A couple months ago, while attending my aunt’s memorial service, I shared several of my photos with my cousins. As I was showing the photos I was telling the stories behind the photos. My cousin Tammy asked if I write down my stories. The thought of starting a blog had crossed my mind and with that question I realized it was time to seriously consider that thought.
Writing was a challenge for me in high school and college. Hmm, a new challenge was coming into view. Many questions came to mind:
1. Am I up to the challenge?
2. What would I write about?
3. Can I write stories that people would find interesting or entertaining and follow my blog?
4. What would the title be?
As all these questions were buzzing around in my head, inspiration was needed. A few years ago my cousin Kent and his wife Pat put together a booklet “Bits of Verses” by Rebecca Frazier White, my great-grandmother and gave a copy to all the cousins. I had read the booklet from cover to cover at the time and thought how incredible these poems were and how fortunate we are to have them. I decided to read the poems again to see if I could find inspiration.
The first poem, “A Summer Morning” was written in 1878 when my great-grandmother was 16 years old, with the exception of the last stanza, which was written by her in later years.
A Summer Morning
This morn I awake as the first beam of light
Shot upward and lit up the eastern sky.
It appeared to me only a beauty of night
Came to chase the bright stars from their places on high.
How refreshing the breezes that stole through the room!
Coming in at the window, the sash thrown up high;
Bearing in the glad light, dispelling all gloom
And cheering my heart, tho I could not tell why.
The birds with sweet music were filling the air;
As they twittered and flew back and forth in the grove.
A pair of red robins, I saw swinging there
Were dutifully feeding the birdies they love.
I arose from my cot to steal out in the light,
Where the vines climbing high, gently swayed in the breeze.
The canary birds greetings was full of delight
And I heard in the distance the low hum of bees.
And then in the east as I looked I could see
The great golden sun peeping over the hill;
Giving first a red light as it show o’er the lee.
Then of rich golden hue, which was lovelier still.
How the crystal dew drops sparkled in the sun’s light!
Could art a more beautiful picture devise?
Now they glittered and twinkled like stars in the night!
‘Till my thoughts were bewildered and dazzled my eyes.
And now as I stand in the sun’s golden light,
The warm rays are felt as he proudly ascends.
And the silvery dew drops are lost to my sight,
No, not lost forever but gone to the winds.
And yet, warmer still grows the sun’s beating rays.
‘Till I seek the cool shade of the wide spreading trees;
Where the clear sparkling brook mid the grasses now plays,
And now dances on to the music of bees –
As they gather the sweets from the brightest wild flowers;
And quietly buzz, ‘tis a language their own.
Then fly heavy laden away past the bowers
To store away sweets in the cells of the comb.
I watch the thin clouds floating lazily past;
Like flying white birds passing just in my view;
Growing smaller each moment until at the last,
They have faded from sight they are lost in the blue.
The sweet singing birds warble over my head
As they swing on the bough of the willows that grow
Down close by the water and casts its cool shade
On the brooklets bright surface as onward it flows.
A bright yellow leaf fluttered down on the grass
Which I carelessly lift from the velvety green
And toss to the brook – in a moment ‘tis past
Far out of my sight, still borne on the stream.
Now my life like the brooklet must ever flow on,
Whether rippling with gladness or freighted with fears;
May I reflect sunshine and help dispel gloom
Making others loads lighter thru the oncoming years.
As I was reading this poem I was envisioning a scene that is a photographer’s dream. Broad shots of twilight with red skies leading to the golden hour. Then as the sun’s rays grow warmer switching to macro shots of wildflowers and drew drops. And a brooklet playing and dancing? Oh how I love to shoot water! This poem was exactly the inspiration I was looking for!
As far as the questions I had, some are answered. Yes, I’m up to the challenge. And the title? Well, that’s another story for another day.
©Tamara Becker and Different Isn’t Wrong, It’s Just Different, 2013.
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