Saturday Nice . . .

 

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It's little things that count the most;

Fresh milk in bottles shining clean,

A home where lowly people live;

An old back yard where willows lean

Across the fence, where trees of birch

Are white as pillars in a church.

It's little things that count the most;

A swallow's nest high in a mow,

A home-made swing that someone tied

Beneath a low-hung apple bough;

A tiny brook where speckled trout

Dart like small U-boats all about.

A little seed-husk frail as mist,

The purple drift of heliotrope,

Rail fences hedging in a field,

A pasture where old cattle grope

Among the scanty tufts of weeds

Barely enough to fill their needs.

A farmer with a pail of eggs

Bringing them to a country store,

Where all the neighbors come to deal;

A twinkling bell above the door,

Where peppermint and gum-drops vie

To catch the little children's eye.

A farm . . . a hill . . . a painted shed,

A squeaky windlass on a well,

A woman hanging out the wash,

All these are one, and somehow tell

A story rich in plot and plan

A varied as the thoughts of man.

~Edna Jacques, It's the Little Things

Backyard Neighbors, 1946

Oh how wonderful it is that I grew up in a time when most of the things talked about in this poem are very familiar to me. I remember glass quart milk bottles. Mom would buy tokens once a month from the milk man and then put her empty bottles out on the front step for him to come collect them and leave the fresh. I remember hearing the sound of milk bottles clinking early in the morning when all was quiet. In the U.K. milk was delivered to the door in pint glass bottles. You had to get them in before the tits pecked the little foil caps on the top open and helped themselves.  The electric milk float gliding almost noiselessly down the street, the only sound being the clinking of the bottles.

Corner shops with bells over the door that jingled each time the door opened, when customers arrived or left. A glass fronted counter filled with treasures  . . .  boxes of gum balls, hard balls with anise seed centers, Swedish fish, orange slices, licorice pipes . . . a dime clutched in a little hand and a tiny paper bag filled with penny sweets.

We had the freedom back then to roam, and roam we did. We waded through waist high grass and peeled the bark of birch trees standing tall and straight as sentinels, gorged ourselves on green apples, found tiny hidden cemeteries surrounded by cast iron railings, watched horses galloping in fenced in pastures and wished that we could ride them.

We spent our days outside most of the time, unless it was raining. We did not enjoy the luxury of a bazillion television channels, cartoons on call, or video games. We made our own fun, and more often than not, whole streets of children played together, games like red rover, and redlight greenlight, frozen tag and kick the can.

Free and innocent. It was a much different world that we grew up in. I am grateful for that. 

 

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 A cozy corner by a fireplace & the promise of frost

As the days shorten, the air becomes brisk, and the nights begin to draw in, I can't help but eagerly look forward to all the magic that the autumn season brings. Bright orange pumpkins, hollowed out and carved, or stewed and made into soups and pies and cakes and muffins.

Winter squash and Indian corn, bright coloured gourds collected in bowls and set out on tables.

Bonfires with snapping wood, spitting embers, smoke that travels skyward in whisps of grey, wreathing the stars in an iridescent haze.

Quilt snuggles on a cold night, fabrics having been stitched together with loving hands. Fluffy bodies that share them with me. I have a throw lined with sheep's wool that Nutmeg likes to make his biscuits on, sucking and purring, right next to me on the sofa. Cinnamon sings her songs curled across the back of the sofa behind my head. They love me and like to stay close. I do not mind one whit.

The smell of apples in the air and the zesty tang of apple cider in the local farm markets. Wooden floors that creak beneath your feet.

Flannel, warm, soft and worn, cozy and familiar and scented with woodsmoke.

Garlands of brightly coloured leaves having been carefully pressed between wax paper until flat and coated and then strung on strings to hang across the windows.

Jackets, smelling of last autumn, crisp dry grass  . . .  frosty mornings.

The smell of spice cake baking and warm milk with honey. A stew simmering and bubbling on the back of the stove . . .  

There's magic afoot and in the air.

 

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Welcome to you rich Autumn days,

Ere comes the cold, leaf-picking wind;

When golden stocks are seen in fields,

All standing arm in arm entwined;

And gallons of sweet cider seen

On trees in apples red and green.

With mellow pears that cheat our teeth,

Which melts that tongues may suck them in;

With blue-black damsons, yellow plums,

Nose sweet and soft, from stone to skin;

And woodnuts rich, to make us go

Into the loneliest lanes we know.

~W. H. Davies, Rich Days (1871-1940)

I used to love to walk the orchards in the fall. Acorns on the footpath cracking beneath my feet . . . a waning warmth in the air, tinged with the promise of frosts to come.  Leaves skittering in the breeze, with the occasional cyclonic burst and swirl . . . that sound . . . musical whisper of autumn. Squirrels chittering in the trees. I saw a white one once. The hedgerow that bordered the footpath filled with ripe plump blackberries, free for the taking. There is a reason that blackberries and apples ripen in unison. They are perfect bed partners. Wild damsons hanging on fruited boughs, amidst the elderberries and hawthorn . . . ripening rosehips. How blessed was I to experience such joys.

 

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As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage, it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs.

Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. In comparison of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!  --- but the tears which recollection called forth as they  entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.

~Jane Austin (1775-1817, from Sense and Sensibility, 1811)

Time to watch it again methinks  . . .  There is nothing like the "ber" months in which to start enjoying these beautiful classics all over again.

 

 

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Peace. It remains in many things and in many places.  Some are real places that I can go to and wander through, other's exist only in my mind and memories that I enjoy reflecting upon on occasion.  Peace is often not a place, nor is it a thing, oftimes it is a friend. Someone you can tell any and everything to, and who you know loves and accepts you for who and what you are. Those are the types of people who bring me peace.  I find peace just in sitting with them, perhaps sharing a laugh together or a secret or two.

Sometimes I find that just looking at a list of peaceable things makes me feel calmer, safer, warmer, happier and at rest. People, places, things, flavours, sights, smells, sounds or moments. Perhaps special songs or pieces of music. Things that instill a sense of quiet and calm. I keep my list in a safe place to be taken out whenever I need a reminder of the things that bring me peace.

• The sight of hollyhocks standing straight and growing against a garden wall made from stones.
• Special books and verses of scripture. The hymns of the church.
• Something that sits between butterfly wings, ginger paws and the steam that rises from a hot cup of herbal tea.
• The smell of fresh bread, strawberries and freshly cut wood. The smell of the lumber trucks as they pass by, fresh from the Nova Scotia woodlands.
• A wooly blanket, warm and fresh from the dryer.
• Opening a book and feeling the crisp pages beneath my fingertips.
• The way your heart feels and that pulse of joy in your chest when an old song comes on the radio that you used to love to dance and dream to.
• The crinkle of a sister's eyes as she hands you a bag of treats that she saved just for you.
• The memory of a mother's hug, and hearing my father's voice.
• The smell and creaky floors of antique shops.
• Piano music.
• The dulcet tones of Michael Buble.
• Sunrises and sunsets.
• Old family photographs.
• A memory returning at just the right time.
• Phone calls or messages from a friend you haven't heard from in a while.
• Root beer floats, and crisp hot chips.
• The sound of children back at school and in the playground. The schoolyard whistle.
• Family. Love. 
• Afternoon drives on winding roads bordered with the colours of changing leaves.
• Misty mountain tops at the end of my road.
• Fireflies, old swings and garden chairs.
• Spanish guitar  . . . 

 

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And that is about all the nice I have to share with you today.  I hope it was enough.

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

☾ ° ★° * 。  

• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★

*Nature is an alchemist

gathering the last of summer's green.

~Laura Jaworski

Sharing in the kitchen today  . . .  Easy Apple Pie Roll Ups. For when the craving for apple pie hits but you don't have the time or the energy to bake a whole one. Every bit as delicious.

I hope you have a lovely weekend. I'll be picking up Eileen about midday for our weekend sleepover. I am not sure what movie we will watch tonight. Perhaps Little Women? We will see. Whatever you get up to this weekend stay safe and don't forget! 

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And I do too!