His old feet clop along the quiet street
As patiently from door to door he goes,
Peddling his fragrant bread and shiny buns,
The little children stand on eager toes,
Stretching their necks to catch a glimpse inside
Where such delicious sweetness takes a ride.
The driver fills his basket full of loaves
As in and out of doors he makes his round,
The old horse watches him and moves along,
Nibbling at tufts of grass . . . nosing the ground,
Turns at the corner careful as you please,
Rests in the shelter of a clump of trees.
All the long afternoon they make their way
From house to house and little street to street,
Day after day . . . month after weary month,
In winter's icy chill or summer's heat,
Never a word of grateful thanks or praise
To warm the weary routine of their days.
I wonder if we give them a second thought
To daily service we all enjoy,
The little stall for vegetables and fruit,
The milk man -- mail man -- small delivery boy,
The patient few whose daily toil is such
Receive so little, yet who give so much.
~Edna Jacques, Baker's Horse
Roses in December, 1944
Although they were not brought by horse and wagon, we had things like breadmen, milkmen, postmen, vegetable and fruit men, fuller brush men and the like when I was growing up. Door to door, each had his own particular day or hour to come. The bread man with his loaves and bags of donuts and other treats. The milk man with his milk and juice, butter and eggs. Each of these trucks had their own wares to peddle and really you didn't have to go to the shops unless you really wanted to or needed something that they didn't sell. I remember the bread man used to sell popsicles in the summer time. We would save our pennies to buy one and then split it because you could break it into two halves.
Although they still have milk men in the U.K. when I left to come back to Canada, it was not drawn by a horse, but by an electric milk float that moved silently down the street, the only sound a slight hum from the electric engine as it went, and the clink of the glass pint bottles. I think largely though, these things are all a thing of the past. More's the pity. There was a special sense of community attached to these men and their wares. They were often like the jungle drums carrying tales from one house to another. Someone that lady's who never saw much outside of their own doorsteps each day looked forward to seeing and having a bit of a conversation with.
Its called progress, but its kind of sad in a way . . . when things like this disappear. Mom used to talk about an ice man bringing ice around in a horse drawn cart when she was a girl. The ice packed in sawdust. If you were lucky and one of his favorites he would chip off a piece on a hot summer's day as a treat for you. You wonder how these men used to support a family with the money from these things they peddled. It was a much simpler time I guess and needs were much simpler and less expensive I suppose.
(source)
The morning air of autumn smelt like the musky, wild white rose. The South wind
had carried hither all the golden and brown savours from Devon and Wiltshire and Surrey;
And the strong sweetness make the walker snuff deeply at it, with uplifted upper lip.
Church bells two miles away, deep among the woods that lay around narrow gulfs of
meadow on every side, called and called, as if they'd wedded this perfume and all the
gold and brown of the wide land. Not the last willow wren in the oak, not the cooing dove,
spoke more melodiously if autumn and repose than the bells.
Edward Thomas (1878-1917)
From The Heart of England, 1906
I used to love going for long walks when I lived in England, well all but the last few years when arthritis had taken its toll on my knees. You can walk the length and breadth of the country on marked footpaths that will take you meandering through the countryside. Through orchards and fields, woodlands, etc. I remember taking one through the fells in Cumbria and coming upon some ancient burial mounds. Quite fascinating and then off in the not too far distance seeing the ruins of the Giant's Castle. When we were with the Lees in the South of France we bought some walking maps and did some hikes around the countryside, also very fun and picturesque and good for the soul. If you can do it, walking these long walks in the countryside are really wonderful.
Perhaps not so safe here though. There have been lots of bear sightings and cougars, coyotes, etc. There were no such things in the U.K.
(source)
Eileen seemed to be feeling a bit better towards the end of yesterday, although she is sleeping a lot. I am not sure if it is because of boredom or what, but in any case it is helping somewhat. It is a lot of work caring for someone who is recovering from a major surgery such as she has had. I try hard to keep her spirits up, especially when they are flagging. Her belly stitches are not causing her much trouble, and some of them have already totally healed, but it is the ones down below that are causing the most problem for her. It hurts to go to the bathroom, and when she stands up or sits down. The only place she seems to be totally comfortable is in bed. I get her up and walking and sitting as often as she will allow. And the shower helps each day. She did have more of an appetite yesterday and managed a cup of tea and a piece of raisin toast around midday and her supper late in the afternoon. When I had her up earlier she did not seem to be in quite as much pain as she was yesterday, but the pain is still there. I am seeing improvements with each day that passes, however, and that is good. Time and patience are our friends here.
(source)
Sometimes I feel a bit blue, when I think of how I have ended up alone in life with nobody to share it with. I have not been the maker of wise decisions in who to share my life with. Not ever and I have wondered why is it that I had such a problem doing so. Sometimes I lay in bed at night and think, and get into my head. I was doing so last night and I remembered the comment that someone had left for me quite a number of years back now, in relation to my family, that I was going to die "alone and lonely." it made me cry again because, sometimes . . . in the dark and on my own . . . I feel like this is the case. I tried to say my prayers but I just couldn't get the words out, not properly so I just asked for help. Then I decided to go on my iPad and listen to one of the talks from the last General Conference. I have been listening to them in the order in which they were given. Last night was the one give by Elder Renlund entitled, "How Long Will it Be Ere They Believe Me."
At first as I was listening to his words I felt a bit chastised for feeling the way I was feeling, and then as I listened and read on I felt hopeful.
The words were not only uplifting and inspiring, but the timing of my reading them was a sign to me of an ever-present God who knows just what I need to hear and when I need to hear it. I had heard this talk during the actual conference and yes, it was a nice talk, but last night in bed with tears in my eyes, it became much more than that.
I love it when that happens and it has happened to me more often than not. When I have called on Him in my hour of need, He always comes to my rescue and lifts me up from where I have fallen.
(source)
I know that I am blessed, and that I am thankful for the many ways in which these blessings have manifested themselves. In the forms of food, shelter and clothing. Electricity and hot running water. Transportation. Family and friends and health, to name but a few. I realize that there are many less fortunate than I am, and it is not lost on me that without these basic needs being met, I may very well not be able to appreciate life's simple pleasures . . . those that come from a place of beauty in the mundanity and the everydayness of living. This alone is a godsend, and the reason these small gifts are the ones that fill the gratitude pages of my journal. If you were to peek inside you would find a page, or two or three or four titled "I Am Thankful." A few passages, each beginning with the words "I am thankful for" might read as follows . . .
I am thankful for quiet, unhurried mornings. For days that start at 5 a.m., allowing me to take things slowly, relishing the wee hours, affording me the time to write these missives each morning. For savoring first steamy mugs of hot cocoa on a cold day . . . with a splash of cold cream. For music playing softly in the background. It is a time when everything is fresh and new and full of possibility. The best part of the day. A time for releasing the morning to unfold as it will . . . gently with no agenda. At least not for those first few precious moments.
I am thankful for our plans to call in an order to DeeDees this afternoon for Eileen and I, so that we can enjoy a nice burger supper for two. For the heavenly aromas that I know will come out of the bag when we open it and for the smile on her face I know I will see when she sees her Bacon Mushroom Melt. For the appetite I know it will tempt. For another memory that will be built for just us two.
I am thankful for my little fluffy gingers. For the way they bookend me on the sofa in the evening. Their warm little bodies nestled close to mine. For the joy that we both get as they pounce on the little red lazer light from the lazer pen as it dances across the room. I watch them and we are both delighted.
I am thankful for handwritten letters and cards in the post and for packages sent by thoughtful friends. For good books, old and new, to read and for beautiful music to listen to. For the praise music that Eileen and I both like to listen to that helps to raise our spirits and our arms in thankfulness.
I am thankful for these words of prose that I found scratched out in pencil on a scrap of paper and tucked into one of my journals . . .
It matters not from whence it flows
It matters only where it goes
An acorn grows into a tree
A river flows into the sea
It is the same with you and me
There's great potential the eye can't see
Beneath the cold dark ground it grows
The tiny seed into a rose
A myth becomes reality
Through fruit that only few can see
Mysteries of God
Lay at their midst
A living, thriving catalyst
Through faith and tiny bits of rain
Come untold blossoms once again
Where only dirt and worms once were
A tender beauty, sweet and pure
The same is true of you and me
We may not grow into big trees
But seeds of faith when watered true
Can make a better me and you
A heaven-sent soliloquy.
I wrote it when I was living in the U.K. Probably up in the craft room.
And I am thankful for each of you. Although many of us have never met in person, I feel a kinship and love. A very good thing
And I am thankful for the peace that passeth understanding. When you know . . . you know.
A thought to carry with you . . .
☾ ° ★° * 。
• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★ 。* 。° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
*Let us hold unswervingly to the hope
that we profess, for He who promised
is faithful
~Hebrews 10:23• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★
that we profess, for He who promised
is faithful
~Hebrews 10:23• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★
• ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ • •。★★
In the kitchen today . . . Easy Copycat OMG Cinnabon Clusters. Oh my goodness, are these every delicious despite my not being able to get a photo that accurately depicts their deliciousness. Clusters of crunchy cinnamon cereal, heath toffee bits, toasted pecans all cloaked and clustered in copious amounts of cinnamon infused white chocolate.
I hope that you have a beautiful day, a beautiful weekend. Whatever you get up to I hope you stay safe and warm and blessed. Don't forget!
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And I do too!
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