Sunday, January 04, 2009

Winter Willies

During these dark and dreary days of January in the north, people often take to wood carving, or painting, or quilting, or in some instances, writing.

My brother Darrel, a long time resident of New Jersey where he worked as a horticulturist and plant breeder returned to our home town of Wild Rose a year ago. Last week, in a brief moment between snowstorms he found a piece of paper and a pencil and scribbled the following (I include only a portion of his rendering). He gave me permission to include his words here

Ain’t Nobody Knows-Wild Rose
Darrel Apps

Do you think it is unkind to suppose
That our village was not meant for a rose
From December to April, frigid winds blow
Without fail tender plants succumb to the snow
Why anyone lives here ain’t nobody knows!

January and February in Wisconsin are no joke
It’s even colder than stories told by some old folk
Brutal cold spells slide cruelly from the north
As tales are told and retold back and forth
Why anyone lives here ain’t nobody knows!

Winter leaves late with the roar of a lion
While snow melts slowly no one is crying
Four months of winter is one long time
Even Easter can be less than sublime
Why anyone lives here ain’t nobody knows!

Anybody got a paragraph, or two about winter, or a short poem to share? Does not have to be a good poem (although there is some question these days about what is and what is not good poetry). Does not have to be a great piece of prose either, just something that is heartfelt, and will take away a little of the winter willies.

The Old Timer Says: Write it down, you will feel better.

Upcoming Events:

January 14, 9:00 AM, WTMJ 4 TV, Milwaukee. Old Farm featured.

January 19, 6:00 PM, Portage (Columbia County) Historical Society dinner, Old Farm featured. Call 608-742-1445 for further information.

January 30, Viroqua Public Schools.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I think this worthwhile. This comes from the Pilgrimage Prayer Book, published in 1983 by the National Catholic Rural Life Conference. Author, not sure.
My farm is not where I must soil
My hands in endless, dreary toil.
But where through seed and swelling pod,
I`ve learned to walk and talk, with God.