Autumn in the North Cemetery.

Sixty miles west of Boston, Massachusetts there is the small New England town of Sturbridge. Located at the junction of I-90 (The Mass Pike), and I-84 it has become known as the "Crossroads of New England". The town was first settled over 300 years ago, and like other small New England towns it has grown just enough over the years to be in a difficult place today. How do we embrace the future without forgetting how we got to our present? How do we attract the right kind of growth, and maintain who we are? And, what about our culture out here in Central Massachusetts?

These pages will cause one to think about how to protect what we have, our future direction, and how to move on in the very best way.

Those thoughts, and other ramblings, will hopefully inspire more thought, conversation, action, and occasionally a smile...

...seems to be working so far

Friday, November 25, 2011

A Better Deal At Dawn

We had a hard frost last night, and this morning the evidence was everywhere.  The blades of grass, the shrubs, and the yet to fall leaves on the Rose of Sharon all showed the thick, white frost that had settled on us overnight.  After I awoke this morning, with  cup of coffee in hand, I watched the world awaken through the kitchen window .   The suns rays played with the frost crystals on the trees, and Mary readied herself for the day near me at the counter.  

I watched as dawn turned into day.

That little bit of time in front of the kitchen window was far more pensive, and sedentary than rushing out blindly hours earlier to wait in line at Target in order to save 30-60% on a Blu-Ray player.  It was also more rewarding.  I saw things this morning that others may not have.

No, I didn't save 80% on an electronic book reader, or 52 inch LCD TV.  No, I did not save any money at all, but  I am a lot richer now than I was before getting out of bed this morning.

Starting off ones day a bit wealthier than the previous day is a great goal.  Well worth the effort, and if you do it right, it doesn't cost a thing.

And, that's the whole point.  This morning I did it right.

                "When the Frost is on the Punkin"

James Whitcomb Riley. 1853–1916

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, 
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, 
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, 
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; 
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,         5
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, 
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. 
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere 
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—  10
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, 
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; 
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze 
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days 
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—  15
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. 
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, 
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn; 
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still 
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;  20
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; 
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!— 
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. 
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps  25
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps; 
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through 
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!... 
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be 
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—  30
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock— 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.


1 comment:

  1. Ahhh... Reading that poem again is worth more than any Black Friday savings ever could be. Thanks, so much, Wally.


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