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Joseph E Bird

Let's talk about reading, writing and the arts.

Month

May 2017

Body shaming in the 19th century.

tida
My great-grandmother, Tida, with my sister, Adele.

When I was born, my great-grandmother, Tida, was 72. By the time I was old enough to form any memories about her, she was well into her 80s. I’m sure she had the usual trouble remembering things that older people have, but she had no problem performing at least one amazing feat of memory.

When she was a child in the late 1800s, she learned many things by simple repetition, what they used to call rote. When she was in her 90s, she would sit on her porch swing on a hot summer day and, recalling her lessons of decades earlier, entertain her great-grandchildren with the story of Nanny, a poor girl who ate too much.  In today’s culture, we are more sensitive to eating disorders and those who struggle with controlling their weight. And really, the story of Nanny is more about greed than it is about being overweight.  Nonetheless, my apologies to anyone who may be offended by this old school-house poem.  My presentation of this is not intended to be any kind of commentary about eating or obesity.  It’s about my great-grandmother’s amazing mind.

Again, she was in her 90s when she would recite this entire frightening poem by memory.  Thanks to Adele for transcribing the poem.

Greedy Nan

Nanny was a glutton,
not a pretty word, oh well.
But the actions of a glutton
are even worse to tell.

Perhaps there are some children
who know the meaning not.
Well, a glutton is a person
who eats an awful lot.

Nan was fat and chubby
as folks should be who eat.
Her cheeks were like big apples
and she had fat hands and feet.

At the table Nanny always
ate up her own large share.
Then she would eat her brother’s
and hang around his chair.

If anything was left,
twas eaten up by Nan.
All her family said of her,
We don’t see how she can.

She’ll make herself quite sick some day,
her family all said.
She eats of every kind of food,
rather than wholesome bread.

One day some guests her mother had.
She cooked a supper good.
Then she set the table,
and placed on it the food.

But ere the guests should sit them down,
in ran greedy Nan.
She gathered all the nice food up,
and put it in a pan.

Then to the barn she ran away
and hid behind the gate.
She put the big pan in her lap,
and ate, and ate, and ate.

Her mother came and found her,
and sent her off to bed.
“I would not care if shadowbees
came after you,” she said.

As silent on the bed
lay greedy, greedy Nan.
She heard a voice say loudly,
“Get up now, if you can.”

She looked around,
her room was full of many shadowbees.
She wondered much what she could do,
their anger to appease.

“We’ll have to stop you. Hurry up!
This greed we cannot stand!
You are the greediest girl
there is in all the land.”

They put her in a towering room,
and filled it up with food.
“Stay here until you eat it all,”
cried they in language rude.

Now Nan was nothing loath to eat,
so straightway she began
to nibble doughnuts, cakes, and cheese,
and bread bespread with jam.

Till all at once the sight of food
made her so very ill.
“I never can eat all this up.
I never, never will.”

“Go on and eat!” cried shadowbees.
“You must eat more and more.
You haven’t made a passage yet,
but halfway to the door.”

“If I eat more, I’ll surely die.”
“Eat on!” cried shadowbees.
“While you’re eating your way out,
we’ll dance beside the sea.”

So Nan was forced to eat and eat.
She grew so very stout.
That when she reached the little door,
she hardly could get out.

“The time has come,” cried shadowbees.
“To roll her out like dough.
We cannot leave her as she is,
she’s much too fat, you know.”

So off they hurried luckless Nan
and down upon the plain.
They laid her like a heap of dough
to be rolled flat again.

They took a huge, huge rolling pin.
They rolled this way and that.
They rolled her up, the rolled her down,
til she was smooth and flat.

“We’ll round her off about the size
she really ought to be!”
The King said, “I’ll attend to that.
Please leave it all to me.”

So he rounded Nanny off, nice and trim and clean.
She jumped up with a scream,
and found that all this wretched tale,
was just a horrid dream.

“Oh, shadowbees, oh shadowbess,
I will, I wll give heed
to this dream that you have sent me,
I will stop this horrid greed!”

— Author Unknown

The kitchen.

tida in kitchen

I love this photo for many reasons, but the thing that intrigues me the most is the honesty.

The photo itself is a basement shoebox relic.  It’s old.  It’s bent and cracked. No Photoshop effects, here. Just a snapshot.

The subjects are familiar faces, but the photo was taken probably close to sixty years ago, before I really knew them. Maybe before I was born. Even in the older women there is youth I never saw in later years. From left to right, my Aunt Shirley; my grandmother Bettie Pearl, who I knew as Mom; my great-grandmother Tida, who we called Tidy; and my mother, Gloria, who looks to be with child.

The place, I believe, is my great-grandmother’s kitchen. If I had to guess, I would say it was breakfast.  There’s the coffee pot and toaster.  But I can’t imagine them gathering so early just for breakfast. Maybe lunch, which they called dinner.  Dinner would have included fried potatoes and tomatoes from the garden. Supper was the evening meal.  There would have been men in the picture by then.

There’s tension evident in the photograph.  Not a one could manage a smile, which is very unusual for my mother and Aunt Shirley, especially in front of a camera.  There’s a weariness, too.  Maybe they had been working.  Maybe canning tomatoes or beans.

They were all different.

My mother was the free spirit, enjoying every moment.

My aunt was sophistication personified, full of grace and elegance.

My grandmother, hardworking and kind, ready to share with everyone.

My great-grandmother, the strong, independent woman living by herself.

Maybe that was the source of the tension. Around the table love and respect, yet each one not quite understanding the other.  One dreams of this, another of that. And dreams, what are they for, anyway? another may think.  And Tidy, who has already seen enough heartbreak for all of them, keeps it to herself.

I’ll never know. They’re all gone now.  Not that any of them would give me a straight answer anyway.

I think that’ s the wonder of old photographs.  They tell a story, but never the entire story. A moment frozen in time that forces us to think about those who have gone on, to see if we can fill in the blanks. It forces us to remember them as they were, beyond the smiles and laughter. It forces us to remember who they really were.

Even the marble fades.

cemetery 1 for web

“Like the vast bulk of people, the captives would pass from the earth without hardly making any mark more lasting than plowing a furrow. You could bury them and knife their names onto an oak plank and stand it up in the dirt, and not one thing — not their acts of meanness or kindness or cowardice or courage, not their fears or hopes, not the features of their faces — would be remembered even as long as it would take the gouged characters in the plank to fade away. They walked therefore bent, as if bearing the burden of lives lived beyond recognition.” – Charles Frazier, from Cold Mountain

IN THE LATE 1860s, a tradition of decorating the graves of fallen Civil War soldiers began. In 1868, General John Logan formalized the tradition by declaring May 30 as Decoration Day.  Decoration Day gradually become known as Memorial Day, and after World War I, Memorial Day began to commemorate soldiers who had died in any war. In 1968, the U.S. Congress passed the Uniform Monday Holiday Act, and in 1971, Memorial Day was established as the last Monday in May. 

Although the emphasis of Memorial Day is still to honor those who died in service to their country, graves of all loved ones are now traditionally decorated on Memorial Day.

Many of my family and friends have their final resting place in Cunningham Park, a pastoral cemetery in the rolling hills of my home town of St. Albans. But as beautiful as it is, visits are always times of quiet reflection. My mother is there. My grandparents are there, and my great-grandmother, who passed away when I was 21, is there. My sisters and my cousins are the last generation to have known her personally. When we’re gone, my great-grandmother will likely have no more visitors. The memory of her, like the marble etching at the top of the cemetery stairs, once so vivid and clear, will fade away.

stairs for web

The stairs are a long, hard climb. Do they symbolize life’s struggles? Or the final path to the hereafter?  At the top are symbols of the Christian faith. But time is no respecter.  Even the marble fades.

marble plaque

Every day is a gift and every memory a blessing.

 

hoofin’

This is how it’s done. Or was done. Back then. They called it hoofin’.

misty

She flies.

All grace, flowing and free.
For a moment she is splendor.
She will always be
a dancer.

She flies.
Into his arms, sure and strong.
Together they are elegance.
She will always be
a dancer.

She flies.
Strength, beauty, trust.
One voice, one spirit.
She will always be
a dancer.

She flies.


copyright 2014, joseph e bird

We can’t talk dance, without talking about Misty Copeland.

black or white

I wish I could write.
I wish I could play the guitar.
I wish I could sing.
I wish I could draw.
I wish I could take beautiful photographs.
I wish I could make people laugh.
I wish I could tell an interesting story.
I wish I could make a difference.
I wish I could dance.

Like this:

the evolution of tap

a stick on a hollow log
tap
tap
tap
a message

two sticks
tap tap
tap tap
tap tap
yeah

three raps
ta tap tap
ta tap tap
ta tap tap
a beat

head bobbin
toe tap
toe tap
toe tap
rhythm

can’t stop
heel toe
heel toe
tap a rappin tap
dancing, baby


copyright 2017, joseph e bird

dig the Nicholas Brothers

And we danced.

We danced.
And we fell in love.
Not with each other.
There was too much
reality between us
for something as
foolish as that.

We danced.
And we fell in love.
With the future.
With the possibilities
and potentials
and why nots
that might ever be.

We danced.
And we fell in love.
Because there was joy.
With just that
simple act of moving
and swaying and touching
as the music played.

We danced.
And fell in love.
Not forever, of course.
The music would end
and we would sit
and our troubles
would return.

We danced.
And I fell in love.
Yes. With you.
Because our moment
was timeless
and your laughter
is with me always.


copyright 2017, joseph e bird


Al Pacino’s character in Scent of a Woman, Frank Slade, is a retired Army colonel who’s having a tough time dealing with the loneliness in his life. He hires a college student (played by a very young Chris O’Donnel) to take him around for one last hurrah before he gives up on life. Did I mention that Frank Slade is blind? In the scene below, he dances the tango with a beautiful young woman and for a moment, remembers the joy that is possible.

That’s what dancing can do.

wild, weird stuff

It’s Friday, ya’ll.

Time for something really different. (Spoiler alert: The last link on this page is wild. You really need to watch it.)

The Mystery Hole in Ansted will have your head spinning. I’ve written about it before, but as long as we’re on the road, it’s worth stopping by. Up is down and sideways just doesn’t exist. It’s a crazy experience where the laws of gravity are completely violated.

Mystery Hole 1 for web

Or head to Lesage for Hillbilly Hot Dogs, which was featured on Guy Fieri’s Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives. Can a place so crazy really have good hot dogs?  Yep.

photo 3

hillbilly 2

Or maybe the Mothman Museum in Pt. Pleasant is your kind of place. And what would a Mothman Museum be without the M.I.B?

MIB

If all of this seems to tame for you, how about some whitewater rafting? The Gauley River in Fayette County offers truly world-class rapids. Check out the video for some live action.  Go here to book a trip.

Hope you’ve enjoyed the tour of my world. We’ll do it again sometime.

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