Well-Bred & Well-Brewed

December 4th, Wednesday | Hiatus Week: The Walrus and the Carpenter

The date is December 4th, Wednesday, and today I’m traveling from Auckland, New Zealand to Los Angeles, California and then Los Angeles, CA to Portland, OR. Phew.   This week I’ll be on hiatus, check out Monday’s episode, December 2nd for the whole scoop! The Walrus and the CarpenterLewis Carroll   The sun was shining on the sea,   Shining with all his might:He did his very best to make   The billows smooth and bright—And this was odd, because it was   The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily,   Because she thought the sunHad got no business to be there   After the day was done—"It's very rude of him," she said,   "To come and spoil the fun!" The sea was wet as wet could be,   The sands were dry as dry.You could not see a cloud because   No cloud was in the sky:No birds were flying overhead—   There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter   Were walking close at hand:They wept like anything to see   Such quantities of sand:"If this were only cleared away,"   They said, "it would be grand!" "If seven maids with seven mops   Swept it for half a year,Do you suppose," the Walrus said,   "That they could get it clear?""I doubt it," said the Carpenter,   And shed a bitter tear. "0 Oysters, come and walk with us!"   The Walrus did beseech."A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,   Along the briny beach:We cannot do with more than four,   To give a hand to each." The eldest Oyster looked at him,   But never a word he said;The eldest Oyster winked his eye,   And shook his heavy head—Meaning to say he did not choose   To leave the oyster-bed. But four young Oysters hurried up,   All eager for the treat:Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,   Their shoes were clean and neat—And this was odd, because, you know,   They hadn't any feet. Four other Oysters followed them,   And yet another four;And thick and fast they came at last,   And more and more and more—All hopping through the frothy waves,   And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter   Walked on a mile or so,And then they rested on a rock   Conveniently low:And all the little Oysters stood   And waited in a row. "The time has come," the Walrus said,   "To talk of many things:Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—   Of cabbages—and kings—And why the sea is boiling hot—   And whether pigs have wings." "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried,   "Before we have our chat;For some of us are out of breath,   And all of us are fat!""No hurry!" said the Carpenter.   They thanked him much for that. "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said,   "Is what we chiefly need:Pepper and vinegar besides   Are very good indeed—Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear,   We can begin to feed." "But not on us!" the Oysters cried,   Turning a little blue."After such kindness, that would be   A dismal thing to do!""The night is fine," the Walrus said,   "Do you admire the view? "It was so kind of you to come!   And you are very nice!"The Carpenter said nothing but   "Cut us another slice.I wish you were not quite so deaf—   I've had to ask you twice!" "It seems a shame," the Walrus said,   "To play them such a trick.After we've brought them out so far,   And made them trot so quick!"The Carpenter said nothing but   "The butter's spread too thick!" "I weep for you," the Walrus said:   "I deeply sympathize."With sobs and tears he sorted out   Those of the largest size,Holding his pocket-handkerchief   Before his streaming eyes. "O, Oysters," said the Carpenter,   "You've had a pleasant run!Shall we be trotting home again?"   But answer came there none—And this was scarcely odd, because   They'd eaten every one.Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.

December 3rd, Tuesday | Hiatus Week: Legend of the Indian Summer

Hiatus Week Day 2: A belated autumnal poem to explain the Indian Summer phenomenon.  The date is December 3rd, Tuesday, and today I’m coming to you from Auckland, New Zealand.  This week I’ll be on hiatus, check out Monday’s episode, December 2nd for the whole scoop!  Legend of The Indian SummerKate Harrington I have learned a simple legend,Never found in books of lore,Copied not from old tradition,Nor from classics read of yore ; But the breezes sang it to meWith a low and soft refrain,While the golden leaves and scarletFluttered down to catch the strain. And the grand old trees above me,As their stately branches swayed,Threw across my couch of crimsonMore of sunlight than of shade. I had lain there dreaming, musingOn the summer's vanished bloom,Wondering if each penciled leafletDid not mark some flow'ret's tomb ; Thinking how each tree could tell meMany a tale of warrior's fame;Gazing at the sky, and askingHow the ''Indian Summer' came. Then methought a whispered cadenceStole from out the haunted trees,While the leaves kept dropping, dropping,To the music of the breeze. “I will tell thee,” said the whisper,“What I've learned from Nature's book;For the sunbeams wrote this legendOn the margin of a brook. “'Tis about an Indian maiden,She the star-flower of her race,With a heart whose soft emotionsRippled through her soul-lit face. “All her tribe did homage to her,For her father was their chief;He was stern, and she forgiving,—He brought pain, and she relief. “And they called him 'Indian Winter,'All his actions were so cold ;Her they named the 'Indian Summer,'For she seemed a thread of gold “Flashing through her native forest,Beaming in the wigwam lone,Singing to the birds, her playmates,Till they warbled back her tone. “When the summer days were ended,And the chilling months drew near,When the clouds hung, dull and leaden,And the leaves fell, brown and sere, “Brought they to the chieftain's presenceOne, a ‘pale-face,’ young and brave,But whom youth nor manly valorCould from savage vengeance save. “‘Bring him forth!’ in tones of thunderThus the 'Indian Winter' cried,While the gentle ' Indian Summer'Softly flitted to his side. 'When the tomahawk was lifted,And the scalping-knife gleamed high,Pride, revenge, and bloody hatredGlared within the warrior's eye; 'And the frown upon his foreheadDarker, deeper, sterner grew ;While the lowering clouds above themHid the face of heaven from view. ''Spare him ! oh, my father, spare him!'Friend and foe were thrust apart,While the golden thread of sunlightTwined around the red man's heart. 'And her eye was full of pity,And her voice was full of love,As she told him of the wigwamOn the hunting-ground above, 'Where great Manito was talking,—She could hear him in the breeze ;How he called the ' pale-face' brother—Smoked with him the pipe of peace. 'Then the warrior's heart relented,And the glittering weapon fell: For the maiden's sake,' he muttered,'Thou art pardoned,— fare thee well!' ' And the sun, that would have slumberedTill the spring-time came again,Earthward from his garnered brightnessThrew a flood of golden rain; 'And the 'Indian Summer' saw it,She, the gentle forest child ;And to ' Indian Winter' whispered,See how Manito has smiled !' 'All the tribe received the omen,And they called it by her name:Indian Summer, Indian Summer,It will ever be the same. 'Though the ' pale-face' gave anotherTo the lovely maid he won,Nature still receives her tributeFrom the wigwam of the sun. ' Here, alone, this shining symbolGilds the streamlet, warms the sod,For no Indian Summer comethSave where Indian feet have trod.' Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening. 

December 2nd, Monday | Hiatus Week: The Courtship of Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo

The date is December 2nd, Monday, and today I’m traveling from Port Vila, Vanuatu to Auckland, New Zealand. This week I’ll be on hiatus, which may sound ridiculous considering the number of episodes I have to catch up on, but if you then consider that each episode takes me about 3 hours from research to writing to publication, I need time, that with working, I don’t always have.  So this hiatus week will be a recurring thing I do to help me stay on top of episodes while I figure out how to produce them faster (!). And each week I’ll share some content I couldn’t otherwise share on here. This week I’ll be sharing poems that I think are quite delightful and quirky but that would otherwise be too long for a regular episode. Future hiatus weeks may be something different! Stayed tuned.  So without further ado…. The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-BoEdward Lear On the Coast of Coromandel   Where the early pumpkins blow,      In the middle of the woods   Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.Two old chairs, and half a candle,One old jug without a handle--      These were all his worldly goods,      In the middle of the woods,      These were all his worldly goods,   Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,   Of the Yonghy-Bonghy Bo. Once, among the Bong-trees walking   Where the early pumpkins blow,      To a little heap of stones   Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.There he heard a Lady talking,To some milk-white Hens of Dorking--      "'Tis the Lady Jingly Jones!      On that little heap of stones      Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!"   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!   Sitting where the pumpkins blow,      Will you come and be my wife?"   Said the Yongby-Bonghy-Bo."I am tired of living singly--On this coast so wild and shingly--      I'm a-weary of my life;      If you'll come and be my wife,      Quite serene would be my life!"   Said the Yonghy-Bongby-Bo,   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. "On this Coast of Coromandel   Shrimps and watercresses grow,      Prawns are plentiful and cheap,"Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo."You shall have my chairs and candle,And my jug without a handle!      Gaze upon the rolling deep      (Fish is plentiful and cheap);      As the sea, my love is deep!"   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Lady Jingly answered sadly,   And her tears began to flow--      "Your proposal comes too late,   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!I would be your wife most gladly!"(Here she twirled her fingers madly)      "But in England I've a mate!      Yes! you've asked me far too late,      For in England I've a mate,   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!   Mr. Yongby-Bonghy-Bo! "Mr. Jones (his name is Handel--   Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)      Dorking fowls delights to send   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Keep, oh, keep your chairs and candle,And your jug without a handle--      I can merely be your friend!      Should my Jones more Dorkings send,      I will give you three, my friend!   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! "Though you've such a tiny body,   And your head so large doth grow--      Though your hat may blow away   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy,Yet I wish that I could modi-      fy the words I needs must say!      will you please to go away      That is all I have to say,   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!   Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!" Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,   Where the early pumpkins blow,      To the calm and silent sea   Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,Lay a large and lively Turtle.      "You're the Cove," he said, "for me;      On your back beyond the sea,      Turtle, you shall carry me!"   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,   Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Through the silent-roaring ocean   Did the Turtle swiftly go;      Holding fast upon his shell   Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.With a sad primeval motionTowards the sunset isles of Boshen      Still the Turtle bore him well.      Holding fast upon his shell,      "Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!"   Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,   Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. From the Coast of Coromandel   Did that Lady never go;      On that heap of stones she mourns   For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.On that Coast of Coromandel,In his jug without a handle      Still she weeps, and daily moans;      On that little heap of stones      To her Dorking Hens she moans,   For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,   For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely evening.

November 29th, Friday | Mom and Baby Barack

The date is November 29th, Friday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu.  And today is the birthday of Louisa May Alcott, American writer.  Louisa May was born to a small family in 1832 in what is now Philadelphia, PA. They didn’t stay long there. The family would move to Boston shortly following Dad’s dream of founding a Transcendentalist school. The family would move 22 times in 30 years, mostly in and around New England.  While Alcott’s father was a man of high-minded ideals, he was not a man of high income. From a young age Louisa May had to work to supplement the family’s income. She, her mother and sisters worked in a variety of domestic roles from governesses to seamstresses.  Her father’s transcendentalist ideas did allow him to circulate with the likes of Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson and meant he placed a strong emphasis on reading and philosophy. At one point the family corresponded with Frederick Douglass while a housing a fugitive slave as part of the Underground Railroad.  At age 27, Alcott began more seriously, a writing career. She started writing for The Atlantic Monthly, and, after a spell as a nurse in the Civil War— Alcott was a passionate abolitionist— and then as a patient from becoming deathly ill, her writing career took off. She published Hospital Sketches and Moods, both of which were well received for their humor and candor. She took on the pen name A. M. Barnard to publish more adventure-driven stories. When Alcott’s classic Little Women first appeared in 1868, Alcott was skeptical it would be reviewed favorably—perhaps because she was concerned at how close it was to an autobiography. But it did well enough to have three sequels which followed the “little women” from adolescence to adulthood with their own kids: Good Wives, Little Men, and Jo’s Boys.  One of Alcotts childhood homes in Massachusetts is now a museum dedicated to the Alcott family legacy, and Lousia May Alcott was inducted into the National Women’s Hall of Fame 1996.  Today is the birthday of Ann Dunham, American anthropologist.  Dunham was born in Kansas, but became an island girl when she followed her parents in moving to Hawaii. While a student at the new University of Hawaii at Mānoa, Dunham met an intelligent, independent man from Kenya named Barack Obama. The two, Dunham 18 and Obama 23, fell for each other and married, against the wishes of their parents, despite the fact that Ann Dunham Obama was already 3 months pregnant.  Dunham-Obama gave birth to Barack Obama II in August 1961 and was in classes the next semester, this time at the University of Washington in Seattle. Obama, Sr remained in Hawaii working in his original course of study. He departed for Harvard not long after that, Dunham raising little Obama in Hawaii with the help of her parents. Little did she know that her bundle of joy, who she would sometimes take with her to classes, would one day become that Barack Obama, the 44th President of the United States.  In addition to being a mother, Ann Dunham was an anthropologist who found her calling studying and aiding women of Indonesia. She lived in Jakarta with her second husband and 6-year-old Barack for a number of years before returning to Hawaii to begin work on a PhD, partially funded by a grant from The Asia Foundation. She would return again to Indonesia many times, a champion for women in rural communities and starting one of the early microcredit programs in Indonesia.   LullabyLouisa May Alcott Now the day is done, Now the shepherd sun Drives his white flocks from the sky; Now the flowers rest On their mother's breast, Hushed by her low lullaby.  Now the glowworms glance, Now the fireflies dance, Under fern-boughs green and high; And the western breeze To the forest trees Chants a tuneful lullaby.   Now 'mid shadows deep Falls blessed sleep, Like dew from the summer sky; And the whole earth dreams, In the moon's soft beams, While night breathes a lullaby.  Now, birdlings, rest, In your wind-rocked nest, Unscared by the owl's shrill cry; For with folded wings Little Brier swings, And singeth your lullaby. Thank you for listening. I’m your host, Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely weekend.

November 28th, Thursday | A Thanksgiving Poem

View this episode on our website.The date is November 28th, Thursday, and today I’m coming to you from Port Vila, Vanuatu. Today is Thanksgiving in America. It is a time for families and friends gather together to share a meal and spend the day reflecting on all the wonderful things, tangible and intangible, that have come our way over the past year. So today I will just share a poem :)  ThanksgivingElla Wheeler Wilcox We walk on starry fields of white    And do not see the daisies; For blessings common in our sight    We rarely offer praises. We sigh for some supreme delight    To crown our lives with splendor, And quite ignore our daily store    Of pleasures sweet and tender. Our cares are bold and push their way    Upon our thought and feeling. They hand about us all the day,    Our time from pleasure stealing. So unobtrusive many a joy    We pass by and forget it, But worry strives to own our lives,    And conquers if we let it. There’s not a day in all the year    But holds some hidden pleasure, And looking back, joys oft appear    To brim the past’s wide measure. But blessings are like friends, I hold,    Who love and labor near us.We ought to raise our notes of praise    While living hearts can hear us. Full many a blessing wears the guise    Of worry or of trouble; Far-seeing is the soul, and wise,    Who knows the mask is double.But he who has the faith and strength    To thank his God for sorrow Has found a joy without alloy    To gladden every morrow. We ought to make the moments notes    Of happy, glad Thanksgiving; The hours and days a silent phrase    Of music we are living.And so the theme should swell and grow    As weeks and months pass o’er us, And rise sublime at this good time,    A grand Thanksgiving chorus. Thank you for listening. I’m your host Virginia Combs, wishing you a good morning, a better day, and a lovely Thanksgiving.