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| a winter skull boil |
On my neighbour's porch looked like a photoshoot session I didn't want to miss. I had yelled across the snow-covered lawn at Richard, "Get me a picture of that," and he had answered a halting, "I'll try."
Past experience has taught me that from Richard those words mean no, not with my camera, so I went to get my own Canon Rebel. I slipped over to his house, literally, at the corner of my house, landing in a snow drift, my camera bouncing off of my head. I heard Richard call, "Don't get up for a minute, catch your breath," and then got a lecture about taking the trodden circle path between our houses and not trying to go through snow drifts where no man has been before, on my rush to see the whitening bones.
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| Capturing the rising steam |
I was running over to Richard's back porch because Connor had called out to me, "Did you see what is cooking on the BBQ at Richards? What is being bleached?"
Lately the people next door have been hanging their washing on the line, but it is not summer and I did not think they were boiling their whites to make them cleaner than anyone else's in the neighbourhood. I knew something really great was going on.
In this festive season, I have been looking for posts to write about Christmas. Or something about festive foods would be OK. When I looked at the broth from this boil, I knew a person would have to be near starving to want to drink what Richard simmered all day.
Arta
David asked me to tell him tonight about one person who has died. I couldn't think of anyone he knew so I told him about Uncle Richard's hunting catch.
ReplyDeleteThe topic of death came up because I sang him the following well-loved tune:
#148 Tooth Bugs, by Ivy W. Stone and N. Lorenzo Mitchell:
“I do not want to clean my teeth, a little boy once cried,
“I’ve washed my face and combed my hair, Thats quite enough,” he sighed;
Some tooth bugs hiding in his mouth, Began to dance in glee;
“At last we’ve found a home,” they cried, “We do not have to flee!”
“This boy has such a nice warm mouth, We’ll linger here all night;
His teeth are filled with bits of food, We’ll eat with all our might!”
The small boy heard their shout of glee, “Get out of there,” he cried;
He grabbed his brush and scrubbed and scrubbed ‘Till every tooth bug died.
I forgot to tell my own children that the toothbug has a name: Monsieur Plaque. Could you pass that on to David? Also let him know that Monsieur Plaque fears dental floss, toothpaste, water piks and mouth rinses (water being the main one). If David will stand still long ernough, I will make up a second verse of the song for him.
ReplyDeleteAfter much searching I believe I have finally tracked down my long lost friends! Arta, I recognized you immediately, and Bonnie, I will definitely have to share that brushing poem with my girls--and maybe Josh too! :) Please e-mail me at gingercarpenter@gmail.com and let's catch up!! Merry Christmas!
ReplyDelete