Further Lessons in Life ... Remembrances of the Past

There are times when "synchronicity" or coincidence or convergence is so pointedly subtle that one nearly fails to mark the things which have come together in an obvious but unlikely fashion at a particular point in the cosmic vortex. The convergence of Whitsunday and the traditional date for Memorial Day in the US is one of those "markers" that a person just absorbs without contemplation unless something else happens to cause one to ponder the meanings.


Having been raised in the US, I was not aware as a child that there was an observance called "Whitsuntide" in Europe which was synonymous with Pentecost, nor was I really aware that "Decoration Day" was meant to honor the soldiers who had fallen in the service of their country. Decoration Day was the day, when lead by my grandmother, my cousins and I helped to pick flowers (mostly peonies and "snowball" blossoms) from her yard, and the family then would make
a pilgrimage of some 25 or 30 miles to the small country cemetery which held the family burial
ground to decorate graves.


I was somewhat confused, as all small children must be by the adult commentary about "why we do these things," and only connected the trip with acute boredom and the uncomfortable scratchiness of the upholstery on the back seat of the family sedan. But, I tried to carefully tend the bouquets of hand-picked flowers arranged on the floorboard and seat of the auto. My cousins and I, three little girls, were entrusted with this important task as we were being deposited in the ample back seat of my grandfather's Packard.

There was never a thought in my young mind of military service, or foreign wars (even though I was a "war baby," born less than a year following Pearl Harbor). I'm not sure that I was fully aware of the meaning of "World War" .... One of my uncles served in Europe during WW II, and his wife, my aunt, had helped me to follow the progress of his trip home following the end of the war. I was, after all, not quite three years old when the war was over.


I didn't know "what" Europe was at that age, except that my father's family referred to Europe as the "old country." WWII ended, my uncle returned home, and with his GI benefits earned his civilian pilot's license (and gave me my first flight above the earth). He continued to develop his skill as a photographer and learned to repair television sets (TV was the latest thing in 1948) as a hobby. Much later in his life, he owned the first computer I ever saw. He had served in something called the Battle of the Bulge, as well, but he would seldom speak of the war. He was one of only two soldiers I knew as a child. The second was another uncle, who had served in the Pacific Theater, but he never spoke of his service either.


In the late 1940s when I was a bit older, and went "downtown" on shopping trips, I began to notice men in uniforms selling lapel pins made of red paper which they called "Buddy Poppies." Even though I did connect them with "the war," I still wasn't sure about war or what it was. But, I did proudly wear a "Buddy Poppy" pinned to the bodice of my dress, and later at home, I held the little flower in my fingers and tried to understand the mystery of its importance.


There soon followed the "Police Action" known as the Korean War. My step brother was "stationed in Alaska," and we were glad that he didn't have to go and fight, but war was still a mystery to me. As I traveled through the 50s, I was confirmed into the Church one Pentecost, graduated high school and started college still without much awareness of what war really was. I understood that war was now "cold," we practiced "duck and cover" in school and knew that we should be afraid of Russians and atomic bombs. But, television and the "movie" news reels had provided only sanitized accounts of various battles and "theaters of war," and my father's family cried when they spoke of their long ago homes and families left behind in the Old Country. War was still something that would never happen to me, it was a part of history, not something that I "need worry about." One Sunday evening in 1954, Ed Sullivan presented the brave French nurses who had stayed the course with their soldiers at the Battle of Dien Bien Phu on his television show.



Someone said that Dien Bien Phu was in French Indo China, and the French had lost the war there. French Indo China was now going to be called "Viet Nam."

My goodbye to ignorance and innocence followed soon after I graduated high school, and entered college in 1960. Within two years, I had friends who were volunteering to serve in "South East Asia" and they wrote home that they knew about places called Laos, Cambodia and South Viet Nam. For a long time, "people" including our government said they weren't there ... but they were
there, and finally the official news reports admitted that they were dying there as well. And, somehow, for the first time in my life, I read "In Flanders Fields" in a Freshman English Lit class:

In Flanders' fields the poppies blow
between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

Major John McCrae, 1915

I thought of the Buddy Poppies that had been sold on the streets of my home town, and I finally understood why we needed to remember, because I was losing friends now, and realized what WWII had cost both sides of my family. And there was another verse, a song about English ladies who remembered and went dancing at Whitsuntide and the red poppies that grew where once their husbands, brothers and sons had plowed, sown, harvested and maintained a familiar and constant way of life. I think it may have been Joan Baez, or another folk singer who gave us a version of "Dancing At Whitsun" here in the US:

Dancing at Whitsun
(Austin John Marshall, 1967)

The fields they stand empty, the hedges grow free --
No young men to turn them or pastures go seed
They are gone where the forest of oak trees before
Have gone, to be wasted in battle.

Down from the green farmlands and from their loved ones
Marched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons.
There's a fine roll of honor where the Maypole once stood,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.

There's a straight row of houses in these latter days
All covering the downs where the sheep used to graze
There's a field of red poppies (a gift from the Queen)

But the ladies remember at Whitsun,

And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.

Headington Quarry Dance, 1895

I'd filed away all those songs and protests and the years since then have been more than another 40, and suddenly in an internet blog, a writer reminded me that in this year, Whitsun and the traditional "Decoration Day" fall on the same weekend. And with with the thought of Whitsuntide, I again thought of the ladies dancing in poppy fields in honor of their lost lovers, brothers and sons, and I remembered those long ago little girls who picked flowers from their grandmother's yard to carry to the graves of loved ones.....

And the the words of the song, "Where Have All The Flowers Gone?" still ring with truth ... "When will we ever learn?" We're nearly 100 years past Flanders Fields, so how can it be that
great nations and great statesmen still find it so difficult to learn obvious lessons in life? We still replace Maypoles with War Memorials, graveyards are still filled with flags honoring our fallen soldiers, and young girls still pick flowers for Decoration Day.

Where have all the graveyards gone?

Long time passing.
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the graveyards gone"
Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?

Pete Seeger, 1961

Lessons in Life

Not many natural bodies of water in this area of the state are large enough to accommodate nesting grounds for ducks or geese, but we do have a great many man-made ponds and holding pools. Most of these artificial ponds are called "landscaping water features," (a term I hate) but they provide nesting opportunities for wild water fowl, and the birds do use them to their advantage. I recall one long ago spring when I saw a pair of loons swimming about in a large pool of standing rain water following a heavy downpour. The water had flooded a sizable area of a growing cornfield and I remember hoping the loons would not be mislead into believing for very long that 18 inch tall corn plants were suitable substitutes for the cat tails or reeds in a natural lake.

This spring, not too far from a large building which houses corporate offices and a "call center," a pair of Canada geese have set up house keeping near a holding pond. The young family consists of the father gander, the mother and five young goslings. Employees from the office building have watched anxiously as the couple built their nest barely out of sight under a small pine tree near the pond, and proceeded to spend nearly four weeks tending the nest. The gander was particularly devoted, standing guard while his mate incubated her eggs. In due time, the eggs all hatched and careful observations (from a safe distance) revealed five tiny, downy babies. One sunny day about two weeks ago the babies were taken out for their first look at the world. They paraded down the paved entry way of the parking lot, Mother in the lead, Father bringing up the rear, and tiny babies struggling to form a properly imprinted row, little gosling feet twinkling on tippy toe as they followed Mom across the asphalt drive. Faithful to his species, the gander protects against any and all comers who dare get too close. When we stopped our car to admire his family, the brave father stretched to his full height, spread his wings, and stalked, hissing threats, toward our idling van. He knows no fear, this one, and we worry that in this artificial environment, he'll tackle something that cannot recognize or respect the depths of his devotion to his brood. Their territory is very near a four lane highway, and cars pass constantly along the edge of the pond at the entrance to the corporate parking lot. One thinks of the family of Red Tail Hawks who set up housekeeping on a tall apartment building in Manhattan. Some residents resented the inconvenience of the hawk's housekeeping residue and tried to force the raptors away, but after angry protests by a majority of Manhattan residents, the barriers were removed and the nesting pair returned to their traditional ledge. No one will harass these Midwestern geese in an attempt to force them away, but their nesting territory is full of more dangers than they would expect to encounter in a natural habitat.

Despite the obstacles presented in their chosen environment, these five babies have seemed to grow exponentially, and I knew the day was not too far away when the goslings would be introduced to the water for their first swim ...

I found myself wondering and worrying what would happen if they faltered momentarily and began to sink instead of swimming? Would their parents know how to save them? I didn't see the inaugural entry into the water, but I did arrive in time to see the entire family as they executed their initial promenade across the width of the pond. Mom in the lead, five babies in a perfect row behind her, and Dad bringing up the rear. I stopped the van, whipped out my camera, but not in time to catch the entire processional. Dad, it seems, spied an "interloper goose" on the banks of the private family swimming hole, and lifted out of the water, was rushing toward the intruder, hissing and flapping his best display of intimidation behavior. He was back in the water in short order, and together, he and Mom escorted the brood to a corner of the pond near the stoned-in shore and here began the diving lesson. First Mom, and then Dad, upended head down into the water, tails and feet completely suspended above the surface. The babies watched with a great deal of attention and astonished interest as both Mom and Dad submerged and then reappeared. Finally, amid great flapping, splashing and flailing of wings, each baby experimented with "the art of the dive." I held my breath watching, because the babies didn't "upend," they simply dove, completely disappearing beneath the surface. Would they know how to come back up, would Mom and Dad be able to rescue them? I needn't have worried. The surface of the of the water where the babies had submerged became calm and smooth, and then I noticed that both parents had their necks stretched out and curved in a manner which allowed their heads to rest on the water. In no more than the blink of an eye, the heads disappeared under the water and reappeared with a baby goose in tow!


The diving lesson continued for only a short period of time, no more than four or five minutes, and when all the babies were once again on the surface, "Father Goose" swam away, leading the kids to a place on the edge of the water where they could easily exit the pond. The kids took a little while to settle down from the excitement of their first lesson in submersion. As they followed Mom and Dad, they'd "dunk," then lift their heads and chests up out of the water, flap their little wings and generally splash some water around - for all the world as though there laughing with exhilaration over the accomplishment of their first "dive." "Hey! Did you see me?" "Yes! But did you see me? I was the best!" "Oh you silly boys, Mom had to save both of you! We girls were much better than either of you!"Watching these two parents work together to care for their family is a study in their ability to adapt to an environment that may not be what they'd like, but does offer the necessities. It is a salute to the idea that the "times they are a'changing, and we're going with what we've got." It is also a reminder that Canada geese (as well as other geese) are monogamous, apparently mating for life. They return to the same nesting grounds season after season, and the young stay with their parents for nearly a year, sometimes until the next nesting season begins. It isn't unlikely that the "lone goose" intruder watching the swimming lesson from the banks of the pool was a hold over from last year's clutch of babies. If he didn't find a mate during the winter migration, it might be natural for him to stay with his parents. Within the past few days, we've seen him with a new female goose (mystery woman), so perhaps true love has dropped into his life, literally from the skies. Knowing that Canadas tend to return to the same wintering grounds as well, makes me wonder if the large flocks of north bound geese I saw on Christmas Day last year were all relatives of one degree or another. I'm sure that at least some of the individual "V" formations contained family members. I also wonder for how many generations these miraculous birds follow the same migratory routes, heeding the pull toward the North and back again to the South, all in the proper season and time. They are great navigators these Canada geese, and they know how to work together to raise a famiy, how to stay together in the air, traveling safely and easily. They also seem to understand the value of identifying basic north. Lessons in life, which, when well learned, serve well over a lifetime



As a last tidbit of whimsy,, almost an afterthought, one thinks of the archetypal figure of "Mother Goose."No one seems to know or agree on her origins, or her true meaning in the grand scheme of things. Sometimes she's a grandmotherly figure, surrounded by children listening to her nursery rhymes and fairy tales.


At other times, she's a crone figure almost witch like in appearance. This Mother Goose
wears what appears to be a wizard's hat, as she flies past the moon.

"There was an old woman tossed up in a basket
Seventeen times as high as the moon.
And where she was going I could not help ask it
For under her arm she carried a broom"

But the best and most beloved depiction is as what she really is, a loving, nurturing "Mother Goose."

A Tale of Two Months

The realization that I've totally "spaced" April as far as blogging doesn't mean that I wasn't out
in the world enjoying April. April was once again a chartreuse month. A tender chartreuse ... punctuated with splashes of violet, lilac, Daffodil and Tulip ... Cardinals, Blue jay and Robins are the footnotes. In the countryside, baby animals were making tender appearances as well.

I saw this little one born on a sort of dreary dampish Monday, the day after Easter Sunday. He was so tiny then and so thin that he looked like a little wrinkly and very damp bag of bones I could have easily picked up and put into my pocket. He stood up very soon after being born and found his mother, who immediately scrubbed his face and pointed him towards his first meal. In the picture above, he is about a week old and he looks as though he's already doubled in size. After his nap, on the day of this picture, he was very adventurous, following a little Angus calf (who is a month older) about the pasture, and even being so bold as to "butt" him into a game of tag. Both mothers, standing side by side, seemed to nod their heads in doting maternal fashion and say, "Aren't they just the most amazing children."

A friend in Denmark, who's blog I enjoy so much, sent pictures of new lambs and I'm pleased to note that spring in Denmark looks a great deal like spring in the state of Indiana, USA.


Shortly after the First of April, my Danish friend and I both noted that the rising full moon was a wonderful shade of orange-red, and I mentioned to her that this same brilliant moon was shinning down in Indiana on a herd of red cattle. Here they are in day time, lest anyone should believe that Indiana is all delicate shades of chartreuse and white.


These calves are part of a very big herd which has close to 50 0r 60 new calves at this point in time. They're turned loose in a large field to glean what is left of a soy bean crop which was harvested last fall. True to many traditions, harvested corn and soy bean fields are left after the end of October and they are full of deer over the winter .... the soil looks bare, but the ground is covered with "leavings," and these cattle are also munching on hay which has been placed in large feeders for them.

And finally, as relief from the stark brown and red of the gleaned soy bean field, we find wild daffodils in the wooded area behind the fields.

And so, April, the month of sweet birth and rebirth passes, for the most part very gently. There are some rough patches of weather, fields become flooded and farmers wait for the waters to recede and the ground to dry in order to "get into the fields" and plow or disk in preparation for
spring planting. April, it turns out is always a rather leisurely month.


Beltane and May Day

"We've been rambling all the night
And some time of this day
Now returning back again
we bring a garland gay"

"The Golden Bough" - Sir James Frazier, 1922

'Dance Around the Maypole'
by Pieter Brueghel the Younger (1564-1635)

Beltane, we know, is the only Pagan Holiday that doesn't have a counter-part in the Christian Church calender. Probably because Beltane, in addition to marking the transition into summer, was also the "Day of Fire" in honor of the Sun God Bel.

May poles were cut from the woods, and carried to the village square to be decorated and danced round about ... and it was a day to mark the spring plantings and the birth of baby animals to add to the herds, a day in which inhibitions were set aside and villagers and nobles enjoyed a bit of a walk in the woods and the sacred groves hidden there. A day to celebrate fertility and to just be happy to have survived another long winter ......

In later years, early in the 17th Century, the celebration of May Day was outlawed by British Parliament, due, they said, to the licentious nature of the celebrations. But, as has been pointed out, Beltane is the only Pagan celebration not co-opted by the Church, and workers were given to taking the day off work to celebrate long after the day had lost its agricultural and seasonal significance. Holidays do tend to cut into productivity and if it isn't a church holiday, it is very easy to say it is a "sinful celebration" and outlaw it.

In mid-Twentieth Century America, when I was a child in grade school, "May Day," was still a day which was celebrated and "learned about." I'm sure that it seemed a bit strange to those
of us in my third grade class, because as much as we learned about "May Day" we still didn't quite understand why it was special. We city kids, raised in cement towns with super markets and central heating had lost all awareness of what it had taken for our ancestors to survive a winter season. Instead of "garlands gay" we were encouraged to pick flowers from our own yards, and from the beds in the park behind the school building. The tender blossoms were saved all day long in glasses and vases of water, and flooded the classroom with their fragrance while we eight-year olds listened to very sanitized stories about the celebration of May Day in long-ago times, especially the part where hundreds of flowers were woven into "garlands gay" and attached to a May Pole to be danced around. The story books we shared usually depicted very well dressed Victorian Era children dancing about a miniature May Pole in a well manicured English garden. Having dutifully listened to the stories about May Days past, we would then receive a sheet of colored construction paper and instructions about cutting the paper just so, in order to roll it into a cone shaped basket - with judicious trimming we also managed a strip of inch wide paper to fashion the handle for the basket. We were issued very aromatic, globs of thick white paste into which we dipped our fingers to apply paste to the seams of the basket and to attach the handle. Then came the final, finishing touch of our May Basket.

We each gathered up the flowers we had picked - if one person had a sparse bouquet we would share a stem or two to fill out his offering. The flowers, still dripping water from the vases, were then wrapped in damp paper towels, and then wrapped around again with a sort of oil paper or perhaps oil cloth. The entire bouquet was then placed very carefully into the paper basket.

These offerings we were told, were to be carried home (it was a neighborhood school and we all
walked) for our mothers. The mode of delivery was thus ... we would steal silently up to the front door of our house, hang the basket on the doorknob, ring the bell, or knock, and then lickety split run off the porch and hide in a place where we could witness the expression of delighted surprise on our mother's faces when they found their May Baskets. As Sir James Frazer continued the May Day song in his scholarly study, the Golden Bough;

"A garland gay we bring you here.
And at your door we stand
It is a sprout, well budded out,
The work of our Lord's hand."

I'm not quite sure whether it was the era in which we toiled (it was the early 1950s) and some power- that- was decided May Day Baskets were too much of a tribute to the May Day celebrations which rambled down the streets of Moscow, or if someone else realized that May Day was a truly Pagan holiday and not something to be dwelt on by Cold War Era American school children. Instead, we added "under god" to the Pledge of Allegiance and went on about our third grade business.

A week or so ago, I speculated that the Green Man was taking a bit of a nap because the spring season was being so tentative about arriving. But, obviously, He has followed custom as of old, and has awakened in time to remember this Beltane and take the day off to celebrate his handiwork. His nap is over, and mine is as well; tonight, I'll venture out to the grove and light a lantern, and watch as the shadows of the trees appear ...

"Who will go down to the shady groves
And summon the shadows there
And Tie A ribbon on those sheltering arms
In the Springtime of the year ..."
Loreena McKennitt - Mummer's Dance*

There will be shadows, the moon is waxing, and the Old Ways are with us still!

* http://www.quinlanroad.com/explorethemusic/bookofsecrets.asp (Loreena McKennitt)

http://www.bartleby.com/196/pages/page121.html (The Golden Bough, Sir James Frazer)