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"There's one good thing about snow, it makes your lawn look as nice as your neighbor's". ~Clyde Moore
"I Like this quote I dislike this quote“Cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.”~Jeff Valdez
"When the winter wind whistles in darkness; and snowflakes are damp on the scarf,
What a blessing to see home is waiting for me, and the warm, cheery blaze on the hearth."~penny62
"The Eskimos had 52 names for snow because it was important to them; there ought to be as many for love."~Margaret Atwood
"In the bleak midwinter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak midwinter,
Long ago."~Christina Rossetti, Mid-Winter, 1862 |
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Amazon's Price: $ 12.95
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Snow. That first snow, the one that arrives with magically fluffy flakes always seems to be received with smiles and joy. Now, however, two months later, it is greeted with derision and complaint. Such fickle folks are we. But I, along with many others, am now rather sick of the shoveling and the icy roads, of the folks that still cannot fathom how to drive in it, of the weatherman's predictions of one to two inches that morphs into a foot and of being cold.
Sure, it is beautiful when clean and white, and yes, there is that thrill watching the flakes deepen the foot already on the ground. But I long for spring.
I stumbled upon an old favorite poem of mine, 'The Cremation of Sam McGee' by Robert W. Service. It serves to remind me that I am really not as cold as I think I might be after all. It is a great story poem, is funny and has a twist at the end.
It is a poem, it is narrative verse, it is a ballad, and it is a short story all rolled into one. It truly is story telling at its finest. Back in the day before books were easily available, the story was a verbal essence. Histories were memorized and passed down for generations. Great adventures and especial moments were memorialized in verse such that they be easily remembered, often told and never forgotten.
This then is where we, as writers, descend from: a tradition of story telling, of verbal translations of tales of old, of a passing on of history or romance or tragedy.
When I write, be it poem or short story, I read it out loud when while I am working on it. There is something transporting about listening, eyes closed, to a story and truly seeing it come alive in the minds eye. It seems to jump more fully from the page as one listens to it, rather than reading it. There seems, at times, to be more of an immediacy to the words, actions and details-perhaps because freed from the act of reading, and relying on the listening one can focus more on the greater picture. Perhaps that is why children find it difficult to make the transition from being read to and reading for themselves.
So grab a cup of coffee and settle in for an amazing ride.
The Cremation of Sam McGee
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam ‘round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way that “he’d sooner live in hell.”
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn’t see;
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap,” says he, “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you won’t refuse my last request.”
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet ‘taint being dead—it’s my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you’ll cremate my last remains.”
A pal’s last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: “You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you to cremate those last remains.”
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows—O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the “Alice May.”
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here,” said I, with a sudden cry, “is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
Then I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: “I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked;” . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear you’ll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it’s the first time I’ve been warm.”
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
—From Later Collected Verse; by Robert Service;
Dodd, Mead & Company; New York; 1970; pages 33-36.
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Written in a similar style as Robert W. Service, I offer the following editorial pick.
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A few other ballads...
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A few of winter...
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#1518929 by Not Available. |
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#488790 by Not Available. |
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jjlee ~~~ Fyn, I enjoyed this wonderfully descriptive and moving piece. Thanks for sharing your special time and your considerable talent.
Cubby  ~~~ I enjoyed your blanket-wrapped observations.
daniellaudet~~~Hi and thanks for the info and taking the time to put this stuff up. I write a really popular trucking blog, poetry, and a novel in progress. Underwhelmed with my present skill level and overwhelmed with the mountain yet to climb I really appreciate accomplished writers who take the time to reach down and help someone up.
fleckgirl~~~Fyn-LOVED the Christmas magic story.... And ALL those little pieces of Christmas magic should find our hearts throughout the year if you ask me... I think it would make the world a better place.
Caroline  ~~~Great newsletter! I enjoyed the Santa story and your other interesting observations. I love hearing snippets of people's lives. Thank you for highlighting my poem and including me in the quotes section! I did a bit of a double take when I saw the quote.
tsurtidogni ~~~I love the Editorial and the wisdom it brings.
Splendid !
Thanking you all so much for the kind comments..they keep me going! |
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For Authors: January 28, 2009 Issue [#2859]
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