at times atmospheric and poetic. It is also horrific and disturbing. It is a mystery with many characters and some name changes and surprises, much in the fashion of Charles’ favorite writer, Miss Christie. Charles, by-the-way, is of great help to Laurence. A man of wealth, he makes many connections that help Laurence along the way.

This book has not set easily with me. I do not mean this against the author. A good book should make you think, question, be happy, or be disturbed. The Return of Captain John Emmett is unsettling in its content; the cruelties of war, both against each other, the innocent people upon whose soil wars are fought, those left at home, the inhumanity of war, and the horror of battle. All the more reason to read it. Please do.

A Work in Progress’s review of The Return of Captain John Emmett with an interview of the author can be found here. It is good reading, and good listening as well. Thank you, Danielle, for leading me to this book.

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Persuasion

In my time blogging, and reading other blogs, I have never participated in a blogger’s reading challenge, read-a-long, or other cyber-active book group. The reason is simple. I have far too many books at my elbow, far too little time, and, well, I usually have enough of a challenge getting my book read for our book discussion group. It isn’t that I’m not reading. At any given moment, you will likely find me with a book in hand; at a stoplight, in a coffee shop, while stirring the pasta sauce. My family can attest to this. I have just been hesitant to start in a group effort if I didn’t think I could actually do it. When Rachel of BookSnob announced a read-along of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, I hesitated, one moment or two, then thought, aha, I can do this. There is no pressure or mid-term, no book report or final exam/essay. It will be rewarding.

The time is now upon us, the book is on my desk, and, by gosh and by golly, I think I will give it a try.

How about you? Have you read Persuasion? Any of Jane Austen. I promise you, Rachel’s reviews are always interesting and generate good discussions. You can find out about it here and here.

At the moment, however, I’m in the last chapters of The Return of Captain John Emmett, which has my rapt attention. It is a seven-day check out from the library, and I’m, well, let us just say that the library police are about to come after me, I’m in hiding, incognito, and may have to change my name to an alias, but, I will finish this before going on to Persuasion.  Off I go to an undisclosed location, a cup of tea and a slice of banana bread as provisions.

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Composting, weaving, painting and such

I wish our composting piles looked this pretty, and I wish I could weave like this spider.

It might be fun to dip into a can of lavender paint and come up with a painted lady.

Instead, I’ve been baking banana bread and pot roast, beckoning Autumn to come, while I sit, with my nose buried in a very good book.

What have you been up to this weekend?

Young Girl Reading by a Tree. William M. Davis

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