Janet's Blog

As we were gathered together today with family and extended family, enjoying a few appetizers as we waited for our magnificent Thanksgiving feast to begin, my son, Levi, decided to compose a brief Thanksgiving poem. He did some quick research on his cellphone, and wrote the poem in orange pen, in his usual hard-to-read handwriting, onto the "I'm thankful for..." banner that our hostess, Libby, had prepared for the kids to write on. Levi has a natural affinity for poetry, as well as a genuine love of history, so today's poem seemed to be easy for him to write. Anyway, it didn't take him more than a few minutes. I have become used to deciphering his handwriting, which usually includes very little spacing between words. (That's why much of his written work is completed on his laptop.) So today, with Levi's permission, and in the interest of readability, I have transcribed and slightly edited his poem for you here: 401 years ago was a meal that 3 days lasted. ...

It's Leap Day, that extra day, every four years, When February 29th arrives, to great cheers, Especially from those poor, sad souls  Who haven't celebrated an actual birthday in one thousand, four hundred sixty days. WHEW! That overdue, "Happy Birthday" song must be music to their ears. How did Caesar figure it out, more than 2,000 years ago? No calculators, no adding machines,  No computers to help them make sense of their schemes.  But those Romans were smart, when they added a day To the month of February, in just this way, to make the calendar right. So if you're grateful for Leap Day, you know who to thank-- Some intelligent Romans from Caesar's think tank. It's Leap Day, at last,  Still waters run deep day,  Don't be a creep day, Earn your own keep day... As you sow, you also shall reap. A supernumerary day, extra special in every way, But it is what you make it, nothing more. Think of the treasures that might be in store....

When Winter gets in a hurry, sending more than a flurry, When he gets in a rush, turning flowers to mush, When the pumpkin on the step has lost all its pep, When the grass, still green, can now be seen Poking up through snow, where no one can mow; When the pampas grass, standing ten feet high, Lies down on the ground like it's ready to die; When the leaves in the trees, oh, the leaves in the trees, No longer green, have lost their sheen, No longer orange, or yellow, or red,  Just ugly brown and dead, instead, Piled up on the ground in a dismal mound; And lofty branches, heavy with snow,  Come crashing down to the ground below; I feel like Winter has hijacked Fall,  and I don't like it, no, not at all. ******* I hope Indian Summer will come, right on cue, So Fall can remain until Winter is due, Then, part of December, and January, too, Will be Winter's domain, with Winter's ...

On Wednesday evenings, I help with check-in for our church’s Awana program.  Kids from age 2 through twelve have a great time learning Bible lessons, memorizing verses, and playing games.   Levi loves Awana, and Victoria enjoys helping with the youngest class.  Awana staff had an assignment for this week’s theme, to write some kind of tribute to farmers.  Many children also wrote letters of thanks to farmers, or stories about farmers.  All submissions will be displayed at the church for awhile.  Since I had been writing about my early life on the farm in recent blogs, this assignment was not too tough.  Here’s the result: A Tribute to Farmers Up at dawn, work till dusk, eat supper, work some more, Plow the fields, plant the crops, wait for rain to pour. Cultivate, irrigate, get it done, don’t be late! Rainy days, machine shed days, or maybe go to town; Dreaded hail, hear us wail, lay our money down. Harvest beets and beans and corn; sel...