From: jan <[email protected]> Comfort Things (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series) "Hush little baby, don't say a word…" Such began the lullaby I sung to my three children, now all grown up and off on lives of their own. I never dreamed it meant so much until my daughter, all grown up and a beautiful young woman, one day lay her head against my shoulder and said softly, "Sing that song to me." "What song?", I asked, puzzled. "The one about the mockingbird and the billy goat and the diamond ring." "OHHH…that song!" And so I held the grown woman's head and crooned the long ago lullaby, gently rocking back and forth as I did so. For a space of time, I was imagining the chubby little girl with dark auburn curls I used to hold in my arms, and perhaps she was imagining being one. "Thank you," she said when I had finished, and raised up and kissed me on the cheek, then went on about her grown up life. I am no singer. I don't pretend to be a singer There is no talent I would rather possess, but it simply was not written in the stars. The rich singing voices and rhythmic dancing feet of my mother's people did not come to me. I took after my father's people. I have two left feet and a voice like a hoarse bullfrog. I know the latter is true because that is what a choir director once told me, and I subsequently took him at his word and gave of my talents in other departments. But "Hush little baby" must not be about my singing ability at all. Must be about something else. Comfort sound, like gravy is comfort food. I go on about my grown up life every day, and most times I do pretty well. But now and then, like my daughter, I need a few comfort sounds. The squeaky rhythmic sound of a porch swing on its hinges does that for me, and I imagine it might be because my mama used to tie my small self and a pillow to one on my Pa's front porch and let it gently rock me to sleep. Whippoorwills and crickets do that for me, and that is probably because I associate that with the country nights "down home" as a child "Amazing Grace" does that for me, and that is probably because I associate it with a country church and the peace of a Sunday morning. Comfort things. If I am feeling badly, my husband knows exactly what meal I need, regardless of the time of day. Fried eggs and biscuits, gravy and grits, bacon. He proceeds to the kitchen. Works the trick every time. I see the sunny plate and think of a long ago kitchen with pleasant smells and happy laughter, the warmth of an iron stove. Comfort things. A quilt wrapped around tight on a blustery day, a cup of hot chocolate, a soft feather pillow, a hike down a beaten trail under a canopy of green trees and patches of blue, digging in the rich soil of springtime, a dozen and more things that make one feel better, and when we stop to think on it we can figure out why each item is in our list of home remedies for healing a broken spirit. Once upon a time, a professor gave a class a very strange, and most wise, assignment. We were to choose one night and call it "Me Evening". On that evening we were to plan only comforting things, things that made us "feel good", things that left us fulfilled and happy. Odd, my list of choices. Or perhaps not. Every single one of them could be traced to a time in my life when I felt very secure and very comforted. Now is it any wonder that supper that night was fried eggs and biscuits, gravy and grits, bacon? Or that I spent a large part of the evening gently rocking back and forth in a porch swing? The day my daughter asked me to sing "that song", she had not told me of any troubles. But I suspect, for just a space of time, my adult daughter used that melody in a most wise manner. To gird herself for a coming day, to face a tomorrow armed with the comfort of the past. It is no wonder that I continue the tradition established by a long ago and most wise professor. Now and then I have a "Me Evening" (I prefer to call it "Comfort Night") and encourage those around me to do the same. It is a way to feel enveloped by love and security, a way to celebrate the past that laid the foundations for our "comfort things", a way to face the coming day with a fresh outlook. Have a "Me Evening", folks. Feel comforted with the roots that taught you how to be comforted, and offer it to yourself as sustenance that you can better make comforting roots of your tomorrows. Just a thought, jan Copyright ©2001janPhilpot And because I know some of you will ask, here is the lullaby: Hush little baby, don't say a word. Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. And if that mockingbird don't sing, Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring. And if that diamond ring turns brass, Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass. And if that looking glass gets broke, Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat. And if that billy goat runs away, Mama's gonna sing this another day. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety. Thanks, jan) Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per week will come across it, that being the column. 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Thank You!!!! Sue > From: jan <[email protected]> > > > Comfort Things (from the "Sunday Afternoon Rocking" series) > > "Hush little baby, don't say a word." Such began the lullaby I sung to my > three children, now all grown up and off on lives of their own. I never > dreamed it meant so much until my daughter, all grown up and a beautiful > young woman, one day lay her head against my shoulder and said softly, > "Sing that song to me." > > "What song?", I asked, puzzled. > > "The one about the mockingbird and the billy goat and the diamond ring." > > "OHHH.that song!" > > And so I held the grown woman's head and crooned the long ago lullaby, > gently rocking back and forth as I did so. For a space of time, I was > imagining the chubby little girl with dark auburn curls I used to hold in > my arms, and perhaps she was imagining being one. > > "Thank you," she said when I had finished, and raised up and kissed me on > the cheek, then went on about her grown up life. > > I am no singer. I don't pretend to be a singer There is no talent I > would rather possess, but it simply was not written in the stars. The rich > singing voices and rhythmic dancing feet of my mother's people did not come > to me. I took after my father's people. I have two left feet and a voice > like a hoarse bullfrog. I know the latter is true because that is what a > choir director once told me, and I subsequently took him at his word and > gave of my talents in other departments. But "Hush little baby" must not > be about my singing ability at all. Must be about something else. Comfort > sound, like gravy is comfort food. > > I go on about my grown up life every day, and most times I do pretty > well. But now and then, like my daughter, I need a few comfort > sounds. The squeaky rhythmic sound of a porch swing on its hinges does > that for me, and I imagine it might be because my mama used to tie my small > self and a pillow to one on my Pa's front porch and let it gently rock me > to sleep. Whippoorwills and crickets do that for me, and that is probably > because I associate that with the country nights "down home" as a > child "Amazing Grace" does that for me, and that is probably because I > associate it with a country church and the peace of a Sunday morning. > > Comfort things. If I am feeling badly, my husband knows exactly what meal > I need, regardless of the time of day. Fried eggs and biscuits, gravy and > grits, bacon. He proceeds to the kitchen. Works the trick every time. I > see the sunny plate and think of a long ago kitchen with pleasant smells > and happy laughter, the warmth of an iron stove. > > Comfort things. A quilt wrapped around tight on a blustery day, a cup of > hot chocolate, a soft feather pillow, a hike down a beaten trail under a > canopy of green trees and patches of blue, digging in the rich soil of > springtime, a dozen and more things that make one feel better, and when we > stop to think on it we can figure out why each item is in our list of home > remedies for healing a broken spirit. > > Once upon a time, a professor gave a class a very strange, and most wise, > assignment. We were to choose one night and call it "Me Evening". On that > evening we were to plan only comforting things, things that made us "feel > good", things that left us fulfilled and happy. Odd, my list of > choices. Or perhaps not. Every single one of them could be traced to a > time in my life when I felt very secure and very comforted. Now is it any > wonder that supper that night was fried eggs and biscuits, gravy and grits, > bacon? Or that I spent a large part of the evening gently rocking back and > forth in a porch swing? > > The day my daughter asked me to sing "that song", she had not told me of > any troubles. But I suspect, for just a space of time, my adult daughter > used that melody in a most wise manner. To gird herself for a coming day, > to face a tomorrow armed with the comfort of the past. It is no wonder that > I continue the tradition established by a long ago and most wise > professor. Now and then I have a "Me Evening" (I prefer to call it > "Comfort Night") and encourage those around me to do the same. It is a way > to feel enveloped by love and security, a way to celebrate the past that > laid the foundations for our "comfort things", a way to face the coming day > with a fresh outlook. Have a "Me Evening", folks. Feel comforted with > the roots that taught you how to be comforted, and offer it to yourself as > sustenance that you can better make comforting roots of your tomorrows. > > Just a thought, > jan > > Copyright ©2001janPhilpot > > And because I know some of you will ask, here is the lullaby: > > Hush little baby, don't say a word. > Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. > And if that mockingbird don't sing, > Mama's gonna buy you a diamond ring. > And if that diamond ring turns brass, > Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass. > And if that looking glass gets broke, > Mama's gonna buy you a billy goat. > And if that billy goat runs away, > Mama's gonna sing this another day. > > ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ > (Note: Afternoon Rocking messages are meant to be passed on, meant to be > shared...simply share as written without alterations...and in entirety. > Thanks, jan) > Sunday Afternoon Rocking columns are distributed weekly on the list Sunday > Rocking. This is not a "reply to" list, and normally only one message per > week will come across it, that being the column. To subscribe send email to > [email protected] > Comments about the content of these messages can be sent to > [email protected] > ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ > > > ============================== > Join the RootsWeb WorldConnect Project: > Linking the world, one GEDCOM at a time. > http://worldconnect.rootsweb.com >