Snow-bound

I dedicate this to my niece living in Estonia. They are getting their first snow of the season on this very day!

Today, I am posting another selection that we read in class this week ("American Lit.: Homeschool Edition"). It is only a portion of the lovely, long, narrative poem by Whittier, another of the Fireside Poets. It is a favorite of mine which brings up many fond memories, both from childhood and from our own life here at the Cottage.

Click on the Title for the whole poem, as I did not want to post all 759 lines here.

SNOW-BOUND A Winter Idyl
by John Greenleaf Whittier


THE sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,
Brought in the wood from out the doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,
The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,
Crossed and recrossed the wingëd snow:
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant spendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: "Boys, a path!"
Well pleased (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp's supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
The old horse thrust his long head out,
And grave with wonder gazed about;
The cock his lusty greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked;
The hornëd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot.

All day the gusty north-wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
No church-bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
A solitude made more intense
By dreary-voicëd elements,
The shrieking of the mindless wind,
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,
And on the glass the unmeaning beat
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.
Beyond the circle of our hearth
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.

As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back, --
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,
Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,
When fire outdoors burns merrily,
There the witches are making tea."
The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemd where'er it fell
To make the coldness visible.

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

Longfellow's Song of Life

This week in American Lit. (homeschool edition ;-), we continued in our study of the Fireside Poets. One of the poems read today is by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882).

A PSALM OF LIFE

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST


TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream! —
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.


*first published in the Knickerbocker Magazine, October 1838. It also appeared in Longfellow's first published collection Voices in the Night.

William Cullen Bryant

In American Lit class this week, we read and discussed Bryant's Thanatopsis, then I sent the kids home with a copy of To a Waterfowl to add to their notebooks. What I like about the particular website that I've linked here, is that you can click on the highlighted words within the poem for literary insight or a definition. Pretty smart, I thought, because it is just a "tidbit" and not an over-analyzed page or two, which sometimes bleeds all the life out of the poem or work itself.

Bryant was considered America's first poet of importance. In fact, when publishers first read Bryant's work, Thanatopsis, they didn't believe such a work could ever have been produced on this side of the Atlantic. Ha!! Bryant's father was able to prove that it was his son's work (written at 17 with a few final lines added ten years later).

I set up the class time with a little discussion of the Romantic movement first, just to set the stage for these poems and the rest of the Romantics we will study for the next month or so, just before moving into the Transcentalist movement.

Next week, we'll delve more into the Fireside Poets.

It's good to dive into American Literature again.

sigh...

Javamom

Phyllis Wheatley poems

Phyllis Wheatley
1753-1784
the first African American to be published


An HYMN to the MORNING

ATTEND my lays, ye ever honour'd nine, Assist my labours, and my strains refine; In smoothest numbers pour the notes along, For bright Aurora now demands my song.

Aurora hail, and all the thousand dies, Which deck thy progress through the vaulted skies: The morn awakes, and wide extends her rays, On ev'ry leaf the gentle zephyr plays; Harmonious lays the feather'd race resume, Dart the bright eye, and shake the painted plume.

Ye shady groves, your verdant gloom display To shield your poet from the burning day: Calliope awake the sacred lyre, While thy fair sisters fan the pleasing fire: The bow'rs, the gales, the variegated skies In all their pleasures in my bosom rise.

See in the east th' illustrious king of day! His rising radiance drives the shades away-- But Oh! I feel his fervid beams too strong, And scarce begun, concludes th' abortive song.



An HYMN to the EVENING.

SOON as the sun forsook the eastern main The pealing thunder shook the heav'nly plain; Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr's wing, Exhales the incense of the blooming spring. Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes, And through the air their mingled music floats.

Through all the heav'ns what beauteous dies are
spread!

But the west glories in the deepest red: So may our breasts with ev'ry virtue glow, The living temples of our God below!

Fill'd with the praise of him who gives the light, And draws the sable curtains of the night, Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind, At morn to wake more heav'nly, more refin'd; So shall the labours of the day begin More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.

Night's leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes, Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.



On IMAGINATION.

THY various works, imperial queen, we see,

How bright their forms! how deck'd with pomp
by thee!

Thy wond'rous acts in beauteous order stand, And all attest how potent is thine hand.

From Helicon's refulgent heights attend, Ye sacred choir, and my attempts befriend: To tell her glories with a faithful tongue, Ye blooming graces, triumph in my song.

Now here, now there, the roving Fancy flies,

Till some lov'd object strikes her wand'ring eyes, Whose silken fetters all the senses bind, And soft captivity involves the mind.

Imagination! who can sing thy force? Or who describe the swiftness of thy course? Soaring through air to find the bright abode, Th' empyreal palace of the thund'ring God, We on thy pinions can surpass the wind, And leave the rolling universe behind: From star to star the mental optics rove, Measure the skies, and range the realms above. There in one view we grasp the mighty whole, Or with new worlds amaze th' unbounded soul.

Though Winter frowns to Fancy's raptur'd eyes The fields may flourish, and gay scenes arise; The frozen deeps may break their iron bands, And bid their waters murmur o'er the sands. Fair Flora may resume her fragrant reign, And with her flow'ry riches deck the plain; Sylvanus may diffuse his honours round, And all the forest may with leaves be crown'd: Show'rs may descend, and dews their gems disclose, And nectar sparkle on the blooming rose.

Such is thy pow'r, nor are thine orders vain, O thou the leader of the mental train: In full perfection all thy works are wrought, And thine the sceptre o'er the realms of thought. Before thy throne the subject-passions bow, Of subject-passions sov'reign ruler thou; At thy command joy rushes on the heart, And through the glowing veins the spirits dart.

Fancy might now her silken pinions try To rise from earth, and sweep th' expanse on high: From Tithon's bed now might Aurora rise, Her cheeks all glowing with celestial dies, While a pure stream of light o'erflows the skies. The monarch of the day I might behold, And all the mountains tipt with radiant gold, But I reluctant leave the pleasing views, Which Fancy dresses to delight the Muse; Winter austere forbids me to aspire, And northern tempests damp the rising fire; They chill the tides of Fancy's flowing sea, Cease then, my song, cease the unequal lay.

Benjamin Franklin

Posting a couple of photos from our trip to Philadelphia last year for my small American Lit. class ~

The Library Company of Philadelphia (by Benjamin Franklin), America's first library
also served as the Library of Congress from the Revolutionary War period to 1800. It was America's largest public library until the 1850's .

The American Philosophical Society grew out of two groups which originally began as the Junto (a group started by Benjamin Franklin), and another group called "the American Society for Promoting Useful Knowledge." When they joined forces, their new name became "The American Philosophical Society Held at Philadelphia for Promoting Useful Knowledge". Benjamin Franklin was elected its first president.

This group of men would meet together weekly to discuss the intellectual, business, personal, commercial and community topics popular in his day. The building where they met (pictured below) is right by Constitutional Hall.

October! (post #876!)

For my 876th post to this blog, I will share a quote I which I was just reminded of by a friend today.

"There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October."

~Nathaniel Hawthorne

To which I would add the following:

Since Hawthorne, born in Salem, MA, lived in New England most of his life and Europe for a few years*, I would change the month reference from October to November. For citizens who live in the south central U.S., it doesn't get as cool, nor do we have the Autumnal, red-golden-hued trees and crisper temeratures until November/December. However, the sentiment remains the same, which is one reason I share it on this first day of October, 2010. We definitely feel the shifting of the season and the tilting of the earth away from the sun.

I still love the quote, and Nathaniel Hawthorne is one of my favorite authors. I am looking forward to teaching about him in another month or so!

Javamom

*p.s. Many people don't realize that Nathaniel Hawthorne and his family lived in England for several years, where he served as Amercian Consul for President Pierce, from 1853-1857. They moved to Italy briefly, where they spent time in Rome and Florence, primarily. Then it was back to England where he wrote The Marble Faun in 1860. After that, the family moved back to Concord, MA, where they purchased their own home for the first time, from Bronson Alcott. The Alcotts called this home "Hillside" but Hawthorne renamed it "The Wayside."

The Wayside, not to be confused with Boston's "Wayside Inn." They are two different places.

Hawthorne had the small inspiration room added as a third floor after they purchased the home. It was where he loved to write, and spent many hours of his last four years of life.

Traveling in the New World

I took some time this week to read some of the first pages and the last few pages of journal entries by Sarah Kemble Knight, on her five-month-long journey in 1704 from Boston to New York to settle a cousin's estate. Here you can find a nice map of her apporximate journey. It's a fabulous map, showing the rugged land that she had to cross alone, with only the slight help of a post or mail/message carrier. We've been through many of the same places several times, but thankfully, not on 'hors' as she writes ;-).

Knight's journal is yet another example of the Narrative Historical Literature that we are studying this year in American Lit. here at home.

Next post: a poem about a spinning wheel...or is it?

Huswifery

Huswifery

By Edward Taylor
1642-1729
(puritanamericansermons.com/poetry)


Make me, O Lord, thy Spinning Wheele compleat;
Thy Holy Worde my Distaff make for mee.
Make mine Affections thy Swift Flyers neate,
And make my Soule thy holy Spoole to bee.
My Conversation make to be thy Reele,
And reele the yarn thereon spun of thy Wheele.

Make me thy Loome then, knit therein this Twine:
And make thy Holy Spirit, Lord, winde quills:
Then weave the Web thyselfe. The yarn is fine.
Thine Ordinances make my Fulling Mills.
Then dy the same in Heavenly Colours Choice,
All pinkt with Varnish't Flowers of Paradise.

Then cloath therewith mine Understanding, Will,
Affections, Judgment, Conscience, Memory;
My Words and Actions, that their shine may fill
My wayes with glory and thee glorify.
Then mine apparell shall display before yee
That I am Cloathd in Holy robes for glory.



Analysis of this poem by Kerry Michael Wood found here.

Enjoy!


Javamom

Ann Bradstreet Poetry

This year, I am teaching American Lit to our last two teens. We are moving in a Chronological order of time periods, so we began with some Native American writings (including a perusal of The Iroquois Constitution, which is quite sophisticated and inclusive of women, as well). We discussed Anne Bradstreet, the first female American poet today, and read through some of her poetry, which focuses on matters of daily living in the time of the Puritans.

Perhaps the one she best-known for is "To My Dear and Loving Husband."


This is the one we read today in class:


"By Night when Others Soundly Slept"

By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bow'd his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.

My hungry Soul he fill'd with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in his blood,
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears.

What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I'll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Love him to Eternity.


We are also reading a decent chunk of William Bradford's own writings of the Separatists, the important events leading them to remove from England, on to "The Lowlands" and eventually travel to Cape Cod. We've all heard the Pilgrim stories, but I wanted to kids to read an original source document on this time and group in history.

We are taking an "overview" approach, not completely digging into everything with a fine-tooth comb. We'll also be covering different folklore, historical speeches, documents, maps, music, short stories, some journal entries, just a few novels, as well as poetry. Would love to explore a bit of natural history through the Lewis and Clark journals, but I'm not sure that we'll have time for that. I may make it available as an alternate assignment and paper/project.


Hope your school year has begun well! We are finally beginning to get into a decent groove.


Javamom

A Tour of Literary Homes

This is the home built by R. Waldo Emerson's grandfather, Concord minister, witness to the American Revolution and the battle at the Old North Bridge. Waldo lived here for a time and wrote his essay "Nature" here (the long version). Nathaniel Hawthorne also lived and began his family and early writing here.

This is also where (in the front parlor) our 14 yo son was asked to play the 1760-something Steinway, the only thing that could be touched in the house. Quite out of tune, it was still music to this mama's ears and heart! He did well!






Backyard view of The Manse coming up the trail from The North Bridge. Mrs. Emerson watched the battle from the upstairs window next to the corner. Her second husband (after her first one died) was the minister that was hired to take her late husband's place. They stayed here in The Manse, had more children, and the new preacher planted an incredible orchard. He was criticized for this when he was planting at an older age by nay-saying neighbors, who thought for sure that he was planting in vain, never to eat the fruit from these trees.

Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote in his essay "The Old Manse," '...there was only so much the better motive for planting them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting his successors--an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts.' The old minister *did* harvest many apples and fruits from his trees, for he lived to be 90 years old.

I loved seeing the hostas along the stones. Many of the great thinkers in what is called Concord's "Second Revolution" visited here, rested here, taught each other here. One woman, known as Smart Mary, even tutored here. Harvard would send potential appicants to be tutored by her to get them up to speed and ready for their Harvard studies. This is only a relative few miles down the road from Cambridge, after all.

The Old Manse Garden ~ Thoreau planted an heirloom garden here for Hawthorne and his new bride, Sophia (pronounced 'So-fy-a' by the historians we talked to) before they moved in. Nathaniel rented the old Emerson estate for about three years to the tune of $100 a year. He had trouble making rent, because it was early on in his writing career. Years later, he made good on his back rent and paid off his debts.

This is the boathouse on the Concord River behind The Manse. The stones at the base are original, but the boathouse itself has been rebuilt. It is smaller than the original. I am standing on the Old North Bridge to take this photo. It was a still and lovely day.


Orchard House! Do you recognize it from anywhere? This was one of the homes of the Alcott family. Here, L.M.A wrote Little Women. Sister Elizabeth had already died when they moved into this home.

Dear daughter and myself, thoroughly enjoying our time of learning at Orchard House.

This is where the little gift shop is located, by which you may enter the home for a wonderful and historical tour. Be prepared to view LMA's collection of favorite books, from Dickens to Jane Austen and Harriet Beecher Stowe.

When Nathaniel Hawthorne lived next door, he did not always want to see or talk to Bronson Alcott, who loved nothing more than to sit out on a bench under their tree and engage passers-by in long conversations. Hawthorne would use a footpath behind the smaller lean-to buildings to avoid Bronson some days, when all he wanted to do was to pick up a few things quickly in town. Hawthorne was a bit shy, and valued his privacy. At other times, he would stop and talk with Alcott. Just not every time!

The School of Philosophy, started by Alcott. It was open for eight years until Bronson Alcott's death. It was reopened for classes in the 1970's and a summer teacher's institute was added sometime later. Sounds like a neat thing to do, doesn't it?


Hostas planted on the walkway here at Orchard House, just like The Old Manse

After our morning at Orchard House, we enjoyed a picnic between two historic homes.

If you enlarge the photo, you should be able to see Wayside in the background.



This is the home of the Alcotts when the girls were smaller. This is where a lot of those adventures LMA wrote into Little Women were lived and played out, including the staircase they'd play "Pilgrim's Progress" on. The Hawthornes bought this home for 1200 dollars from the Alcotts, who had called the home "Hillside." Hawthorne renamed it "Wayside." It is worth doing a little research to find out more fascinating history of Wayside, and how it was the first literary home to be added to the National Park Service list. During that ill-fated day, April 19th, 1775, this home was owned by one of the commanders of the Minutemen, thus its importance to the National Park Service.

The entrance to the home. We are coming out of the garage, where there is a neat display of the three literary giants who lived in this home: Louisa May Alcott, Nathaniel Hawthorne, and Margaret Sidney (whose real name is Harriet Lothrop) who wrote Five Little Peppers and How They Grew.

Love the green doors

Those are some of the memorable highlights of two of our days in Concord, MA.

When we take our next graduate in line for his own special trip, we will go to Emerson's 'Bush' house and Longfellow's home in Cambridge, where some Harvard lectures still take place!

Until next time (And highlights of the Old North Bridge :),

Javamom

Book Finds

The Dread-Pirate Sparsebeard and I had a date day (in honor of his birthday this week), since our four kiddos were otherwise engaged. First, we took our time to have lunch and good discussion at a little French cafe. Then we rented a French film about a little girl named Ponette, who (in the film) is grieving the loss of her mother. Then we stopped by a local used book shop before picking up our youngest two from a youth retreat.

I'm very pleased with our new books:

Las Crónicas de Narnia: El León, La Bruja, y El Ropero
Spanish Proverbs: Idioms & Slang
Himnario de la Iglesia
1001 Pitfalls in Spanish
and
Early American Writing (Penguin Classics)

Washington Irving

Born on this date in 1783. He is a famous American short story writer, essayist, poet, travel book writer, biographer, and columnist, best known for the short stories "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" and "Rip Van Winkle". We read both of these earlier in the schoolyear as part of our study of American Literature.

Achievements:

1. Irving is the first belletrist in American literature, writing for pleasure at a time when writing was practical and for useful purposes.
2. He is the first American literary humorist.
3. He has written the first modern short stories.
4. He is the first to write history and biography as entertainment.
5. He introduced the nonfiction prose as a literary genre.
6. His use of the gothic looks forward to Poe.

(from Perkins, et. al. The American Tradition in Literature. 6th Ed. One Volume)

I had to look up Belletrist. It is defined as one who is devoted to belles-lettres...meaning one who is interested in the finer or higher forms of literature; literature being regarded as fine art.

Here are a couple of good Irving quotes:

"A kind heart is a fountain of gladness, making everything in its vicinity freshen into smiles."


"Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above them."


Happy Birthday, Mr. Irving!

Antebellum Ball pix

Yep, that's my boy in the brown suede leather (on the right, in the top photo) and velvety vest with black tie. Find a more detailed view of the vest here. The fabric was lush and soft, and I adore the pattern. Hubby wants me to make one for him, now :-).


View more pics of the ball and other costumes here. There were some handsome uniforms and suits and some gorgeous dresses. They all had a splendid evening!

Brilliant Poem!

Another reason why I don't keep a gun in the house
by Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Robert Frost Quote

"You don't know the metaphor in its strength and weakness. You don't know how far you can expect to ride it when it may break down with you. You are not safe in Science, you are not safe in History." ~Robert Frost

According to a lecture to which I just listened this week, Frost says that Science and History are just as saturated with metaphor and metaphoric devices as literature. The weakness of metaphor, in Frost's opinion, is that one may eventually stop seeing the metaphor; one begins to see the metaphor as the truth. It (the metaphor) is NOT literal, it is figurative.

UPDATE: Sherry asked a good question in the comments section. I am in the process of reading the Frost text, "Education by Poetry" from which the lecturer quoted, so that I can get a better understanding of it by reading it completely in context, and see if I agree with the aforementioned lecturer! Feel free to share your own observations and thoughts!

Antebellum Ball

The oldest son, 17 yo AnselAdams, has a dance coming up soon. It is an Antebellum Ball, and all have to attend "in character." The ball is for students and alumni of the worldviews classes which he attends. This week, they are learning some of the dances that would have been danced in the 1800's. 14 yo daughter has been recruited to go to the dance lessons to be a dance partner, so the guys in the classes don't have to dance with each other.

Our son has decided to go as Samuel Clemmens...aka Mark Twain. It promises to be an enjoyable and historic evening for all!

I thought that if I go as a parent chaperone, I'd like to go as Julia Ward Howe, or as a female spy :-).

Now we've got to get creative and pull the costumes together...or try to borrow from friends who used to participate in Civil War Reinactments. Here's hoping for some help, anyway!

The same day as the ball, AA and Dd and I will be leading worship a couple of times at a homeschool moms conference, so we will be very busy. I don't know why things like that tend to fall on the same weekend...we didn't know it at the time that we said "yes." We actually had to turn our own church down for worship leading for a Ladies' Day on the same day, since we'd already booked the other event first.

Normally, our family makes concerted efforts to keep some margin in the schedule, as much as is in our power to do so. It just doesn't always work out that way. I do believe that the Lord will supply the energy and effort we need to accomplish what He wills, as long as we line up with His will :-).

Javamom

Currently Reading

We're still reading Huckleberry Finn and analyzing it just a bit. It's amazing how many details you can remember when you categorize things, either in your head or on paper. Three areas in which I like to categorize are: main characters, significant events, and setting. I am on Chapter Nineteen, and the main setting of this book, from chapter to chapter, centers on the River, and the comfortable and free world of the raft. As Huck writes, "We said there warn't no home like a raft, after all. Other places do seem so cramped up and smothery, but a raft don't. You feel mighty free and easy and comfortable on a raft."

As the story and their journey progresses, Huck and Jim engage with the shoreline and the world of the towns along the shore more and more.

Huck grapples with some moral issues he'd never even thought of as moral issues before. He matures and grows. Jim and Huck become faithful, trustworthy friends who watch out for each other.

Time for Twain

We're beginning to read Huckleberry Finn this week, and I've enjoyed three lectures from The Teaching Company to get more background details and some literary criticism.

I delight in Twain's humor, and am looking forward to reading this book for the first time. I'm late to this one, but at least I am reading it now!

One thing the professor (in the lecture series) says about Huckleberry Finn (the book) is that the final third of the book is just botched. I suppose I can write more about my thoughts on this when I come to that point. He gives his own reasons why, but I'll save that for later.

Have you read Huck Finn and enjoyed it for what it is; for the maturing that Huck goes through...realizing that for the time period in which it was set (1840's), certain expressions and societal mores were commonplace?

It is a controversial book, even from the time it first came out. It offended the Bostonian thinkers/writers in the 1880's, for slightly different reasons than it offends others in our day and age. I don't recommend it for younger students, but perhaps mature jr. high and high school would enjoy reading and discussing it with parents and teachers.

I'd enjoy taking a Twain college course, myself! This is the next best way for me to accomplish that.

Javamom

p.s. Hat tip to Maria re: Mark Twain Scrapbook at pbs online. The also have a timeline of Twain's life, lesson and activity plans, and more on the Ken Burns film of Mark Twain.

Literature - mid-1800's

How can one study literature from the mid-1800's, concerning the war between the states, in just two weeks? That is the problem with some curriculae; rushing the students through just a small sampling of material, which is merely connected by a snippet in time from history, but not by anything else. This is from the "American Lit" standpoint, not from a historical standpoint. There is a bit of a difference from this angle than if one were simply studying "History." We can consider, as well, the speeches or writings of the Native Americans at this time: Chief Joseph (I Will Fight No More), Geronimo, others.

Here are a few ideas to fill out our repertoire:

Civil War in Literature

A Sampling of Civil War stories from Harper's Weekly

Confederate and Union Poetry and Music from the War Between the States

Let's not forget Slave Narratives by those such as Frederick Douglas.

Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address is also included in this grouping. Find more on Lincoln at Gettysburg here.

Books in the New Year

We were introduced to the Poet Laureate Billy Collins last year, and we are becoming huge fans.

Collins' poem "The Lanyard" makes me laugh! It's even funnier when you hear him read it aloud himself.


The Lanyard

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

- Billy Collins


I have been considering what books to add to my "wish" list for 2006, and this is one that I'd like to have for our home library:

The Poetry Home Repair Manual by Ted Kooser, another Poet Laureate

What books are you adding to your list of "must haves" this year?