Be the Buttercup: The Day After

Saturday, September 10, 2011

The Day After

During our family Friday night dinner, the children asked my husband and I where we were when we realized American was being attacked on 9/11. I review that day several times a week, so being asked to repeat my tiny experiece of that day if very easy: calling daddy right away, glued to the TV, not being able to reach my own father up north, after flight 93 crashed going out into my southern yard to see if any planes were falling out of the sky above me...and my baby taking her first steps, and being shaken awake in terror that night by a military plane flying over our home. My oldest daughter then asked us, "And what about the next day? What was that day like?" I sat there for a moment not being able to recall one memory of 9/12. Then my husband and I replied in unison: "It is still the next day."

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Blessing on the hand of women! Angels guard its stregth and grace, In the palace, cottage, hovel, Oh, no matter where the place; Would that never storms assailed it, Rainbows ever gently curled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. Infancy's the tender fountain, Power may with beauty flow, Mother's first to guide the streamlets, From them souls unresting grow-- Grow on for the good or evil Sunshine streamed or evils hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the Hand that rules the world. Woman, how divin your mission Here upon our natal sod! Keep, oh, keep the youn heart open Always to the breath of GOD! All true trophies of the ages Are from the mother-love impearled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. Blessings on the hand of women! Fathers, sons, and daughters cry, And the sacred song is mingled withthe worship in the sky-- Mingles where no tempest darkens, Rainbows evermore are hurled; For the hand that rocks the cradle Is the hand that rules the world. William Ross Wallace (1819 - 1881)

Discontent, by Sarah Orne Jewett

Down in a field, one day in June,
The flowers all bloomed together,
Save one who tried to hide herself,
And drooped, that pleasant weather.

A robin who had flown too high
And felt a little lazy
Was resting near this buttercup
Who wished she were a daisy.

The daisies grow so trig and tall,-
She always had a passion
For wearing frills around her neck
In just the daisies' fashion.

And buttercups must always be
The same old tiresome color-
While daisies dress in gold and white,
Although their gold is duller.

'Dear robin,' said this sad young flower,
'Perhaps you'd not mind trying
To find a nice white frill for me
Some day when you are flying.'

'You silly thing!' the robin said,
'I think you must be crazy.
I'd rather be my honest self
Than any made-up daisy.

'You're nicer in your own bright gown,-
The little children love you.
Be the best buttercup you can,
And think no flower above you.

'Though swallows leave me out of sight,
We'd better keep our places;
Perhaps the world would all go wrong
With one too many daisies.

'Look bravely up into the sky
And be content with knowing
That God wished for a buttercup
Just here, where you are growing.'

Sarah Orne Jewett