Peter Rabbit On Steroids

I love sitting in as Crowd Control in the summer music classes. The last time I felt this good about my musical aptitude was in Mrs. Ballard's morning kindergarten class of '60-'61. I could play a mean pair of red sticks in rhythm band back then, but it didn't lead to a recording contract.

Thankfully, the students have finished singing "Did You Ever See a Lassie/Laddie" in music class. The kids took turns imitating a peer leader who either stood still while staring into space, or went totally berserko dancing in the middle of the circle.

Now the kids are doing a call and response folk song about "John the Rabbit":

John the rabbit, OH YES!
John the rabbit, OH YES!
He has a mighty bad habit, OH YES!
Of jumping in my garden, OH YES!
He ate all my tomatoes, OH YES!
And sweet potatoes, OH YES!
And if I live to see next fall, OH YES!
I just won't have any garden at all. OH YES!

This is an old play party song, so there are many different versions. John the Rabbit seems to be both trickster and Everyman, pro- and anti- tagonist. John isn't Peter Rabbit, or Peter's cousin, Little Benjamin Bunny. John is Peter Rabbit crossed with John Henry, Casey Jones, and Paul Bunyan. John the Rabbit is "Big Bad John," the mythic, mysterious giant miner hero of the 1961 song* recorded by Jimmie Dean, Johnny Cash, Tennessee Ernie Ford, and many others. I kid you not.

John the Rabbit is a steel-driving spinach leaf thief.
He's been pumping iron, but giving no grief.
Drove that golden carrot spike and had a big ox.

Big John the Rabbit, OH YES!
Big John
Big bad John

One Sunday morning, in the driving rain
Around the bend came a passenger train.
In the cabin stood Big Rabbit John
Noble engineer but he's dead and gone.

Big John the Rabbit, OH YES!
Big John
Big bad John

This old engine makes it on time
Leaves central station bout a quarter to nine
Hits river junction at seventeen to
At a quarter to ten you know its travlin again:

Peter Rabbit don't you call me, 'cause I can't go! I owe my soul to the company store.

As far as I know, John the Rabbit is not linked to the recent murder-suicide-love triangle of the female weight-lifting champ, the steroid dealer, and the former Cowboys player here in my own North Texas suburb. Still, I'm having nightmares about big blue bicep bunnies, freight trains, coal mines, and brussel sprouts.

*Big John
Big John
Every morning at the mine, you could see him arrive.
He stood 6 foot 6, weighed 245.
Kind of broad at the shoulders, narrow at the hip.
And everybody knew you didn't give no lip to Big John.

Big John
Big John
Big bad John
Nobody seemed to know where John called home.
He just drifted into town and stayed all alone.
He didn't say much, kind of quiet and shy,
And if you spoke at all, you'd just said hi to Big John.

Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Then came the day at the bottom of the mine,
When a timber cracked and men started crying.
Miners were praying, and hearts beat fast
And everybody thought they had breathed their last
cept' John.

Big John
Big John
Big Bad John
Through the dust and the smoke of this man-made hell,
Walked a giant of a man that the miners knew well.
Grabbed a sagging timber and gave out with a groan,
And like a giant oak tree he just stood there alone.

Big John
Big Bad John
Big John
And with all of his strength, he gave a mighty shove.
Then a miner yelled out, 'theres a light up above!'.
And twenty men scrambled from a would-be grave
now theres only one left down there to save,
Big John.


© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Cat in the cream jar

We'd only been married a few months when my spouse went into a Doc Watson/John Fahey acoustic guitar/bluegrass phase. I was totally unprepared for this jog in the newlywedded-bliss road. Suddenly, the Charlie Daniels Band held the stage in my harvest gold apartment kitchen right next to the avocado green crockpot and the free toaster we got when we opened our account at the Savings & Loan downtown.

As if being married wasn't surreal enough, my spouse was sprawling there in the black vinyl beanbag* chair actually studying the Slim Whitman "Yodeling Cowboy" K-Tel commercials on our tiny black & white tv between the "MASH" and "Barney Miller" reruns. It was as jarring as the spilled popcorn on the Husker red shag carpet.

My spouse rushed the stage at a Charlie Daniels Band concert in the then-new Bob Devaney Center at the Nebraska State Fairgrounds. Dang, but if mosh pits had been invented back then he would have been squeezed into apple cider! ***

These days my little students are singing "Fire On the Mountain" for their spring music festival. This traditional folk fiddle song was known to me only from those Charlie Daniels** years. The devil went down to Georgia and engaged in a fiddle competition to gain a country boy's soul.

The kids sing, "Fire on the mountain, run, boys, run. Hey, get along, get along Josey. Hey, get along, get along Jim. Cat in the cream jar, run, girls, run. Hey get along, get along Josey. Hey get along, get along Jim." Two boys made this poster of the cat in the cream jar:



They sing a new-fangled verse, "Chicken in the crockpot, mulligan stew," to Skip-To-My-Lou. Thank heaven they didn't have to put the chicken in the George Foreman Grill!

*The littlest kids like to sit in the "bing-bang chair" while I tie their shoes after naptime.

**When the devil finished
Johnny said well you're pretty good old son
But just sit down in that chair right there
And let me show you how it's done
Fire on the Mountain Run boys, run
The devil's in the House of the Rising Sun
Chicken in a bread pan picken' at dough
Granny does your dog bite No child, no

***Just FYI, our sons turned out pretty normal. Only one listens to Pat Green.



Thinking now of the Marshall Tucker Band--more of a marinaded and grilled chicken tender song:

Fire on the mountain
Lightnin' in the air
gold in them hills
and it's waiting for me there

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Flies in the worm bin, what'll I do?

Flies in the worm bin, what'll I do?
Flies in the worm bin, what'll I do?
Skip to my Lou my darlin'!


It's really just a few very small flying insects with hard-shell brown bodies, so I don't know if it's going to be a problem. Tiny white specks are appearing on the walls of the bin, and again, I haven't a clue.

Specks in the worm bin, haven't a clue
Specks in the worm bin, haven't a clue
Specks in the worm bin, haven't a clue
Skip to my Lou my darlin'!

The worms have stopped congregating in the high-rise handles of the worm bin, even on weekends. That several of them were forced to resign from public office because of those elite encounters has been much in the press. It's a bit too personal for me to discuss the whole "stand by your worm" phenomenon.

Now worms are opting for a more populist hoedown sort of elbow-swinging social life, clearly courting the evangelical vote:

Deep in the worm bin, what do they do?
Deep in the worm bin, what do they do?
Deep in the worm bin, what do they do?
Skip to my Lou my darlin'!

Yes, the worms are participating in the very old tradition of the American play party. "Skip to My Lou" is a play party song:

What did young people do for diversion and socialization in communities that banned most dancing and considered the fiddle to be the devil's instrument? The American play party was the fundamentalist's answer. Here the singing was a cappella, the dancers followed prescribed steps, and arm and elbow swings would be the only touching.

Little students are singing "Skip to My Lou" as they rehearse for their spring music festival of American folk songs. Play parties died out in the 1950s, but the tradition lives on in children's folk songs. I haven't found a copy of Waltz the Hall: The American Play Party, by Alan L. Spurgeon. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2005. ISBN1-57806-742-1, but I have put it on the worms' wish list!

Skip a little further, this will never do. We still have to consider the state of baby names. The popularity list for 2007 is a bit less scary than most years, except for the Simple Simon Metapimen rhymin' boys' names--Aiden, Caden, Braden, Jayden--soon to be followed by Afraiden, Maiden, Trade-in, and eBaydon. If your suggestion sounds like an ad campaign starring Keano Reeves for the tuxedo-rental store in that decaying shopping mall in your built-out suburb, maybe you should let your spouse choose the baby's name.

Boys' names
1. Aiden
2. Ethan
3. Jacob
4. Jayden
5. Caden
6. Noah
7. Jackson
8. Jack
9. Logan
10. Matthew
11. Ryan
12. Nicholas
13. Michael
14. Connor
15. Brayden
16. Dylan
17. Caleb
18. Joshua
19. Andrew
20. Tyler

(I've taught boys named all except Jayden and Caden. Aiden, Caden, Jayden, and Brayden will drive art teachers to an early grave with potential alternate spellings to write in the upper left-hand corner of students' artwork!)

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

Big game hunters, or maybe big purse hunters with matching shoes

I'm perversely intrigued with the tale of Gwendolyn Wunneburger, the 77+ Texas woman, 4' 5" tall, who killed two large bull alligators one afternoon in the Paradise Ranch bayou, as reported in an AP wire story. Gwendolyn and friends were spending their Wednesday afternoon trying to catch seven hundred pound alligators on hooks baited with whole chickens. I only do that on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, myself!

Once the gators were hooked and entangled in the line, Gwendolyn got out of the boat to shoot the gators right between the eyes from twenty feet. Did she use her twenty ri-two-fle? Did she sing, "You can't get a man with a gun"? Why on earth did Gwendolyn sing "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean" while sitting atop the deceased 750-lb. gator?

When I'm with a pistol
I sparkle like a crystal,
Yes, I shine like the morning sun.
But I lose all my luster
When with a Bronco Buster.
Oh you can't get a man with a gun.
With a gun, with a gun,
No, you can't get a man with a gun.

Shouldn't Gwendolyn have chanted the jump rope rhyme about the lady with the alligator purse?

Mumps," said the doctor.
"Measles," said the nurse.
"Hiccups," said the lady
With the alligator purse.

Back in the mid to late Sixties I had to attend what seemed like millions of Cub Scout pack meetings in the basement of Eastridge Presby Church. My favorite Cub Scout song was the one about the lady and the crocodile, which could be a cautionary tale for Ms. Wunneburger.

She sailed away
On a bright and sunny day
On the back of a crocodile
You see, said she
He's as tame as he can be
I'll ride him down the Nile
Well, the croc winked his eye
As she waved them all goodbye
Wearing a happy smile
At the end of the ride
The lady was inside
And the smile was on the crocodile (clap, clap)

Those were the years when I watched "The American Sportsman" on ABC Sports on winter Sunday afternoons. Narrated by Curt Gowdy, the show featured celebrities stalking big game, with lots of heavy breathing, whispering, bootsteps, and wavering tall grasses, all in black and white on our little television. As the winter sun set early, we might watch "Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom".

Marlin Perkins was the host of those Sunday evening broadcasts of "Wild Kingdom", and Jim Fowler was his sidekick. It seemed like Jim hollered, "It's got Marlin!," at least once each show as a large and dangerous animal threatened dear Mr. Perkins.

My Bonnie lies over the ocean
My Bonnie lies over the sea
My Bonnie lies over the ocean
Oh bring back my Bonnie to me
Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me, to me
Bring back, bring back
Bring back my Bonnie to me

We kids all sang the song as an white-light-in-the-tunnel experience--Now I lay me down to sleep...If I should die before I wake...Bring back my body to me, to me. Not to be confused with Michael Row the Boat Ashore Because I'm Being Eaten By a Boa Constrictor and I Don't Like It Very Much!

© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

Celery Sing-Along

I'm rediscovering the deliciousness of creamy peanut butter this summer. Last week the preschoolers dipped apple slices in peanut butter. Today they made good old "ants on a log"; celery filled with peanut butter and decorated with raisins. While I was assisting in the construction of these gourmet delicacies I kept trying to remember the bump on a log song. It was difficult to concentrate when the lovely peanut butter smell kept enfolding me. Up from the deep, mucky recesses of my brain I finally got an image of the Magic Drawing Board on the 1950s Captain Kangaroo show. The lyrics percolated up like slow bubbles in a peanut butter geyser:



There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea
Traditional

There's a hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a hole, there's a hole
There's a hole in the bottom of the sea.

There's a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a log, there's a log
There's a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

There's a branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a branch, there's a branch
There's a branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

There's a bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a bump, there's a bump
There's a bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

There's a frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a frog, there's a frog
There's a frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

There's a tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a tail, there's a tail
There's a tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

There's a speck on the tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a speck on the tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a speck, there's a speck
There's a speck on the tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

There's a fleck on the speck on the tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a fleck on the speck on the tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea
There's a fleck, there's a fleck
There's a fleck on the speck on the tail on the frog on the bump on the branch on the log in the hole in the bottom of the sea.

It's good to have that settled!

Unfortunately, I can't seem to find my Bela Fleck cd now! Plus, I have an urge to wade in the mud-bottom of Willow Creek in Pierce, Nebraska as it was in the late Sixties. O my frogs, polliwogs and squishy, slurpy, muddy toes all cool and refreshed!



A peanut sat on a railroad track,
His heart was all a-flutter,
Round the bend came Number Ten.
Toot! Toot! Peanut butter! SQUISH!

..........................

Oh, I went down South
For to see my Sal
Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day
My Sal, she is
A spunky gal
Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day
Fare thee well, Fare thee well,
Fare thee well my fairy fay
For I'm going to Lou'siana
For to see my Susyanna
Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day

Oh, a grasshopper sittin'
On a railroad track
Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day
A-pickin' his teeth
With a carpet tack
Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day
Fare thee well,Fare thee well,
Fare thee well my fairy fay
For I'm going to Lou'siana
For to see my Susyanna
Sing Polly wolly doodle all the day



My grocery store hasn't begun restocking Peter Pan peanut butter after the salmonella problem of last winter. I guess I'll have to choose Skippy or Jif. [And if I ever happen to become a hardcore traditional condo owner, I will name my dachsunds Skippy, Jif, and Peter Pan. ] So maybe next time I'll visualize that celery as fleas on a dachsund!
© 2007 Nancy L. Ruder

And the painted ponies go up and down

The little students bring me the Chinese checkers board. They are attracted to all the colorful pegs in the star points. Will I show them how to play? If they will give me a minute to remember, I will be glad to help them.

A minute is not enough. I remember the game shelf behind the kitchen door at Grandma's house, with the Chinese checkers board and the marbles in the cottage cheese carton next to the cardboard can of Tinker Toys.

There are dust motes in the sunbeams playing on the dark curved legs of the buffet. A German clock ticks. African violets and baby's breath grow in little glazed pots on the shelves my dad built for his mother's dining room window. Real people, possibly related to me, crocheted the tablecloth. I pray that I'm never the one to drip brown gravy on the tablecloth.

We play Chinese checkers near the violets sitting on the itchy rug. Sometimes we play in the pink bedroom under the tall brass bed. That's our hideout. We can sit on the cool wood floor down there and peek out under the edge of the chenille bedspread. The windows are open to the sounds of mourning doves or afternoon locusts. It is 1967. Judy Collins and Joni Mitchell sing on the transistor radio. Pete Seeger. The Byrds, too.


There's a circle inside the heavy glass jar of gum drops.

Yesterday a child came out to wonder
Caught a dragonfly inside a jar
Fearful when the sky was full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star ...

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.



To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time of war, a time of peace
A time of love, a time of hate
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing

To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time to love, a time to hate
A time of peace, I swear it's not too late!

And a time to make sure you turned off the burner.



According to the Kansas State Historical Society, Chinese checkers was a craze in the 1930s:

Chinese checkers was not a new game; it was a simplified variation of a European board game called Halma, which was developed around 1880 and had its own run of popularity in America during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Like Halma, from two to six players could play Star Checkers. The first player to move all of his ten marbles from one point of the star to the point directly opposite by means of checkers-like jumps was the winner.


How strange to find this information. My grandma's name was Halma!

Tom Dooley

My brother is replacing doors at his house. This has brought on another attack of unrelenting lyrics. Mr. Peabody and Sherman are ready to travel back to those glorious mid-Sixties, to the Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour, when acoustic folk artists could be found on prime time network television. Imagine it! They were just singing, not dancing with the stars or bumping each other off an island! Those were the days of the Kingston Trio, Joan Baez, Judy Collins, Pete Seeger, the Weavers, Peter, Paul, & Mary...

The Kingston Trio recorded "Tom Dooley" in 1958. The record's enormous popularity fueled the folk music revival:

Frank Warner/John Lomax/Alan Lomax
(Spoken recitation over musical accompaniment)
Throughout history, there have been many songs written about the eternal triangle. This next one tells the story of Mister Grayson, a beautiful woman, and a condemned man named Tom Dooley. When the sun rises tomorrow, Tom Dooley must hang.
Chorus:
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley. Hang down your head and cry.
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley. Poor boy, you're bound to die.
I met her on the mountain. There I took her life. Met her on the mountain. Stabbed her with my knife.
(Chorus)
This time tomorrow. Reckon where I'll be. Hadn't-a been for Grayson, I'd-a been in Tennessee.
(Chorus)
This time tomorrow. Reckon where I'll be. Down in some lonesome valley hangin' from a white oak tree.
(Chorus)


My brain is singing a variant version:

Hang up your doors, Clint Dudley
Hang up your drawers to dry
Hang up your doors, Clint Dudley,
Oh Lord, I'm going to cry.

The real Clint Dudley is hazy in the elementary school memory. So, too, the real Tom Dula story is obscured in the many versions of the traditional North Carolina ballad. Clint was the cutest boy in sixth grade. The vote was unanimous. Clint had a drop-dead smile, a good passing arm, and he wore his Levis in a way any female could appreciate, even though we sixth grade girls weren't sure just exactly what we were appreciating. Clint moved away after that school year, and he never returned. But that's another Kingston Trio song about the M.T.A.:

Well, let me tell you of the story of a man named Charlie
On a tragic and fateful day
He put ten cents in his pocket, kissed his wife and family
Went to ride on the MTA

Well did he ever return, no he never returned
And his fate is still unlearned (what a pity)
He may ride forever 'neath the streets of Boston
He's the man who never returned

"Tom Dooley" is on page eighteen of Teacher's Choice for the Young Pianist , arranged by Allan Small, copyright 1965. I didn't like practicing piano for my sixth grade lessons. I've saved this piano book for forty years, though.

Intersection of Three Songs = Trivial Fun

It all started a couple weeks ago when coworkers spontaneously burst into song:

You load sixteen tons, what do you get
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don't you call me 'cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the company store

I was born the same year Tennessee Ernie Ford's version of the 1946 Merle Travis song was recorded at Capitol Studios in Hollywood and sold over a million copies. Tennessee Ernie had a black and white tv show when I was little, and he had a mustache, and he looked a bit like my Uncle Swanee. I didn't understand why Ernie got to be "Tennessee Ernie". I thought I ought to be "Nebraska Nancy Lou" even if I didn't have a mustache. Tennessee Ernie Ford's signature sign-off was, "Bless your pea-pickin' heart!" In my youthful misconnected mind I thought "owing my soul" had something to do with shoe soles, and particularly with the Wells & Frost Shoe Store on "O" Street. I didn't shop at Wells and Frost. Brady's Juvenile Shoes was much closer to my dad's office, and to the Miller & Paine tea room with its famous macaroni and cheese and cinnamon rolls. Plus, Brady's store had giant rocking horses and funhouse mirrors .



I don't need an iPod, that's for sure! I've got entirely too many songs on constant tornadic rotation in my mental storm cellar. In Nebraska we head to the basement when tornado weather threatens. As kids in the era of Tennessee Ernie, my brother believed that a species of scary beings known as "The Gooeys" haunted our basement. Gooeys or no Gooeys, a basement is a good thing to have in tornado country when the sky turns that creepy green color.

A Cockeyed Optimist is the second song rattling around in my corn-popper brain:

When the skies are bright canary yellow
I forget ev'ry cloud I've ever seen,
So they called me a cockeyed optimist
Immature and incurably green.

I have heard people rant and rave and bellow
That we're done and we might as well be dead,
But I'm only a cockeyed optimist
And I can't get it into my head.

I hear the human race
Is fallin' on its face
And hasn't very far to go,
But ev'ry whippoorwill
Is sellin' me a bill,
And tellin' me it just ain't so.

I could say life is just a bowl of Jello
And appear more intelligent and smart,
But I'm stuck like a dope
With a thing called hope,
And I can't get it out of my heart!

I've got a full tank of things I can't get out of my head!

On my DART train trip to work a third song began to compete for attention with Tennessee Ernie and Kansas Nellie.

"Roll In My Sweet Baby's Arms" seems to have been written by Charlie Monroe, and recorded by darn near everyone including Lester Flatt, Buck Owens, Dolly Parton, and possibly Alvin and the Chipmunks performing with the Grateful Dead. I didn't realize it could be a square dance!

OPENER

Sides face, grand square

I ain't gonna work on the railroad
I ain't gonna work on the farm
I'll lay around this shack
Till the mail train comes back

Allemande left & weave the ring

Rolling in my sweet baby's arms

Dosado and promenade

I'll lay around the shack,
till the mail train comes back
Rolling in my sweet baby's arms

Three songs in my DART-riding brain crisscross paths:

trivial
1432, "of the trivium," from M.L. trivialis, from trivium "first three of the seven liberal arts," from L., lit. "place where three roads meet," from tri- "three" + via "road." The basic notion is of "that which may be found anywhere, commonplace, vulgar." The meaning "ordinary" (1589) and "insignificant" (1593) were in L. trivialis "commonplace, vulgar," originally "of or belonging to the crossroads." The verb trivialize is attested from 1846.

Trivial fun is found on a particularly splendid page of the Online Etymology Dictionary that includes "pipsqueak", "pun", "bullshit", "penny-ante", "snookums", and "quibble".

No Man is a Minivan

For Mothers' Day I'll be hauling my youngest's belongings back home from the dorm. It seems fitting, somehow. When this son was born, the two of us came home from the hospital on Mothers' Day. Now he's nineteen, and I don't need the diaper bag and zinc oxide any more. He won't fit in the stroller. In fact, if I take another son along to help with the toting and carrying down three flights of dorm stairs, I can't fit all the belongings and two sons into my poor, suspension-challenged Buick. And dang, I do hate it when important or expensive parts of the Buick fall off while I'm driving down the highway!

On another front, a friend's old spring-operated garage door opener crashed this week, narrowly missing both her and her car. Although I sometimes miss having a garage, I never miss the headaches of repairing garage doors. In my experience, garage doors only break when your husband is out of the country and you have twenty-six dollars to your name.

Shortly after I got rid of the husband and the garage door, but before I got rid of the Mazda minivan, I eked out part of my living teaching kindergarten readiness classes at the local rec center. The students were an incredible assortment. I taught twins, triplets, autistic kids, deaf kids, kids who were terrified of everything, kids who brought popsicles in their lunchboxes, kids who spoke no English, kids who took the baby dolls hostage, kids who acted out Lamaze labor and delivery, and a few kids who were ready to sit on their own chairs, listen to stories, learn to use scissors, and play well with others.



A favorite memory is of twin boys who spoke no English at the beginning. Their favorite toy was the Fisher Price house with all the little people, furniture, cars, and garage. Every week I listened to them converse in a combination of their language and twinspeak babbling. After many weeks I suddenly realized they were speaking English. They were saying, "mee-nee vahn," "ga-hadj door," "uppan-down." Minivan, garage door, up and down!

Thank heaven I have a whole team of brains assisting me! My friends helped me see the automotive options for the upcoming dorm retrieval trip. I could rent a bigger vehicle! We will be conducting the special ops mission in a rented Chrysler Town & Country mee-nee vahn. There may be some moments of sibling rivalry uppan-down as my sons begin to forge an almost-adult relationship of friendly equals. At least the Buick will stay out of the mechanic's ga-hadj.

No man is an island
No man stands alone
Each man's joy is joy to me
Each man's grief is my own

And remember, no mom is an island, either. Each son needs to phone!

Dislocated Persons

There are so many things to consider in the Katrina disaster, and the magnitude is so far beyond my comprehension, that I get hung up on small things. There are refugees, evacuees, and displaced persons, some of whom are being relocated from domed stadiums. I can fathom all that. It's the newscasters' use of the term "dislocated persons" that throws me. When I hear it I land in a heap of distracted collarbones far away from the breaking news I was intended to understand.

My online dictionary brings up the scary concept of being separated at the joint:
Adj. 1. dislocated - separated at the joint; "a dislocated knee"; "a separated shoulder" disjointed, separated injured - usually used of physical or mental injury to persons; "injured soldiers"; "injured feelings"

I will not get into dislocated musings about persons "separated at the joint", but it sounds like somebody went to the can at the tavern to read the graffiti, and all his buddies adjourned to the pizza place over in the next block, next door to the Toot'n'Tote'Em.

My high school graduation gift from Uncle Milt and Aunt Margie, the American Heritage Dictionary, c. 1973, that I have used at least once a day for over thirty years, supplies this entry:

Dis-lo-cate...1. To put out from the usual or proper relationship with contiguous parts; displace; shift. 2. Pathology. To displace (a limb or organ) from the normal position; especially, to displace (a bone) from the socket or joint. 3. To throw into confusion or disorder; upset; disturb.

"Contiguous" is joined at the hip in my mind with "Alaska and Hawaii". You got them there contiguous states, and then you got them there noncontiguous states...

My little students spend a surprising amount of time and energy in their "Finding Nemo" underwear manually verifying that their contiguous parts have not been dislocated. In the spirit of bipartisanship, I will refrain from mentioning the delay in the federal response to the disaster at this point.

Is your organ dislocated? Did you hear that piece on NPR about a woman in Mississippi trying to find her baby grand?

This funny Halloween book may be out of print now. It addresses dislocated dogs thrown into confusion, so it may be the story W was reading this time.

I'm discombobulated lately. I picked up the 2004 World Almanac and Book of Facts one morning, and took it to work instead of my sack lunch. And speaking of ham and cheese sandwiches left out all day in the hot sun, please compare the stink with the olefactory mess in Louisiana!

It's time for this evening's photo op and live broadcast of the Katrina Song'n'Gong Show:

Come and listen to a story about a man named Jed
A poor mountaineer, barely kept his family fed,
Then one day he was shootin at some food,
And up through the ground came a bubblin' crude.

Oil that is, black gold, Texas tea. ...

Head, shoulders, knees and toes,
Knees and toes.
Head, shoulders, knees and toes,
Knees and toes.
And eyes, and ears, and mouth,
And nose.
Head, shoulders, knees and toes,
Knees and toes.

(Place both hands on parts of body as they are mentioned. During the second term in office speed up, and get faster with each verse. )




Your toe bone connected to your foot bone,
Your foot bone connected to your ankle bone,
Your ankle bone connected to your leg bone,
Your leg bone connected to your knee bone,
Your knee bone connected to your thigh bone,
Your thigh bone connected to your hip bone,
Your hip bone connected to your back bone,
Your back bone connected to your shoulder bone,
Your shoulder bone connected to your neck bone,
Your neck bone connected to your head bone,
I hear the word of the Lord!
Dem bones, dem bones gonna walk aroun'
Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun'
Dem bones, dem bones, gonna walk aroun'
I hear the word of the Lord!

Michael, row the boat ashore,Hallelujah.
Michael, row the boat ashore,Hallelujah.
Sister, help to trim the sails,Hallelujah.
Sister, help to trim the sails,Hallelujah.
River Jordan's deep and wide,Hallelujah.
Milk and honey on the other side,Hallelujah.
River Jordan's chilly and cold,Hallelujah.
Chills the body, but warms the soul,Hallelujah.

She's a young thing and cannot leave her mother

Billy Boy, Billy Boy! It seems to me there used to be a saying about the best perfume being the aroma of home-cooking, but I can't seem to track it down. Not that I actually participate in home-cooking or flowery fragrances if I can help it. And what about that famous New Car Smell?

I'm scentsitive. Beauty and cleaning product smells really bother me. Cooking smells aren't as aggravating. Still, the aroma of home-cooking is trailing me, literally. Home is a euphemism here for grocery deli counter:

Oh, where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Oh, where have you been, Charming Billy?
I have been to seek a wife,
She's the joy of my life,
She's a young thing
And cannot leave her mother.

Did she ask you to come in, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Did she ask you to come in, Charming Billy?
Yes, she asked me to come in,
There's a dimple in her chin.
She's a young thing
And cannot leave her mother.

Can she make a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
Can she make a cherry pie, Charming Billy?
She can make a cherry pie,
Quick as a cat can wink an eye,
She's a young thing
And cannot leave her mother.

How old is she, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?
How old is she, Charming Billy?
Three times six and four times seven, Twenty-eight and eleven,
She's a young thing
And cannot leave her mother.


I bought a rotisserie chicken at Albertsons this afternoon. It was the apricot honey glaze $4.99 version. Loaded the groceries into the trunk of the Buick.

Aaaaahhhhhh. That chicken smells delicious. The Buick smells delectable. The chicken has flipped over in the trunk of the Buick, and there's apricot honey glaze soaking into the floor. The vent circulation is better than one might expect. Bon apetit!

Oh, Dem Golden Slippers

Steven suffered from a serious lack of traction in today's game, so we set off to buy new cleats (and Neosporin for all his scrapes). His eye was caught by some Nike Total something-or-others that have the lacing off center "so it won't mess up your kicks." The shoes fell within my price limit, so okay, but they were SHINY SILVER! They looked like soccer shoes for the Tin Man in Oz, a knight in shining armor, or maybe Freddy Mercury. I was dreading the conversations on the sidelines:

"Which one is your son?"

"Well, he's the one with silver shoes."

"Ohhhh."

I asked Steven if the reasoning for the design was to create glare in the opponent's eyes, and he said, "These are too small. Do they have any eleven-and-a-half or twelves?" And so my tale ends happily. The clerk and I couldn't find any larger silver shoes. Steven was satisfied with black ones. I did a little tap dance in my ruby slippers on the way out to the parking lot.

Oh, Dem Golden Slippers
Composed by James A. "Jimmy" Bland in 1870
Very popular minstrel tune of the 1880s, especially in the northern bluegrass tradition

Oh, my golden slippers am laid away
Kase I don't 'spect to wear 'em till my weddin' day,
And my long-tailed coat, dat I loved so well,
I will wear up in de chariot in de morn;
And my long white robe dat I bought last June,
I'm gwine to git changed Kase it fits too soon,
And de old grey hoss dat I used to drive,
I will hitch him to the chariot in de morn.

Chorus: Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers!
Golden slippers dat I'm gwine to wear be-case they look so neat;
Oh, dem golden slippers! Oh, dem golden slippers!
Golden slippers I'm gwine to wear to walk de golden street.

Oh, my ole banjo hangs on de wall
Kase it ain't been tuned since way last fall,
But de darks all say we will hab a good time,
When we ride up in de chariot in the morn;
Dars ole Brudder Ben and Sister Luce,
Dey will telegraph de news to Uncle Bacco Juice,
What a great camp meetin der will be dat day,
When we ride up in de chariot in de morn.

So, it's goodbye, children, I will have to go
Whar de rain don't fall er de wind don't blow,
And yer ulster coats, why yer will not need,
When yer ride up in de chariot in de morn;
But yer golden slippers must be nice and clean,
And yer age must be Just sweet sixteen,
And yer white kid gloves yer will have to wear,
When yer ride up in de chariot in de morn.