A Total Stranger Made My Day

Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened brother.
What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, 
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness...


...Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and
     purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.
     - Excerpts from 'Kindness', by Naomi Shihab Nye**


I'm driving a route I've driven a thousand times over the last couple decades.  A four-hour slog through monotonous acres of fields, broken only by the occasional water tower or grain elevator.  A 240-mile drive I can make in my sleep, and almost have on occasion.


I've traveled this stretch so many times I don't even see it any more.  My mind goes into auto-pilot and I just drive.


About halfway, I pull off at a truck stop to fill up with gas.  My mind is still elsewhere.  I'm cleaning the bugs off the passenger side windshield when I hear a loud car approach.  It's a tired black Camaro, a late-70's model.  There's a strong possibility the car's only held together by Bondo and baling wire.


The kid behind the wheel exits the car by climbing out the window.  Amused, I think, 'Dukes of Hazzard move'.  He's skinny, maybe twenty.  Worn jeans, medium-length blond hair, no shirt.  Blue bandana wrapped around his head.  I continue what I'm doing, taking in these details without thought or judgment.


 A girl comes out of the gas station.  She looks slightly older.  Long dark hair, faded jeans, white cotton peasant top.  She tells him she's talked to a guy at the car place and it sounds like the transmission will need to be replaced.


I'm not eavesdropping, I'm not really paying attention.  I'm only catching a few words here and there, and noticing their body language.  The kid's stance as the two of them confer near the back of the Camaro telegraphs how upset he is by this news.  He says he can't afford a whole new transmission.  I pick up on the tension between them.  


All this time, I'm still doing my thing.  The windshield clean, I snap the wiper back into place and return the squeegee to its holder.  Unlock the Jeep and climb in.  I give Tanner a pat on the head, realizing we've already been on the road for more than two hours and I've forgotten to give him water.  So I dig around in the back, find the bowl, pull out the water jug and splash some in.


In hot weather I wear a bandana when I drive to keep my long hair out of my face.  While Tanner's drinking his water, I'm tying the bandana around my head.  I glance up and see this kid again.  He's sitting in the passenger seat of his car.  He's grinning at me.  Or at Tanner, I can't tell.  So I smile back and look away.


I fuss with the bandana some more, and next thing I know this kid's standing next to my driver's side window.


He says, 'Hey, stranger,' in this friendly, warm voice.  I look up and say 'Hey'.


He says, 'I have something you can add to your dreamcatcher.'


He motions to my rearview mirror.  From it hangs a small dreamcatcher that consists of a piece of soft leather stretched over a round frame, with a couple of beaded feathers hanging from it.  Painted on one side of the leather circle is a Navajo bear paw symbol.  The dreamcatcher's only a couple inches in diameter.  From outside the Jeep you have to be looking pretty close to be able to tell what it is.


But this kid, he knows.  He reaches in the window and hands me a feather.  The feather's dark brown, no more than two inches long.  It's got these white polka dots on it.  I take it from him and smile and say, 'Wow, this is beautiful.  Thank you.  This is really awesome.'


He says, 'You're welcome', smiles, and goes back to his car.  When I look in his direction again he's trying unsuccessfully to explain to the girl what he was doing.  I see a dog in the back seat of his car.  I hadn't noticed it before.  It looks like a shiny black version of Tanner - big and square-headed, with a goofy grin and a big red tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.


For a minute I can only sit there, flabbergasted, looking at the feather and thinking, 'This is amazing.  Really amazing'.  Carefully I tuck the feather into a pocket of my backpack so it won't blow away.  Then I wave to him and leave.  


As I'm getting back on the interstate I'm thinking, 'That kid just made my day.  He totally just made my day'.

* * * * * * * * * * *

A few miles down the road, a humbling thought brought sudden tears to my eyes.  While I was wrapped up in my head, this kid could see in just a few seconds the commonalities he shared with a total stranger:  the dogs, the bandanas, the dreamcatcher.  Despite the things in his life that worried or frustrated him, in that moment he could go a step further, could present me with a gift as simple and perfect as a small, spotted feather.


His act of kindness felt like the answer to a question I didn't even know I'd asked.  It took me off auto-pilot and set me back in the present where I belonged.   


**Naomi Shihab Nye's entire, excellent poem can be found here:  www.wussu.com/poems/nsnkind.htm

Heartbreak and Purple Finches

I realized the other day that I wasn't telling the whole story of why I was so keen on having the house finches nest on my front door this spring.


In July of 2006 I transferred with my job from Chicago to San Francisco.  My boyfriend and I were originally supposed to move to the Bay Area together.  The relationship came to an abrupt halt before the move was complete.


So at the last minute, not knowing a soul and having only been through San Francisco once for a day (as an adult), I went ahead with the move.


I didn't have a place to live already lined up.  Mostly because of the timing of the breakup, but partly because it's typical for me to leap before I look.


Despite that minor detail, I was excited for the opportunity to live in the Bay Area.  After a couple weeks of motel rooms I found an apartment in San Rafael, across the Golden Gate Bridge to the north of the City.  The complex sat at the top of a hill.  My apartment was on the third floor, near the back of the complex.  Despite the potential for sweeping views, the windows in m apartment faced onto the parking lot.


I didn't care.  I was reeling from the sudden end of the relationship after four years, and the betrayal that led to the end of the relationship in the first place.  At the same time, I was enjoying having time and space that was my own again after four years.  My inner gypsy was delighted to have a new part of the country to live in and explore.


And so I began to settle into my new place and my new job.  It was great.  Every day, twice a day, I got to commute across a stunning, iconic miracle of architecture that is known around the world.  The five-dollar bridge toll inbound to work was steep, but most days I felt it was worth it just for the amazing views of the Marin Headlands, Angel and Alcatraz Island, the Presidio, San Francisco, and the Bay.


Only one thing was out of kilter.  I was plagued by insomnia.  The insomnia had been recurring off and on for two years, ever since I'd moved from Arizona to Illinois to help my Mom care for my Dad as he was dying of cancer.


After Dad's passing, it had taken my internal clock a long time to reset.  Now, whether from the new time zone, grief over the relationship's sudden end, or any number of other factors, the insomnia was back in all its wide-eyed glory.


At first I was frustrated.  I would get home from work, fix dinner, and find myself getting sleepy before nine o'clock.  I'd be in bed asleep by ten, but wide awake again between two and three with no chance of going back to sleep.  Other times I would not get sleepy at all, regardless of how tired I was.


I tried everything but drugs.  Tossed and turned.  Took hot showers.  Played solitaire on the computer.  Read so many books the plot lines blurred together.


Finally I quit fighting and gave in to the awakeness.  The tiny, odd-shaped dining area between the kitchen and living room had a large window.  I'd placed one of my cushy armchairs in the corner next to it.  When I woke up, regardless of the time, I'd make my way to the chair, cover myself with a soft afghan, and wait for dawn.  Sometimes I'd write in my journal.  Mostly I just stared out at the little portion of the world immediately in front of me.


The landscaping of the complex included many mature maple trees.  Two or three of them stood just outside my building.  Sitting at my window, I was at eye level with the midsections of those trees.  Their large starfish leaves created a screen between me and the parking lot.  It was easy to pretend, especially in those long hours before dawn, that I was in the tree.


The birds in the complex arose even earlier than I did.  Each morning when I took my place in the chair and pulled up the blinds, they were already chattering softly in the trees.  As the pre-dawn sky lightened, their activity and volume levels increased, peaking just after sunrise.  I began to notice and listen for the calls of the different birds.  To assist in identification, I picked up an Audubon Guide to West Coast species.


Soon I realized that there was a gang of small brown birds, some with brilliant red markings, regularly inhabiting the tree immediately outside my window.  My guide book informed me that they were purple finches.  Morning and evning I was treated to their burbling song and lively antics amongst the swaying leaves of the maple.


I began to look forward to spending time at the window observing these bright little fellows.  My cat, Oliver, would perch on the back of the chair and watch with me.


Gradually my heart lifted.  With the help of the finches, I emerged from my post-breakup funk.

Lovely Little Drama, Part II

For Part I, go here:  http://fidgetypilgrim.blogspot.com/2011/05/lovely-little-drama-part-i.html


Upon returning from my best friend's house, I made a beeline for the front door.  The young finches had doubled or trebled in size during the week I was gone; they were nearly half the size of the adults.  Their feathers had come in.  The had lost most of their downy fuzz, with the exception of white poufs over each eye that resembled eyebrows.  The five of them barely fit the nest.


At this point the adult finches were working around the clock to forage and bring food back to the nest.  Always, always, I would hear their high trilling song first, then see them alight in one of the trees near the front porch to do reconnaissance before approaching.  The young finches, who hardly moved and never made a peep when the parents were away, came to life at the first note of their parents' calls, flapping and fluttering and chirping their little heads off.


Around May first, I noticed a change taking place in the feeding routine.  Instead of regurgitating food for her young every time she came to the nest, Mama Finch began bringing whole leaves, roots and stems once in a while.  She would tuck them into the edge of the nest and fly away.  At first the babies were confused, maybe even indignant, about her refusal to place food directly in their mouths.  But they caught on in no time.  Though it was obvious that they preferred to be fed directly, they were soon nibbling at the selection provided.  


A pair of the young finches were becoming more active.  Intrepid, experimental, they perched at the edge of the wreath, stretching their wings and picking out the few pin feathers that remained.  They jostled each other for their turn at flight simulation.  Practicing, but not quite ready to make the leap.  I ventured a guess that they were the first two that hatched:  they were bigger, and two to four days ahead of the rest of the clutch in terms of development.  


The smaller ones stayed beneath for another day, content to sleep in feathery little balls while their older siblings messed about.


I was anticipating and dreading the day the baby finches would fledge from the nest, in roughly equal proportions.  'You're growing up too fast,' I would tell them as I watched their antics through the door.  'It seems like just yesterday you were mere eggs.'


On Thursday, May 5th, I came downstairs and made breakfast.  As I walked into the dining room I heard a familiar warble and caught a flicker of red in the tree outside the window. The adult male finch was checking in.  I set my plate on the table and reached for the camera, because a couple of the babies were up, flapping like mad at the edge of the nest.  


Before I could flip on the camera and get myself into position, the mama finch had flown down from a different tree and landed on one side of the wreath.  She bobbed her head at the two older fledglings and flew away again.  Quick as lightning, so quickly they probably surprised themselves, the two were away with her.


Within an hour, two more of the fledglings had left the nest in the same manner.  The adults perched on tree branches and sang encouragement, the fledglings' little wings kicked into gear, one of the adults swooped past the nest, and off they went.  Just like that.


The last little fledgling suddenly found himself alone in the nest.  He seemed a little at loose ends not to have his siblings surrounding him.  For the first couple hours he stayed low in the nest unless one of the adults came around.  Eventually he rose, stretched and started trying to figure out the whole flying business.  


He had a few false starts.  This made him become, from all appearances, despondent.  He huddled at the edge of the nest, all tucked into himself.  He didn't preen or flap.  He only roused himself when one of the adults came near.


I left at three that afternoon to run a few errands.  Two hours later when I returned, that last little fledgling had garnered his nerve and gone away like the rest.  None of them came back.  After a few days we removed and cleaned the wreath, and replaced it with another.


A second house finch pair was nesting on the drain spout of Friendly Neighbor's garage.  I was keeping an eye on it, too, but those babies fledged about two days ago.  


As I began writing this post on May 17th, I heard a familiar lilting song.  I looked up from the keyboard to see four house finches perched on the new front door wreath.  Two males and two females.  Their markings differed from both adult pairs that had so recently inhabited nests nearby.  


I couldn't tell whether any of these four were part of the clutch that left on May 5th.  The fledglings had not yet gained the distinctive markings that allow me to distinguish male from female.  But they did seem momentarily disoriented when they landed on the wreath.  It was as if they knew the location and shape was right, but couldn't figure out why everything else had changed.  


One of the pairs came back a couple more times that day.  The female picked a few choice twigs out from the side of the wreath.  I haven't seen them since.  I've been suffering from empty nest syndrome.


During the course of this lovely little drama, I did some research to ascertain that these were indeed house finches, and to discover what their mating and breeding habits were.  I found some great general information about tons of bird species here:  http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/house_finch/lifehistory.  From this page, I stumbled across this fantastic site, which is run by Cornell University's Ornithology program:  http://watch.birds.cornell.edu/nest/home/index.   I was pleased to be able to add my observations about the breeding pair and the development of the five babies to their research base.     

The cluster of baby finches before I left on 04/23...

...And when I returned on 05/02

The last little lonely guy, on May 5th.

Lovely Little Drama, Part I

This spring, a lovely little drama unfolded on the front porch of the house where I live.  The drama usurped my attention from the end of March to the first week of May, for once turning my thoughts away from travel.


A pair of house finches found the wreath on the front door.  They built a nest on it.


This in and of itself is not so dramatic, I realize.  Every season, when a new wreath goes up on the front door, the birds find it.  Most pull bits off to take away for their nests elsewhere.  Others attempt to build nests in the lower part of the wreath.


But it is the front door, after all.  We don't use it much, and frequent visitors know to use the back door; however, the mailbox is affixed just to the side.  Once a day, six days a week, the mail carrier crosses from Spaniel Lady's house to the west, clumps onto the porch, and deposits our mail in the box before working his way down the street to the east.


The front of the house is primarily windows.  Old windows, original to when the house was built close to one hundred years ago.  Hand-blown windows that are wavy and inconsistent, set into wooden panes.  The front door is similarly paned.  We hang the wreath on the outer, screened, storm door.  We don't use the two front rooms much, but on warm spring days we open the inside door to allow fresh air to flow through the house.  The pets congregate at the door when it's open, to sniff the air and watch life go by on the street outside.


Any combination of these conditions is normally enough to prevent birds from making a permanent home on the front door.  Previous attempts have ended with the birds abandoning the nests, sometimes even abandoning their eggs.


The finch pair discovered the wreath in mid-March.  They fluttered around it for a couple of days, chattering and warbling to each other in their musical voices.  The male liked to perch in a heroic stance on the top of the wreath.  The female, ever practical, scouted out the lower curve of the wreath's 'O' shape, which is concealed from human eye level by fake flowers and greenery.


After several visits and much discussion among the two, it was decided that the wreath was the best of all local options.  The female began pulling small twigs from the body of the wreath and bringing bits of straw and other materials from elsewhere to fashion her nest.  Within a week of completing the nest, she began laying.  By the end of March, five small pale blue-green eggs with tiny dark speckles on them were huddled at the bottom of the nest.


Once it became obvious that the pair would occupy their new-found home, I resolved that I would do what I could to give them a chance at success.  I did this for the sake of the finches, but also because I was thrilled to have a chance to watch the process of a life cycle, however small, take place in front of me.


I asked family and friends to leave the inside storm door shut and stay away from the door as much as possible.  We only went out for the mail when we noticed the female was already away from the nest.  I took advantage of those times to carefully peek in at the eggs and take a few photos.


From my makeshift desk at the dining room table, I could keep an eye on the goings-on at the nest without attracting notice from the adult finches.   


The mama bird sat on the nest continuously for close to two weeks, leaving only to chatter with her mate in a nearby tree, forage for food, and avoid the mail carrier.  The male was in the area much of the time, but he never inhabited the nest.


The weekend before Easter, I noticed the mama finch moving around more on the nest, dipping her head down occasionally.  It was obvious that she was moving something about.  I waited until she left the nest, then stepped cautiously to the door.  In the nest was a tiny bit of fuzz.  And four eggs.


My thirteen- and nine-year-old nephews were visiting when the baby birds began to hatch.  We watched Mama Finch, as I began to think of her, flit around as the babies broke free from their shells.  We watched Papa Finch bring food to the mama and feed her as if she herself was one of the babies.  By the time my nephews left on Sunday afternoon, only one egg remained to hatch.


When the last young finch hatched from its egg on the Monday before Easter, all I could see was a fuzzy pile at the bottom of the nest.  The baby finches hardly looked like they were birds at all.  From whichever vantage point I chose, I could not distinguish head from tail, or one baby finch from another.  For close to a week, the only time I could get a decent look at them was when the adults came around to feed them.  Then their wobbly little heads would pop up, beaks silently snapping open and shut.  The parents regurgitated food into their mouths neatly, as though bestowing special treats upon each of them.


Then I went away for a week, to pet-sit while my best friend was away on business.  Given the timing, I knew the young finches wouldn't fledge from the nest before I got back, but it would be close.

Papa Finch

Mama Finch

Site Selection

The completed nest

April 19th, after the last baby hatched

The Fate of The Tree

Another branch fell off The Tree late Friday night.  Neither of us in the house heard it.  

The weather was clear, with hardly a breeze.  Friendly Neighbor across the alley to the east told me he heard the crash about eleven thirty, as he was taking his dogs out for their last walk before bed.  He said it was so loud he wondered if maybe the whole Tree wasn't coming down.

This branch was only about five feet long and less than two feet around.  Some of the ivy limbs look to have struck the corner of the garage roof on the way down, but didn't do any damage.

I went out Sunday morning to cut up the fallen branch and drag the pieces to the alley, where they'll be taken away by the city workers.  I stared up into the void created by the two branches that are now gone.  The part of The Tree that remains has me concerned.  Now that the web of ivy holding it together has loosened further, it may be just a matter of time before the whole thing goes.

Two or three huge branches remain on the trunk.  Each of them is a great deal larger, in length and circumference, than the first one that fell.  The largest one looms to the south, over our back fence and Surly Neighbor's metal car port.  We'd really like to avoid an incident with Surly Neighbor if at all possible.  

The next largest, and next in sequence if the branches continue falling in the order they've been, could potentially take out a trio of power lines.  The lines run diagonally across our back yard, from the transformer at the corner of Surly Neighbor's property to the back of Spaniel Lady's house, just west of us.  Spaniel Lady is nice enough, but we'd rather not inconvenience the neighborhood, or put its residents at risk, by being the cause of downed electrical lines.

These thoughts occupied my mind during the fifteen minutes it took me to saw the ivy limbs off and stack them in the alley.  I turned my attention to the chunk of bark-encased sawdust and ivy roots that had once been a branch, still lying at the base of The Tree.  It was almost small enough to roll into the alley without having to cut it into sections.  Better to go ahead and chop it up, I decided.  Briefly I considered prevailing upon Friendly Neighbor for the use of his chain saw.  Ultimately, I used my little hand saw.  I was done disposing of the entire thing less than half an hour after I started.

Sunday evening, my mom and I discussed the fate of The Tree.  We agreed that removal of the large branches is now a priority.  We discussed the likelihood that the entire trunk will have to go as well.

We called a Tree Guy Monday afternoon.  He says he'll be able to swing by and take a look Friday afternoon.

I like that, after standing firmly in place for a minimum of a hundred years, The Tree is now going bit by bit.  As if it's reluctant to give up entirely.  I think of the hundreds of little lives - birds, wasps, beetles, butterflies, bees, and so many other creatures - that rely on The Tree for food and shelter.  Morning, afternoon, evening, night, I gaze up into the branches and entreat The Tree to hang in there, just a while longer.  For their sake, as much as my own.

The gap keeps getting bigger

Latest view.

Invisibility

I have the dubiously useful talent
of being able to make myself disappear.
In the midst of a group
I can make myself invisible,
fading in and out at will.
Invisibility used to bother me.
In this moment I seek it out,
create the barrier I need
to separate myself, gain the 
inner and outer space required to
draw a deep breath
amidst the chaos 
surrounding me.
05/29/10, written at
Folk Life Festival, Seattle, WA


I've been feeling invisible this past month.


The feeling has made it difficult to rectify the posting of blog entries.  A blog seems a way of shouting 'Look at me!' to the world at large, and I haven't felt in need, or deserving, of attention.  


I tell myself to suck it up.  I'm a writer, damn it, writers put their work out there whether they feel like it or not.  Putting my work out there was the whole point of starting the blog in the first place.


Still.


This is not the sort of selective invisibility I mention in the poem above.  I cultivate that purposely as the situation warrants, as a means of preserving my sanity.


It's also not the fun 'Invisible Man' kind that would allow me to mess with people, floating spoons across the kitchen before their disbelieving eyes.  Moving their things to confuse them ('I'm just sure I left that book on the table next to the couch, not on the floor underneath the piano bench!').


I would characterize this as ghost-invisible.  It's a sense of being only partially present in, and to, the world around me.


I leave bare hints of footprints in the grass, and the air almost ripples around me when I walk.  Others looking my way only glimpse the faintest outline of my shape, the dull, shimmering mirage of a human.


I move about as quietly as possible.  I take up the smallest amount of space I can.  I try to leave no traces of myself in my wake.


I find myself unwilling to look people directly in the eye.  I am surprised and momentarily flustered when a store clerk or passerby casts a pleasant remark in my direction; it takes me a minute to remember that they can see me.


I speak rarely.  I have opinions, of course, but rarely share them even when asked, because who cares what a ghost thinks?


So it goes.  I watch this ghost-version of me with curiosity.  I inhabit her gently and carefully, with none of my usual impatient restlessness.  


I am writing as a way to begin to backfill that which has vanished these past weeks.  Engaged in the work necessary to regain the corporeal, I bear in mind that part of pilgrimage is the shedding of the self in order to regain something more, something that lies much deeper than the flesh.  

Road Music: Sing-Along Songs

To keep us occupied in the days before video games and portable DVD players, my parents staged sing-alongs.  On our road trips to Florida to see my grandparents over winter break, we sang every Christmas carol known to mankind.  Often Mom and Dad would break into harmony, he providing the tenor notes - or bass notes, if it was early enough int he morning - to underscore her soprano.  Since those Florida trips invariably included visits to Walt Disney World, Mom and Dad would also toss in a few classic Disney songs from the likes of 'Jungle Book', 'Snow White', and 'The Aristocats'.


My dad started out his career as a band director and music teacher.  He loved old popular songs from the late 1800's through the 1950's, and was always willing to trot them out for our amusement.  We sang this version of 'Bicycle Built For Two' a lot:


Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.
I'm half crazy all for the love of you.
It won't be a stylish marriage,
I can't afford a carriage.
But you'll look sweet upon the seat
Of a bicycle built for two.


Donald, Donald, here is my answer true.
I'm not crazy for any love from you.
There won't be any marriage
If you can't afford a carriage.
I'd rather have sore feet
Than blisters on my seat 
From a bicycle built for two.


This song reminds me of the 1950's Disney short featuring Daisy and Donald Duck.  I always thought it was terribly shallow of Daisy to reject Donald based on what kind of vehicle he drove.


The Newbold Family Trip Songbook included a tragic lullaby Dad's mom taught us.  Until I started writing this post, I never knew how many versions existed of this song.  Here are the lyrics as Grandma Ruddell sang them:


Oh, don't you remember a long time ago
Two poor little babes whose names I don't know
Were stolen away on a bright summer's day
And lost in the woods, I've heard people say.


And when it was night, so sad was their plight
The moon had gone down and the stars gave no light.
They sobbed and they sighed, and they bitterly cried.
Those poor little babes, they lay down and died.


And when they were dead, the robin so red
Brought strawberry leaves and over them spread
Then sang them a song the whole day long.
Two poor little babes,
Two poor little babes.


You'd think lyrics like that would give little kids nightmares, but we clamored for this song.  The memory of Grandma singing it to me in the back seat of the car is still with me.  Even now, I can feel Grandma's arm around me and hear her pleasant alto voice resonating softly in her chest as I lean drowsily against her.


Another nonsense song we learned from Grandma Ruddell was this one:


Sing, sing, what shall we sing?
Two little dogs, tied to a string.
One by the tail and one by the toe
Over and over to Grandma's they go!


This song was always sung at a jaunty tempo, perhaps to give an upbeat twist to the slightly disturbing lyrics.  The Google search I did for these particular lyrics turned up nada.  The closest match is a nursery rhyme about cats and pudding string:


Sing, sing, what shall I sing?
The cat's run away with the pudding string.
Do, do, what shall I do?
The cat's run away with the pudding too.


My favorite of all time was called 'Sweet Violets', a song that was written in the 1880's and recorded by Dinah Shore in the 1950's.  The clever wordplay cracked me up every time.  We sang this version, with Dad pausing dramatically at each ellipsis:


There once was a farmer who took a young miss
Behind the barn where he gave her a...
     Lecture on horses and chickens and eggs
And told her that she had such beautiful...
     Manners that suited a girl of her charms
A girl that he wanted to take in his...
     Washing and ironing, and then if she did
They could get married and raise lots of...


Sweet violets, sweeter than the roses
Covered all over from head to toe,
Covered all over with sweet violets.


Perhaps by today's standards these songs are a little dated and goofy.  Really, though, what great kid songs aren't a little silly?


I always thought the reason Mom and Dad sang to us was to keep us from asking 'Are we there yet?' every ten minutes.  But as I researched these songs and the way they evolved through time, I could sense something deeper at work:  the perpetuation of tradition.  Our family, singing to amuse ourselves and stay awake as we pounded through the darkness in our powder-blue station wagon, may not have been that different from the countless generations before us, who expressed tribal knowledge through song as a means of keeping their history alive as they moved across the land.