Little Lost Lamb

This is a picture of Smudge, my brother's stuffed-animal lamb that my mom bought at the PA Relief Sale years ago and dyed black (as well as the wool would take the dye). Smudge was based upon Little Lost Lamb, by Golden MacDonald (a.k.a. Margaret Wise Brown), illustrated by Leonard Wisegard. The link is to the Japanese edition.

When my mom misplaced her copy of Little Lost Lamb after moving across the country, I searched for a reasonably priced copy for her and ordered it. However, it went missing when I went on vacation, despite the vacation hold notice. I did all I could to locate the package, and even though the post office was sure it had gone back to the sender, the tracking information indicated that there was a good chance it was still in Seattle. Several days ago, our new postal carrier presented me with the package, which the previous mail carrier had tucked away in his truck during my vacation. Thus far, USPS has always given me a happy ending.

Even if you've never read the book, you know the story:

"High in the mountains where the green grass ends and the snow begins, the shepherd was singing.

Below him in the green grass huddled the sheep-- a great gray moving field of young lambs with their mothers. And in all that soft flock of moving gray was one little black smudge.

It was the black sheep born in every flock. A sweet little black lamb kicking up his stiff young legs-- leaping with the gray lambs in the small dances of baby animals."

The little black sheep goes wandering off, but,

"For all the the little black sheep cared, it was the sheep and the shepherd who were lost."

The shepherd boy must bring the sheep home, but a storm comes on, and the shepherd goes back out to look for his lost sheep. He finds the sheep, who never knew he was lost to begin with. The shepherd sings,

"Oh, wind, blow softly over my sheep
Away from the lion
And over the lamb
Blow softly.

Over the grasses
And pointed flowers
Blow softly.

Oh, wind, blow softly out of the blue
Over the white
And the black sheep too.
Blow softly."

That is the story of Little Lost Lamb, by Golden MacDonald. In many ways, it is the story of my youngest brother, too, who died on August 8, 2003. I think of him often. This anniversary did not sting like the others. I will always feel his loss, but it's not as sharp as it was the first seven years.

Note to readers: Sometimes people contact me to ask if I will scan for them the pages of an out-of-print book I own. For liability reasons, I cannot honor those requests. If you're looking for a particular copy of an out-of-print book, I will do my best to look with you.

The Pause

Q: What is the difference between a cat and a comma?
A: One has claws at the ends of its paws. The other's a pause at the end of a clause.

It was only one digit-joint that got squished in the car trunk door, yet the pain has sapped my energy and curtailed my sewing. Last Saturday was also the 6th anniversary of my youngest brother's death. I usually put some sort of marker in honor of him on this blog, but this year I just didn't have it in me to do so.

Usually, when I say that I'm taking a blog vacation, I get a sudden burst of creativity that inspires me to write anew. I hope that the process of creation will happen once again.

And now, I'm going to stick my thumb in a glass of ice water. :)

Loss and Life in Books and Beyond

This day has come around again. Thanks to Elaine Magliaro for introducing me to Sherman Alexie's Grief Calls Us to the Things Of This World, for that is the poem that comes to mind today on this breezy sunny day in Seattle.

For the past three days, I have been reading aloud E. B. White's Charlotte's Web to Lucia. Thanks to both my husband and Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast for alerting me to this NPR piece about the book. I thought of E. B. White having to do seventeen takes when reading the sad parts for the audio recording after Lucia said, "Stop talking in that funny voice!" as I cried during the key moments. The final paragraphs are what always get me: the paen to friendship and good writing is as fine an epitaph as any I've ever read.

Finally, I remember when Lucia's first tooth came in. Now, that tooth has popped out, and Lucia is a big girl now, just like Peter Sis' Madlenka. "How wise I am!" Lucia exclaimed yesterday. Here she is, displaying her sagacity:


Not too long ago, Yorkshire Pudding introduced me to Miranda the Fairy, who used to leave his children little notes. Miranda the Fairy has a new job in the dental department of fairyland She left Lucia a little note with two books by Elsa Beskow in minature: Pelle's New Suit and Peter in Blueberry Land. I suspect that future tooth presents will be more modest.

Song of the Week: Changes, by Phil Ochs

In memory of my brother Bartholomew, May 11, 1979 August 8, 2003:

Changes, by Phil Ochs

Sit by my side, come as close as the air,
Share in a memory of gray;
And wander in my words, dream about the pictures
That I play of changes.

Green leaves of summer turn red in the fall
To brown and to yellow they fade
And then they have to die, trapped within
the circle time parade of changes.

Scenes of my young years were warm in my mind,
Visions of shadows that shine
'Til one day I returned and found they were the
Victims of the vines of changes.

The world's spinning madly, it drifts in the dark
Swings through a hollow of haze,
A race around the stars, a journey through
The universe ablaze with changes.

Moments of magic will glow in the night
All fears of the forest are gone
But when the morning breaks they're swept away by
Golden drops of dawn, of changes.

Passions will part to a strange melody
As fires will sometimes burn cold
Like petals in the wind, we're puppets to the silver
strings of souls, of changes.

Your tears will be trembling, now we're somewhere else,
One last cup of wine we will pour
And I'll kiss you one more time, and leave you on
the rolling river shores of changes.

Sit by my side, come as close as the air,
Share in a memory of gray;
And wander in my words, dream about the pictures
That I play of changes.


Chords to the song courtesy of Heartwood Guitar Instruction. My guitar teacher taught me substitutes for F sharp Minor and B minor chords. If you want to know what they are, email me. (Trust me, they're not that bad.)



Here is a video clip of Phil Ochs himself playing the song.

Bart day

My brother Bartholomew: May 11,1979--August 8, 2003


Big Bart


Baby Bart

Songs for Bart:

Drive--Joe 90
Dust in the Wind--Kansas
Changes--Phil Ochs
Cosmic Dancer--T. Rex
Sweet Old World--Lucinda Williams


Really, though, Bart's tastes ran more to Digital Underground and 2 in a Room. He would have listened politely to me play sad folkie and acoustic rock songs on the guitar and then said (with lots of cackling), "How about some 2 Live Crew now?" Of course, I'd have to clobber him.

Bartholomew

My brother Bartholomew: May 11, 1979--August 8, 2003.

Here's what I wrote last year around this time:

While I cannot remember what I had for dinner two nights ago, I can recall clearly where I was, what I was thinking, and what was said when I found out that Bart had died. In Seattle, the morning of August 8 was beautiful, sunny, yet balmy. There was a slight chill in the air under the warmth of the day. That day, I was going to see "Pirates of the Caribbean" with a friend, but since our baby daughters were napping at different times, we opted to go to the 2:30 pm showing instead of 12:30, as originally planned. At around 12:30 pm, Aunt Brigit called. She asked me if Bede was home, and then said, "I have some news. It is very bad. Bart is dead."

Of course, my first reaction was, "No, he's not." I had spoken to him that past Monday. He called while Lucia was crying, and I could barely hear him (he had a low voice), so I said loudly that I couldn't hear him, and asked if we could we call him back in a bit. On Wednesday, August 6, Bart called again. Bede chatted with him about Catholic theology, but then had to get off the phone because we were putting Lucia to bed (often a 2 hour ordeal.) Bart called us almost every day. We had every reason to think that we would speak to him again. But the night of Thursday, August 7, he went out to a movie. The morning of August 8, Bart left his house for work. He got off the green line Metro train at the Fort Totten platform in Washington, D.C. to transfer to the Northbound red line. But instead of getting on the northbound train, he jumped in front of it. Bede, Lucia and I flew out East the next morning, and attended the funeral Mass on Tuesday, August 12. Over 200 people attended Bart's funeral at the Catholic church of St. Jerome.

*
Bart was constantly accosted with intrusive thoughts. but he was also focused on being a force for good in the world. As much as he suffered, he would not have wanted to inflict that suffering upon anyone else. Perhaps it was a spontaneous jump, perhaps it was planned. Everyone's got a version of the story, based upon the frame of his or her particular world view. This is one of the times in which I don't want stories. I want "just the facts."

1980: Alkelda with her brothers.

1998: Alkelda with her brothers.