THE WILD GEESE - a traditional Irish tale, adapted by Leanne Johnson

Long ago in Ireland, there lived a king and queen. They had twelve sons. All were fine boys, but the queen longed for a daughter.

One day, as the queen walked along the River Boyle, she sighed at her reflection. "Oh, I would give all my sons for a daughter." 

"That is a wicked wish," answered a voice, and the queen whirled to see a fierce looking woman standing next to her. "To punish you, I will grant it. You will give birth to a daughter, and at that moment you will lose your sons."

"No!" cried the queen, but the woman was gone. For she was one of the faerie folk of the hills, and it is dangerous for humans to vex them.

It came to pass that the queen gave birth to a daughter. When she felt the pains upon her, she called the guards to herd her sons into a locked room in a tower. But as soon as the baby gave forth her first cry, her brothers turned into Wild Geese, and flew away out the window.

The princess grew up, thinking that her brothers had all died. When she became a young woman, she asked how her brothers had died. The queen confessed all.

"It is my fault that my brothers are gone," thought the princess, "I must find them and bring them home." She packed a bag that night and crept out of the castle.

She traveled for many days and nights, until she reached a small house in the hills. She went in, and found a table set with twelve plates, and twelve beds lined up in a row. Then she heard a great fluttering of wings, and when she ran to the window, there were twelve wild geese, lighting in the yard. As their webbed feet touched the ground, they were transformed into men.

"My brothers!" she cried, and she ran to greet them.

The men were taken aback. The eldest shook his fist at her. "For the sake of a girl we were obliged to leave our father's court. We have sworn to kill any young maid who finds us here."

"But I am you sister, and I have come to help you," she cried, and her tears dissolved her brother's anger.

"You shall not harm her," said a voice, and they turned to see a fierce-looking woman standing there. "She is the only one who can break the spell that I have laid on you. With her own hands she must gather down from the bog, and weave it into twelve shirts, one for each of you. She must not speak or smile, laugh or cry, from the day she begins until the day she ends this task. If she does, then you will remain Wild Geese until the end of time." And with that, she disappeared.

So, for three years the princess toiled. She gathered baskets of fluffy down. She spun it into thread, then knitted the thread into shirts. And she never spoke or smiled, laughed or cried.

One day she was sitting outside working, when a handsome man came riding by. He asked if he might sit with her. She nodded, but kept on working. The man tried to talk with her, but only her eyes would answer his questions.

Day after day the man stopped by to visit. He told her he was the king of a nearby country, and he asked her to be his wife. She shook her head at first, but as time went by, she grew to love this patient, gentle man. Finally, she nodded yes. She brought out all her baskets of bog down, and her pile of completed shirts, and took them with her to the castle. From high overhead, her brothers kept watch.

The prince brought the princess to his castle, where he made her his queen. Everyone was happy for the young couple, except for the old queen, the young king's stepmother. She hated the young queen.

In time, the young queen gave birth to a child. The stepmother planned an evil plot. She gave the queen a sleeping potion, and stole the child from her arms. She went to the window, and saw a fierce looking wolf outside, licking its chops. She threw the baby to the wolf, who caught it in its jaws and ran away. Then the stepmother pricked her own finger, and dabbled drops of blood around the mouth of the young queen.

There was a great hue and cry when the child was found missing. The young queen, confused, could not make any explanation of what had happened. All she could do was keep knitting her shirts, and keep herself from crying.

The king hushed up the matter as best he could, and told everyone that the child fell from his mother's arms out the window, and was carried off by a wild beast. But behind his back, his stepmother whispered about the bloody mouth of the young queen.

A year went by, and the shirts were almost completed. She had started the twelfth one, and had everything done but one sleeve, when she gave birth to her second child. Once again, the evil stepmother drugged the princess, and stole the baby from her arms. Another fierce looking wolf stood in the garden, and she tossed the child to him, then dabbled her own blood around the mouth of the young queen.

This time the king could not hush the matter up. The stepmother proclaimed the villainy of the princess, and insisted she be put to death. All the court nobles brought pressure upon the king until he reluctantly gave the order that she be burned the stake.

The young queen was led to the stake. She carried on her arm a basket filled with eleven completed shirts. As she walked, she knitted frantically the final sleeve of the last shirt. As the executioner raised the rope to tie her arms, she knotted the final stitch. A tear dropped from her eye, and she smiled, and laughed, and spoke.

"I am innocent!" she proclaimed, "Brothers, help me now!"

From out of the sky swooped the twelve wild geese. As they flew in front of their sister, she flung a shirt over each back, and instantly they were all turned into men. They helped her down from the stake, and escorted her to the king. "I am innocent,"she said again.

"She is innocent, indeed," said a voice, and they all turned to see a fierce-looking woman standing there. With one arm she cradled an infant, and with the other she held a toddler. "These are your children, taken from you by your evil stepmother. Punish her, not the woman who gave up her home, her freedom, and almost her life to bring her brothers home."

Memory

To dream,

To create,

To dance effortlessly on the stage of the world

Learning…

Bit by bit,

Step by step,

Note by note,

Word by word,

Stroke by stroke,

Number by number,

The slow process of building the dream.

Forcing…

The mind to stretch,

The muscles to bend

The hand to still the brush

The mind to override the trembling muscles

The fingers to rub the aching head

The palm to wipe the tears away

To cleanse the brush,

To erase the page,

To play it again,

To try to reach the dream.

Straining…

Again and again,

Stumbling through the steps,

Dropping the brush,

Forgetting the words,

Messing up,

Starting over,

Phrase by phrase,

Sequence by sequence,

Piece by piece.

Honing…

Laboriously,

Meticulously,

Time and time again,

Repeating the steps,

Crafting the phrases,

Sweeping the brush,

Polishing the skills.

And then,

At long last,

In awe,

In wonder,

With respect,

With true humility,

With graciousness and gratitude and sheer giddy glee…

Finally finding the dream…

Living…

Beyond the rote of recall

To where memorization sinks into memory

And recognition becomes bred into the bone

A subtle tension through the muscles,

A flip of the wrist,

A pivot of the ankle,

A simile, a metaphor,

A pin-point of white in the painted black eye of a bird,

Bringing substance,

Bringing style,

Bringing life…

To the dream.

To the creation.

To the artist, 

Dancing effortlessly on the stage of the world.

by Leanne Johnson

The Groundhog Song by Leanne Johnson

Once there was a groundhog,
Living in a hole.
Hi, Mr. Groundhog,

You look like you are cold!
Why don't you peek outside

Your window and

Take a look around,

Let us know if spring is sprung,

Or winter's in the ground.

Mr. Groundhog got up,

And waddled 'cross the floor.

Lifted up the latch,

And opened up the door,

And then he stepped outside to

Scratch and sniff and

Take a look around,

To let us know if spring is sprung,

Or winter's in the ground.

If the sun is shining,

We will wander far.

Basking in the warmth,

He will drop his watchful guard.

And when he sees his big black shadow

He'll be scared of what he's found!

He'll go back to bed for six more weeks,

Leaving winter on the ground.

But if the day is cloudy,

He won't have a care.

He'll stay out and look for food

Just like a little bear.

And if he doesn't see his shadow

Then we'll all have cause to sing,

For winter soon will leave the ground,

Just a month and a half 'till spring!

So if you know a groundhog

Living in a hole,

Buy a big umbrella

And this will be your goal

Make sure he doesn't see his shadow

When he takes a look around.

Then we'll know that spring is sprung

And winter's left the ground.

Oh we hope to learn that spring has sprung

And winter's left the ground!

Copyright January 1999 by Leanne Johnson

My Dad would have been 71 today.  He died a little over a year ago, just two months short of his landmark 70th birthday.  I miss him so much. 

My Dad was a super car mechanic, best one in the Chicago suburbs.  Last month I bought a new car, and it was the first time in my life that Dad wasn't with me to critique the car, give me advice, and help negotiate a good price. 

Happy Birthday, Dad.  I think you would have liked my car.  Thanks for all the guidance over the years.

Love, me

It's never too late!  Take them back, even if you can't pay the overdue fee. 

HANCOCK, Michigan (AP) -- Robert Nuranen handed the local librarian a book he'd checked out for a ninth-grade assignment -- along with a check for 47 years' worth of late fees.

Nuranen said his mother misplaced the copy of "Prince of Egypt" while cleaning the house. The family came across it every so often, only to set it aside again. He found it last week while looking through a box in the attic.

"I figured I'd better get it in before we waited another 10 years," he said after turning it in Friday with the $171.32 check. "Fifty-seven years would be embarrassing."

The book, with its last due date stamped June 2, 1960, was part of the young Nuranen's fascination with Egypt. He went on to visit that country and 54 others, and all 50 states, he said, but he never did finish the book.

Nuranen now lives in Los Angeles, where he teaches seventh-grade social studies and language arts.

The library had long ago lost any record of the book, librarian Sue Zubiena said.

"I'm going to use it as an example," she said. "It's never too late to return your books."

Refrain: 

We welcome the future

We remember the past.

The New Year beckons,

"Ring out the old!

Ring in the new,

Shining like gold.

Refrain: 

We welcome the future

We remember the past.

For Joys yet untasted,

For Sorrows unknown,

For tears to be shed,

Healing laughter sown.

Refrain: 

We welcome the future

We remember the past.

For patience, understanding,

For fear laid aside,

Animosities banished,

And love kept alive.

Refrain: 

We welcome the future

We remember the past.

For those we have lost

Who have gone on before,

Memories woven deep

In our personal lore.

Refrain: 

We welcome the future

We remember the past.

For wonder to dwell

In our breast, on our brow,

Friends, family and life,

Embrace them we vow.

Refrain: 

We welcome the future

We remember the past.

To cherish the past,

With the future in view,

Is to hope and to dream,

Of a world built anew.

Refrain: 

We welcome the future

We remember the past.

We will cherish the future,

As we cherish the past.

Leanne K. Johnson

copyright December 29, 1999

I have to say, my very favorite birthday gift this year came from my little dog Geronimo.  The card was a piece of yellow lined paper, with the following note:

Mommy,

I had Daddy write this since you never let me go to school.  I hope you like your birthday present. I picked it out myself. If you do not like it, I can take it back or keep it for myself.

Love,

The Best Pup

The gift? It was a package of filet mignon flavored dog treats.  I loved it!  (Well, I loved watching him enjoy it.)
My gift to myself was a pair of magnifying glasses.  It's getting hard to read the small print, even with my contacts.  Ah, the joys of middle age! At least I got a pair with colorful frames...

The Tomte And The Friendly Beasts, by Leanne Johnson

It was very late one Christmas Eve.  While the family slept, their old house stood proudly in the moonlight.  Fresh white curtains glimmered in the windows.  In the kitchen, copper cookware glowed like burnished gold.  Throughout the house, the woodwork gleamed with an extra coat of polish.  The tree was decorated with sparkling ornaments.  The smells of the Christmas Eve smorgasbord still lingered in the air – roast pork, fish, and bread.  Mmmm.  Even the shoes were all neatly lined up together, so that the family would live in harmony all year round. 

Out in the yard a large pole had been set.  Together the family had attached a sheaf of wheat to the top, and around it sprinkled kernels of corn, seeds, and breadcrumbs.  Even the wild birds had enjoyed a feast that Christmas Eve.    

Out in the barn, the Tomte crept from his hiding place under the floorboards.  Do you know about the Tomte?  He is a wee little man, about yea big.  He has a full beard, and gray hair.  His clothes are gray, too, except for his bright red, knitted cap.  Tomtar live in many homes across Sweden.  But this particular Tomte was very, very old.  Why, he had been living in that same barn the year of the great famine, the year that St. Lucia first came to Sweden, bringing gifts of food and light.

Many families had lived in the Tomte's house over the years, but this was the best family yet.  They took such pride in their house, they took good care of their animals, and they always remembered a gift for their Tomte.  This year, they had even left a lantern glowing in the barn for him.  Tomte looked, and sure enough, beneath its yellow glow was a beautifully painted bowl of his favorite treat.  Yes indeed, it was rice porridge, with a pat of butter melting into golden puddles.

 "Ah, now that's just the way I like it.  Warm, sweet, creamy and buttery.  Mmmm."  He finished the bowl, and wiped it clean, then set the spoon carefully inside.  "This is such a good family.  They follow all the traditions.  Why, it's almost like the old days, back when even the animals could share their stories on Christmas Eve."

And as Tomte remembered the old days, he began to sing an old song.

"Jesus our Brother, kind and good,

Was humbly born in a stable rude,

And the friendly beasts around him stood,

Jesus our Brother, kind and good.

Ah, yes, those were the days.  I wish the animals could still talk on Christmas Eve."

"Hey! Whadd'ya mean?  We can still talk!"

"What? Who said that?"  Tomte looked wildly around the barn, and then looked down.  A small beetle was tapping his foot. 

"Down here, Tomte!  Here I am.  It's me, the beetle.  Hey, hello there.  How you doing? It's Christmas Eve, and since you're listening, I can talk.  Let me tell you my story."  The beetle crawled up on Tomte's knee, sat back on his two hind legs, (he had six of them, you know) and began to tell this story. 

"It takes place in a stable, near Bethlehem.  You've heard of the place?  It's pretty far away from Sweden, and much warmer.  My great-great-uh-I-don't-know-how-great grandpappy used to live there.   It was a pretty boring place, nothing ever happened there.  But one night he woke up and found the stable was filled with light.  There was a young woman kneeling in the straw.  She was holding in her arms a new-borne baby.  Well, that was a surprise.  My grandpappy hadn't even heard her come into the barn.  Then, what happened next was amazing.  All of a sudden there were angels flying around the stable, in and out the door, and across the roof.  Hundreds of them! Wow.  Nothing like this had ever happened before in the little town of Bethlehem!  My grandpappy was so excited.  He wanted to fly out into the countryside, spreading the good news.  But it was dark outside, and he was afraid.  Just then one of the angels looked down and saw him.  The angel somehow understood that my grandpappy wanted to help spread the good news, but he was afraid of the dark.  So, you know what that angel did?  He reached up into his own hair and plucked out a flashing jewel.  He gently placed the jewel upon grandpappy's tail. And would you believe, that jewel to flash like a little yellow light.  With that light, grandpappy was able to fly out into the countryside.  In fact, you can still see all of us descendants to this very day, flying around the countryside at dark.  We still carry the light from the angel upon our tails.  And, whether you call us fireflies, or lightening bugs, we are still out here, lighting up the darkness.  Well, that's my story.  Gotta go now.  See ya!"

And with that, the little beetle blinked his light at Tomte, and flew out of the barn.

"My goodness," said Tomte, "how remarkable!  What a wonderful story!  I used to know some of those stories.  Let me think.  Ah, yes, there was one about the donkey."

And Tomte began to sing again.

"I, said the donkey, all shaggy and brown,

I carried his mother up hill and down,

I carried her safely to Bethlehem town,

I, said the donkey, all shaggy and brown.

Ah, yes, the donkey.  What would they have done without that donkey?  I wonder what other animals were in the stable that night, keeping watch.  It must have been a wonderful experience for them all."

"Nay!" 

"Why, horse, I thought you were sleeping. "

"Neigh, I'm awake.  I was listening to that foolish bug.  Sure, his family did OK that night, but not mine.  Let me tell you what happened.  My great-grand-mare was there.  She said that when the baby was born, they needed a place to put him.  So they put lots of fresh hay into the manger, and put the baby on top.  That's when the trouble started.  Now, grand-mare didn't mind having a baby there, but nobody told her not to eat that hay.  In fact, since everybody was so busy taking care of that baby, they forgot to feed her.  So, whenever nobody was looking, she would pull out some of that hay, just for a little snack. Just to tide her over until somebody remembered to feed her.  Was that so bad?  Nay! Of course, before long, she would have eaten all that hay, and  that baby would be lying on the bare boards of that manger.  And of course that baby would start crying.  So Joseph would fetch more hay and put it under the baby.  And Mary would scold grand-mare, and grand-mare would hang her head and look real sad.  But as soon as things quieted down, grand-mare would lean over and, you guessed it, snatch up another bit of that hay.  Until finally Mary threw up her hands and said, "Horse, from now on, you and your family will always feel hungry, and you will never get enough to eat. You will have to eat all the time." And that's what it's been like to be a horse ever since that day.  You think all the animals had a great time that night?  Nay, I say, Neigh!"

And the horse snorted, grabbed a piece of hay from her feed bucket, and chewed it thoughtfully.  Tomte tried not to laugh.  "Oh, horse, I am so sorry for you, uh, and your family.  I never heard that part of the story.  All I knew was the song of the cow and the manger.

I, said the cow, all white and red,

I gave him my manger for his bed,

I gave him my hay, to pillow his head,

I, said the cow, all white and red."

"Cows, donkeys, horses, bugs – it sounds like the animals came from all over the world to be at that stable."

"Why not?" asked a voice.  And from the behind the feed sacks stalked a stork.  "After all, on the night the child was born, we animals came from all over to worship at his feet.  Among them stood my stork ancestor.  She was tall and proud, like me.  She gazed down at the babe, and her heart was filled with compassion, and pity.  She felt such compassion for this child, who would grow up to bear such burdens.  And she felt true pity for the baby who had to sleep in that rough, splintering, stained, wooden manger. How disgusting!   Then she had a noble idea.  Bending her long neck, she began to pluck the soft, downy feathers from her own breast.  Ow, it hurts just to think of it.  She used them to line the inside of that manger, until the baby lay in a soft, warm pillow.   Much more appropriate.  Joseph saw what she was doing.  And when she had finished, Joseph who blessed her, saying, "from now on you shall be the patron animal of all babies. There, that's my story.  I hope you enjoyed it.  Now, good night, Tomte.  I have other babies to care for."  And the stork stalked away.

"Thank you," Tomte called after her.  He shook his head.  "So many of the animals helped.  I had no idea.  Let me think, I do remember something about…the sheep.

I, said the sheep, with the curly horn,

I gave him my wool for his blanket warm,

He wore my coat on Christmas morn,

I, said the sheep, with the curly horn."

"Meow.  Who cares about the sheep? 

 "Cat, where did you come from?"

The cat smiled and licked his paw.  "Sheep.  Silly creatures, no brains in them.  Meow. Let me tell you a real story, about a creature with the wisdom to do something truly useful."  And the cat sprang into Tomte's lap, and began his tale, while Tomte gently stroked his back.

"Meow.  Among the animals that came to worship that night was Cat.  Back in those days, Cat was still a wild creature.  Rather than sitting with the other animals around the manger, Cat sidled next to the door and stayed there, waiting and watching.  Eventually the other animals returned to their homes, but not Cat.  He stayed in his place, waiting, and watching the child with his eyes opened wide. Unblinking.  It was Mary who noticed the devotion of Cat.  She blessed him, saying, "from now on you shall no longer be a wild creature, but instead, you will live with mankind.  You will watch our homes and our children, and in turn we will feed you warm milk, and let you sleep by our fires."  So it was that Cat was tamed, but not completely.  Watch Cat as he sleeps, for he will arch his back and unsheathe his claws.  And you will know that he is remembering the days when he roamed, wild and free. Meow, meow, meow!"

And with that, the cat leapt out of Tomte's lap, and chased an invisible something into the hayloft.  "Come back, cat!" called Tomte.  "Your story reminded me of another one."  But cat does not come when he is called.  Tomte hummed a bit, waiting, then sang.

"I, said the dove, in the rafters high,

I cooed him to sleep, so he would not cry.

We cooed him to sleep, my mate and I,

I, said the dove, from the rafters high.

Ah, that's such a lovely image.  I can just picture everyone, fast asleep in that stable."

"Well, it's a good thing that not everybody went to sleep."  Tomte looked around, and saw a small bird hopping towards him.  "What do you mean?"  The bird stopped by his feet and looked up at him with glossy black eyes.  "Well, I'll tell you the story the way it's been passed down in MY family.

They said it had been a long, exhausting day.  After all of the visitors had finally left, Joseph tucked a blanket around the baby.  Then he made a bed of straw, persuaded Mary to lie down upon it, and pulled a blanket around her.  He built the fire up until the stable was warm and comfortable.  Then he sat down with his back against the wall. Now, I'm sure he didn't mean to fall asleep.  But, it had been a long, tiring day.  His eyes gradually closed, and his head nodded down to his chest.  Snore.  Time passed, and gradually the fire began to dwindle, and die down.  The stable grew cold, and colder, until finally, Mary woke up.  She saw that Joseph had fallen asleep, and she didn't want to wake him.  He was so tired.  She tried to get up herself, but she was too weak.  She called to the ox," blow upon the fire to rekindle it," but the ox slept.  She called to the donkey, "blow upon the fire," but the donkey slept, as did the sheep.  Cat was right about those sheep, they were useless.  Good thing my family was there.  Because just then, they all  fluttered up to the fire.  Spreading their wings, they began to flap them quickly, vigorously, fanning the flames until they had been rebuilt to majestic proportions.  Only then did they stop and rest.  And Mary saw that some of their feathers had been scorched red by the fire.  She blessed them, saying, "Robins, from this day forward your family shall always wear a red breast, in remembrance of your sacrifice. See, take a look for yourself, Tomte!"  And the robin spread his wings wide, so that Tomte could get a good look. 

"You're right, Robin.  What beautiful red feathers you have on your chest!  Thank you so much for telling me your story tonight."  The robin preened for a moment, then fluttered away.

Tomte yawned.  "Well, it's been a long night.  I need to go to get some rest. Good night, animals!  Sleep well. Thank you for your sharing your stories with me."  He crept back into his hiding place, beneath the floorboards of the barn.    It had been a perfect Christmas Eve, just as good as the old days.

So all the beasts, by some good spell,

In the stable warm were glad to tell,

Of the gifts they gave Emmanuel,

Of the gifts they gave Emmanuel.

Bread Bombs - A True Story

Most of my cookings skills were inherited from my paternal grandmother, who was a fabulous cook.  But, occasionally my efforts resemble my Nana's cooking.  I summed up her skills at her eulogy as The French Chef colliding with The Frugal Gourmet with a touch of Fear Factor added in for spice.

For example, there was my Dad's all-time favorite cooking incident.  One summer weekend, I prepared a delicious, made from scratch meal for my
husband, my Dad, and my Mom.  Included was a loaf of wonderful Greek sesame bread, that I had made several times before with no problem.  This was a
yeast bread, baked in an angel food cake pan, light, fragrant, and scrumptious.  But, alas, not this time.  I should have realized when the bread didn't rise up the sides of the pan that there was a problem.  But, I
figured it would still taste good, albeit a bit dense.

Dense was NOT the word.  Impervious was more like it.  My best bread knife barely dented the thing.  We had to wrestle chunks off the rocky core.  My
Dad chortled (and he wasn't a laughing kind of guy).  "Bread Bombs!" he declared!

So much hilarity at my efforts, I felt quite abashed.  But I got my own back.  Rather than throwing the entire failure away, I wrapped up a goodly
portion of it in a bit of foil, and stashed it away in my closet.  When Christmas rolled around six months later, I presented it to my Dad as a
gift!  I've never seen him laugh so hard.

And do you know, in all those months, that bread bomb never developed a speck of mold?