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Red and white/blue suede shoes
I'm Uncle Sam /how do you do?
Gimme five/I'm still alive
Ain't no luck/I learned to duck
Check my pulse/it don't change
Stay seventy two/come shine or rain
Still June, I'm still on a tree kick. And I've got another old chestnut for you. I wish I had more, but the fact is, there aren't many old chestnuts around these days. Haven't been for quite some time. As a matter of fact, I was thrilled to discover, researching for today, that there are, in fact, American Chestnuts still standing somewhere in Wisconsin. Read more about Another Old Chestnut
I claimed before that as a child, I lived in the trees. At least, I tried. In Decatur, Illinois, where I did most of my growing up, there was a mulberry tree in our backyard where I spent many a summer day. Both me and the books I smuggled out of the house and up the tree with me came down at the end of the day, in season of course, stained from head to toe, frontispiece to end papers, with mulberry juice. Read more about Sitting In Trees
That's what I thought when I first read Robert Frost's poem, Birches. I spent my childhood in the trees. Usually I'd find a cozy corner on a juncture of limb and trunk where I could read and dream the day away. But sometimes I would climb on up and up and up to the tallest, most spindly branches I could reach, where I could see out over the canopy and let the wind rock me back and forth.
I don't think I ever climbed a birch. I don't know why. Read more about Wish I'd Thought of That
It's probably the most reviled poem in the English language, and for good reason. It's bad science, bad theology, and bad poetry. It probably gives trees a bad name, too. But it is, for all that, the one poem about trees that people remember. And the first two lines aren't too bad. Alfred Joyce Kilmer was killed at the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918. For which sacrifice we should be grateful. In oh so many ways. Read more about Speaking of Trees
I have seen them in grown-over clearings in the woods, lilacs where no domestic flower should grow. I am told they mark the place where once a cabin stood and the lilac, carefully tended from a place further east and holding within its roots the scent of home, was planted in the dooryard.
Is there another flower of May so well loved as Lilac?
By Amy Lowell
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Color of lilac,
Your great puffs of flowers
Years ago, when a friend of mine was sent to prison for growing marijuana, I joined FAMM, Families Against Mandatory Minimums. Because my friend, on a first-time offense, was given a mandatory minimum sentence of ten years. A story for another time, but I wanted to explain why I spent a summer tabling at the summer fairs, handing out literature for FAMM in the early 90's. Collecting signatures on a petition. And the reason that some folks, although they were very sympathetic to the cause of marijuana, balked at another one of FAMM's goals. Read more about The Lives of Others
A long-ago lover once argued against the value of statistics in dictating a course of action by citing the case of a man killed in bed by a meteorite. The statistical chances of it happening, he told me, were very slim, but that slim chance meant nothing to the dead man. Read more about Who, Me? Worry?
Read more about Follow the Hounds!