dual personalities

Tag: N.C. Wyeth

Come to rifle Satan’s fold

by chuckofish

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Twas much,
that man was
made like God before,
But that God should
be like man
much more

–John Donne (1572-1631)

Lest we forget.

This little babe, so few days old,
Is come to rifle Satan’s fold;
All hell doth at his presence quake.
Though he himself for cold do shake,
For in this weak unarmèd wise
The gates of hell he will surprise. 

With tears he fights and wins the field;
His naked breast stands for a shield;
His battering shot are babish cries,
His arrows looks of weeping eyes,
His martial ensigns cold and need,
And feeble flesh his warrior’s steed. 

His camp is pitchèd in a stall,
His bulwark but a broken wall,
The crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes,
Of shepherds he his muster makes;
And thus, as sure his foe to wound,
The angels’ trumps alarum sound. 

My soul, with Christ join thou in fight;
Stick to the tents that he hath pight;
Within his crib is surest ward,
This little babe will be thy guard.
If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy,
Then flit not from this heavenly boy.

Christmas vacation is coming to an end. Sigh. It’s back to work on Tuesday. Still can’t believe how 2017 raced by. Here’s hoping you foil thy foes with joy in 2018.

The thing to do or Ewa-yea! my little owlet!

by chuckofish

a1b37e48335d670173b40d9cebd6d37c.jpgLast week when daughter #1 was home for a few days and we were sitting out in the Florida room on an unseasonably cool evening, we saw a huge owl swoop down and fly through our yard. He perched on the neighbor’s basketball hoop and we sat and watched him.

After awhile he swooped down again into the grass where he sat for a bit. We couldn’t see if he had caught some poor unfortunate creature. From a distance and in the near dark he looked like a big chicken on the ground. We went outside to get a closer look, but he flew off.

It was an awesome experience. I have been out several evenings since then but I haven’t seen the owl again. I have heard some hooting, but that is all. Anyway, this all reminded me of this bit from Hiawatha’s Childhood:

When he heard the owls at midnight,

Hooting, laughing in the forest,

‘What is that?” he cried in terror,

“What is that,” he said, “Nokomis?”

And the good Nokomis answered:

“That is but the owl and owlet,

Talking in their native language,

Talking, scolding at each other.

Then the little Hiawatha

Learned of every bird its language,

Learned their names and all their secrets,

How they built their nests in Summer,

Where they hid themselves in Winter,

Talked with them whene’er he met them,

Called them “Hiawatha’s Chickens.”

–Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

5b9bac467ff172215771c32147147800--n-c-nc-wyeth.jpgThis is how my mind works.

By the way, on the way home from work yesterday I had to stop my car as a doe bounded across Warson Road. Three little fawns came crashing out of the woods following their mother one after the other.  None of them stopped to look both ways.

So much nature in such a short time!

At the door on summer evenings
Sat the little Hiawatha;
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees,
Heard the lapping of the waters,
Sounds of music, words of wonder;
‘Minne-wawa!” said the pine-trees,
Mudway-aushka!” said the water.
Saw the fire-fly, Wah-wah-taysee,
Flitting through the dusk of evening,
With the twinkle of its candle
Lighting up the brakes and bushes,
And he sang the song of children,
Sang the song Nokomis taught him:
“Wah-wah-taysee, little fire-fly,
Little, flitting, white-fire insect,
Little, dancing, white-fire creature,
Light me with your little candle,
Ere upon my bed I lay me,
Ere in sleep I close my eyelids!”

The illustration from Hiawatha’s Childhood is by N.C. Wyeth.)

“Hey, unto you a child is born!”*

by chuckofish

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But as far as I’m concerned, Mary is always going to look a lot like Imogene Herdman – sort of nervous and bewildered, but ready to clobber anyone who laid a hand on her baby. And the Wise Men are always going to be Leroy and his brothers, bearing ham. When we came out of the church that night it was cold and clear, with crunchy snow underfoot and bright, bright stars overhead. And I thought about the Angel of the Lord – Gladys, with her skinny legs and her dirty sneakers sticking out from under her robe, yelling at all of us everywhere: ‘Hey! Unto you a child is born!’

Happy Christmas Eve. We are going to the early service this afternoon which includes the Pageant. It always reminds me of the book by Barbara Robinson and takes me back to my own Christmas Pageant experiences at school. How well I remember going to the Inn to ask for a room and my friend Trudy Glick turning me away. We had a moment where we nearly burst into nervous laughter, but we didn’t.  I sang a tremulous solo to my wife Mary. The Angel of the Lord fainted…or was that a Wise Man?

Keep the faith!

*Barbara Robinson, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever; the painting is by N.C. Wyeth.

“It is a glory and a privilege to love what Death doesn’t touch.”*

by chuckofish

Today is the birthday of Newell Convers Wyeth (October 22, 1882 – October 19, 1945), the great American illustrator and artist who was the patriarch of the Wyeth dynasty of artists.

Self-portrait, 1940

Self-portrait, 1940

Let’s enjoy some of his famous (and less famous) illustrations.

N.C. Wyeth, King Edward

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NCW-canoe-artwork

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There are just so many great ones!

And here’s a place I’m adding to my bucket list: the Brandywine River Museum in Chadd’s Ford, PA. After all, it’s just a hop, skip and a jump from Maryland.

*Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch

Have a nice Wednesday

by chuckofish

andrew_wyeth_snow_1

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree

Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

(Robert Frost)

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bigroom(All paintings above by Andrew Wyeth and one bonus piece by N.C. Wyeth below)

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And make rough winter everlastingly*

by chuckofish

N.C. Wyeth, "Snow Platform"

N.C. Wyeth, “Snow Platform”

Well, we are digging out from more snow. Aargh.

So here is a poem for a snowy day. The last verse is rather famous, but perhaps you have forgotten the earlier part.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost, “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, 1923

*William Shakespeare, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona”