When I was a little girl my father often read to us before we were tucked into bed for the night. We had wonderful story books like Little Brown Bear and His Friends, The Story Book of River Bend, and Disney's Uncle Remus, but Dad didn't read only stories sometimes he read children's poetry. We looked at starry nighttime pictures as he recited "Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod". We laughed at "The Raggedy Man" and "Little Orphant Annie". We smiled at "If I Were a One-Legged Pirate" and cringed when Dad read "The Walrus and the Carpenter" Sometimes Dad simply recited poetry as he sat in his rocking chair. It was usually "The Wreck of the Hesperus", sad but beautfiul too. I learned to love poetry. Writing poems used to be a hobby. I wrote them here and there throughout my school years. They were an outlet and sometimes an escape.
Right now you are likely wondering how I got off on this subject and what it has to do with the flowery picture posted here... This is a flowering quince (at least I'm pretty sure it is). Maybe you are familiar with "The Owl and the Pussycat". They're the couple who ran of to sea in a beautiful pea-green boat, got their wedding ring from a Piggy-wig's snout and "dined on mince and slices of quince". See? I really do have a road I am following and I rather enjoy the walk. (I know, Judi. You're praying for me!) Oh, and the title? That is my email address.
The Barn Collective.
2 hours ago