When my older sister (or my much older sister, as I like to call her when I think she needs to be taken down a peg or two) was born, she got every single ‘ability to organize’ gene from our mother. By the time my younger (not all that much younger) sister came along, some of those depleted genes might have built back up and passed to her.
Sadly, instead of the gene that helps me sort and collate and coordinate and prioritize, I got an extra several thousand molecules of ‘just read a book and drink coffee.’
So when Older Sister pointed out that my blog is called ‘The Tuesday Prude’ but my sporadic posts are often on any day but Tuesday, I put down my book, took a fortifying swig of coffee, and explained:
“‘Tuesday Prude’ was chosen because I like the way it sounds.”
Such a delightful internal assonance. And I had great intentions of posting every Tuesday. Just like this morning I had great intentions of beginning a paleo lifestyle. Once the loaf of bread is gone.
For some inexplicable reason, Tuesdays are SO HARD for me.
But, because Older Sister is usually right, and because I’m taking cues from the open and transparent and forthright political climate,
I’m turning over a new leaf, and posting on a Tuesday.
(Remember though, in this political climate, new leaves only last a week.)
Here is an old poem from an old book of my dad’s, that my youngest son had newly bound for my Christmas present. I like this poem. Poets always talk of geese leaving in the fall. But here in my neighborhood they are back, and clamoring in excitement over the marsh’s receding ice-line.
I’m squawking and flapping right along with them.
Robert P. Tristram Coffin
Beauty is coming north again
Slanting eager as the rain;
With necks like arrows on a bow
Across the sky the wild geese go.
Beauty is coming moulded by
High winds of the upper sky
Into shapes that burn to be
In a patterned symmetry.
Loveliness comes like a host
Of lean ships headed for a coast,
Every sail and every keel
Pointed at a common weal.
Comeliness in company,
Every wing where it should be,
Their feathers are communal things,
They help each other with their wings.
I enjoyed this sweet post immensely. Loved the poem. It’s a delight to read aloud–like honey on the tongue. And yes, I’m sure my little sister would agree with you. Big sisters are always right.
Should have known you were a big sister. You also have an unfair number of organized genes. (which is my highest praise for another human)
This didn’t pop in to my inbox until this morning. And that’s another reason I don’t have an older sister. But I may have to start giving up coffee and then I’ll wish I had an older sister instead of a baby brother who relatively easily gave up most of his coffee already. And I liked the poem. Even if it wasn’t a Lipsky.
My advice is: Don’t ever give up coffee. No matter what anybody’s sister says.
Aw, Lisa. You brought a smile to my tired face.
Dear Prude, as you might have guessed, I am the younger sister. I, too, missed some crucial genes. I am smiling about it now, though, as I realize I’m in such good company! As Lori said, the poem reads like honey! However–while it makes me like geese better in theory, I still don’t much like them in reality. 😉 Thanks for lots of giggles!
My husband (who grew up near Horicon March) is not nearly as enamored with geese as I am.