Violets, Mom, and the Book of Ruth

A writing friend of mine was willing to share a piece she'd written at our retreat last week-end for my blog. Each person wrote a list of favorite words, then we traded lists, and wrote about a word from another's list. The word she chose was violets.

The scent of flowers evokes so many memories. Clover is the smell of rushing down a hillside, eyes closed, on a bike on a summer's day in England. Chrysanthemums are the scent of death- partly from D.H. Lawrence's short story " Odour of Chrysanthemums", but also from weekly visits to the cemetery. Mums lasted from week to week so were the graveside choice, at least in late summer and autumn.

Violets- the overpowering scent of sweet old ladies- talcum powder, cologne, breath mints and the Book of Ruth. I have my Mom's bible she received as a confirmation gift. The bible falls open to the Book of Ruth, where over sixty years ago Mom pressed a violet. What is the story contained in the faded colors of that long ago violet? A first love?

Violets- also the color of Elizabeth Taylor's eyes.

by Bev Wolff

April 27, 2007

National Poetry Month #30

Honoring poems each day this month has been an incredible experience for me. I have reread old favorites, found new poets, and heard lots of feedback from other poetry lovers. Today, on the last day of National Poetry Month I chose the poem that has stayed with me longer than any other. My mom still has a brown poetry book that contains this poem. Often she read this poem aloud and each time she would patiently explain to me one more time what the poem meant.

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and stanch he stands;

And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

And his musket moulds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said,

"And don't you make any noise!"

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

He dreamt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue---

Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place---

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face;

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through

In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue,

Since he kissed them and put them there.

-Eugene Field