Notebooks; limericks are great - sometimes; what a history!

Some of my notebooks posing as journals / diaries are lined up on a shelf in my bedroom. As I pick one up and peruse a bit, I find it amazing that there is so much written in it. Poems that I've copied from books, because I liked them so much; mention of phone calls from family and friends; bits of conversation of those calls; found recipes that were important to me, to keep; things I did that day or another; my deepest feelings in those trying years; -- it is endless. Those notebooks are jumbled histories of some of my years. 

Oh, what a surprise THIS is! I see an entry that I chanced upon without even trying! A serendipitous paragraph written exactly seventeen years ago today! November 11, 1994, birthday of my sixth and last child, Ger. 

This is what I wrote about his birthday: "I called Gerald for his birthday, and sang 'Happy Birthday' a la The Hallelujah Chorus. He liked it. He received as gifts, a popcorn bowl very large, candy, a gift certificate to Barnes and Noble Book Stores, and a plunger for his trumpet. Maybe more. I forget."

Happy Birthday AGAIN, Ger!

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On February First, 1995, at two o'clock in the afternoon, I wrote this poem: 

                             Little Bird

There once was a bird who spoke not a word, 

        But I didn't seem to care; 

             For it really pleased me 

             As I watched him with glee 

        While he flew 'round and 'round in the air. 

He spoke not a word, this brown little bird, 

        For in fact he wasn't that kind; 

             It just didn't matter 

             That he couldn't chatter ~~ 

        It would drive me right out of my mind. 

Instead, he would whistle, I'm positive this'll 

        Explain what I'm trying to say:

             He'd sing all day long 

             His enchanting sweet song, 

        And I wish he'd come back here to stay.

I'd even plant thistle, so he'd sit there and whistle

        As I'd hoe all my beans and my peas; 

             Little bird, come to me, 

             Won't you come, sing to me? 

        Won't you please sing for me, pretty please? 

                                  -- Anna Mae Schroeder

                                      February 1, 1995. 

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So, you can see what all my notebooks mean to me. They are full of odds and ends, important things, 

sad things, deliriously happy things, and quite unexpected things, What A History! 

I'll see you around the Corner Post...