One in a Million!



One in a Million!

 I opened The Friend to find a new song there.

One in a Million!

"I could support Leo if I memorize the lyrics and teach this to his children," I thought.

A couple of hours later I could play and sing the song.

Two more hours later, Naomi and Xavier came home from school.

Naomi was more interested in having her snack than singing. Xavier was more interested in playing his DS.

Two more hours later, not finding a space in their busy schedules where I could teach the song, I decided, someone else’s grandchildren will have to learn the song.  I think mine  out are out on this count.

On other subjects, Mary said that of all there is to do when she comes home from work, she is driven to see that Naomi’s sprout project is watered.

I agree with her choice.

One quick do-able task gives a sense of really having finished something in the day.

Naomi has long forgotten the growing sprouts project.



The one-note clay whistle and the chia pet

 She is interested in playing the one-note, high pitched bird whistle that sits beside the sprouts.

Having watched the movie Mahler as my biography movie for the evening, I was more interested in tunes with several  notes than just the one note that whistle provides, which gives me an idea.

"Gather a few rythm band instruments together and go back to the original project of teaching the "One in a Million" song," I thought.

I least we could beat our instruments to the tune.



The sun rises to melt the tree top snow

 The eagerly awaited storm of the century only brought a high snowfall in Aylmer, P.Q..  Not so in other parts of the country, but here, by  morning, only the bottom limbs of  the trees hung heavy.  The snow on the upper branches was melted.

The sun was shining brilliantly in the sky.

It was morning and the kids and  I began to read Grimms' "The Story of the Boy Who Went Forth to Learn What Fear Was" (TSOTBWWFTLWFW).

I couldn’t finish the story, for I kept interrupting myself to tell Naomi and Xavier how Amanda Pilling had engendered fear in her sons: rising out of a grave in a sheet when they rode by on their ponies at night; making a doorknob rattle as she sat knitting and then watching her children run out into the dark prairie night to catch sight of the ghostly spectre who had been doing that to their doorknob.

By the time I had finished with those ancestral stories, I was only one page into my Grimms Brothers, so the story, TSOTBWWFTLWFW, has to be finished another morning.

On this matter, it is sufficient to write that we have learned the first moral of the story: he who wants to be a sickle, must bend himself sometimes.

For the 3 of us to figure out what that really means is another reason why our morning-wake-up-story-time is going so slowly.

Sickle Grandma Arta