I was thinking of this blog post most of the afternoon (in between concentrating at work). This week's post was going to be something light, something akin to last week's video. (Hint: Gene Kelly!)
Then I checked my phone.
No, someone hadn't tried to call with dire news. My mom had sent a text. Since I talked to her this morning, I assumed it would be about our conversation. I was wrong. Instead, she had sent a picture of a group of people - her parents, her mother's parents, and her mother's brother, sister, and their spouses.
It was like looking through a window into the past.
Little details jumped out - how my grandma and her brother had similar eyebrows, while the two sisters' smiles mirrored each other; how my great-grandmother smiled despite her left eye being permanently shut (from everything Mom has told me, the eye shut after her youngest child was born and it never reopened - not that it daunted her!); my great-grandfather smiled despite also looking surprised.
How my grandfather was not looking at the photographer, but at the ground. I've seen few pictures of him, and many that I have seen, he's not looking at the camera. Like he'd rather not be photographed.
Both my husband and my mother-in-law dislike having their picture taken. Not everyone can look natural on camera. Like my grandmother, whose bright smile shines through the picture into the 21st century.
Exactly like I remember her. :) In a sweet touch, my grandfather's hand is barely seen, tucked around his wife's waist.
All of this made me think of one song - a sad one, but a comforting one as well. The lyrics come from J. R. R. Tolkien's book, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed on into the West, until at last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him that as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.
Sometimes it's the small things that get me through long, bleak, dull days.
-Like the beautiful day yesterday. I love walking to work - no I don't love my job, but I like living close enough to be able to walk. Plus, walking back after lunch means the kids at St. Boniface are at recess outside. Hearing and watching kids play always brings a smile. As does the sight of the middle-grade girls clumped in a circle. They're practicing for when they get older, but they don't know that. :)
-Jamie, my two-and-a-half year old friend at church. I was late a couple of weeks ago getting to Bible Class. (For once I did not go to early service, and was thus late to BC.) I came in the door, sat down next to our seminarian, and was taking off my coat when I saw someone gesturing to me out of the corner of my eye. It was Jamie, beaming ear to ear and waving across the table at me. She is a delight! And yes, I waved back.
-My coworker's daughter called in a state of high excitement. She is almost guaranteed to get into a good law school in the area with significant financial aid. Good for her!
-Pictures of my cute nephews - the elder, busy at learning chess (CHESS, I tell you!), the younger, with his beloved monster trucks and sweet smile. The elder niece with her mouthful of teeth, and the younger niece, busy conquering the technological world at the age of six months, and coolly surveying the beach in South Carolina. Did I say that A is six months old? Yes, she's already cooler than me. They are all awesome kids, and they are terribly missed. Keep sending pictures, please!
-Hearing my mom's voice. Because she's one of a kind, and, well, she's my mother. What can be said? She is marvelous.
This is a rather long post, and it tells a sad story. Also, the song below caused BR to cry. As in, tears running down her face. So ye be forewarned.
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Where does a story begin? Where does it come from? Every Harry Potter that comes along can be traced back to an earlier story. Isn't it always a young person on a journey of self-discovery, with his or her destiny to bring down the evil of the world - like Katniss Everdeen or Luke Skywalker or innumerable heroes of fairy tales who rescued princesses and slayed dragons? Back and back and back.
All stories, even fairy tales, come from somewhere. Sometimes the stories that we thought were just that - stories - may have come from something true. A famous line spoken in the film The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring is: "History became legend. Legend became myth." This does not just happen in fantasy fiction.
A man, two of his sons, and their dog go for a walk in the woods. It is an unseasonably warm day - perhaps the father thinks they will return before the forecasted storm comes? Perhaps he thinks only that it is a nice day, and his boys love to go hiking in the woods.
The worst happens. The temperature drops dramatically. Heavy, chilling cold rain begins falling. The sky is dark gray, and in the lengthening afternoon, there is no hope of any sun. The light the father carries with him goes dark. Calling for help is futile. The rain continues to pour down.
The next day, the father is found dead. The boys are alive, but only just. They die a short time later. Only the dog survives. It is assumed by those who found them that they missed the path back home in the dark and the rain.
They crowd close to each other on the carpeted floor. Their father sits before them, his voice low, mysterious.
"...And the three children were seen wandering in the woods, in the direction of the haunted house." He pauses, watching their faces. If they are too frightened, he will finish with something silly to make them laugh. But not tonight. They are watching him, tense with anticipation. His twins, eyes huge, lean closer. His little boy rocks back and forth, waiting for the end of the story. He finishes. "No one ever saw them again."
...
"Daddy, can you sing the song again? The one about the babes in the woods?" She likes hearing him sing. Something in his quiet tenor voice soothes her, even when the song is sad. Like the song his grandmother - her great-grandmother - taught him.
"I'll tell you a story, of a long time ago There were two little babes, their names I don't know They went strolling away, on a bright summer's day Got lost in the woods, I heard people say Well, they sighed and they cried And they bitterly cried And the two little babes, they laid down and died And when they were dead, a robin so red Took strawberry leaves and over them spread He sang them a song the whole summer long Poor babes in the woods, poor babes in the woods." *
Where do stories come from? An old song, that seems to come from legend, may seem to have no foundation on which to stand. Except every old song based on a story has to come from somewhere. Right? There is probably little, if any connection, between an old family song and a provincial legend in Pennsylvania.
The song written by Julie Lee and John Pennell, "Jacob's Dream" is so hauntingly brought to life that the first time I listened to it, I agreed with Alison Krauss. I didn't want to hear it again. That I heard it the same week David, Dominic and Grant Decareaux died only made its impact hurt worse. The thought of the same thing happening to my nephews was agony. Before Dominic and Grant, there were George and Joseph Cox. All lost babes in the woods.
What brought me back to the song was some of the lyrics, in particular one during the refrain. The children are crying for their parents, promising if they are found, that they will behave. "We promise not to stray again from our cabin door." It sounded eerily familiar.
"In the beginning..." Of course, it is where all stories come from. Some are heartbreaking. We don't want to hear them because we can't imagine the pain others are going through. We don't want to imagine what WE would do if children dear to us were lost in the woods. But perhaps we don't want to hear the sad story because in our heart of hearts, we know that we are the ones lost, trying to find the way home.
* These are the words that I remember. If any one of my relatives (Dad in particular) wants to chime in and correct me in the comments, please do. Oh, and Alison Krauss is a living legend and is Awesome.
