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| Fritz Kreisler |
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| Image from naxos.com |
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I remember we had a handsome hand-cranked "Victrola" and a record played by
violinist Fritz Kreisler; she and her sisters had picked it out (probably about the 1920's) and It had a German name,
(wish I could remember it) and begins with the following notes or something similar. She wrote this lullaby
to it.
The Garden of Dreams
There's a beautiful garden atop of the hill,
I call it the Garden of Dreams.
And wee children sail there when sleepy time comes,
They sail there on silvery streams.
The beautiful garden lies under the mist
'Til you come where the sleepy flowers grow,
And there poppies blow in the soft rustling grass,
And breezes are rustling low.
So scent the sweet poppies my wee little one,
And drink of the silvery streams,
'Til you fall fast asleep in the soft waving grass
In the beautiful garden of dreams,
In the beautiful garden of dreams.
Ruth Amelia Little
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Once when I was home on leave from the Army my parents and I went to a movie about
King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table. As we drove home Mother remarked that she didn't like the portrayal
of Guinivere; "She seemed too worldly." It may have been about this time that she wrote her poem about Arthur's
unfaithful queen.
Song
of Guinevere
Within my narrow convent walls
In peace and prayer my days go by.
No wild, sweet laughter to me calls,
Nor yearning cry,
Nor yearning cry.
Without, the world is wide and free,
And love and life and pain are there,
And all roads lead to thee, to thee.
I cut them off with calm and prayer.
Within my narrow convent walls
In peace and prayer my days go by.
No wild, sweet laughter to me calls,
Nor longing cry.
Nor longing cry.
Today the abbess paused by me
And tilted up my face.
Said she, "What holy calm I see,
What consecrated grace."
I wonder if she would have sighed
If she had known my heart had died.
Within my narrow convent walls
In peace and prayer my days go by.
No wild, sweet laughter to me calls,
Nor yearning cry.
Your yearning cry.
Ruth Amelia Little
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Many of her poems were about watching us kids grow up. Many others were about her walk
with God.
So Much!
Lord, you have given me so much!
I cannot understand
How you have gathered precious things
And dropped them in my hand.
Goodness and love surround my life;
Friends, church and home and food.
Why have I been so richly blessed?
My days so filled with good?
The little children of the world
Who, faint with hunger, cry,
The old who fall in filthy streets,
The sick who helpless die,
Have they not earned as sweet a place
On earth as much as I?
Lord, you have given me so much,
I would a giver be.
Have you a plan where I will love
And help some child see
The beauty of a world newfound,
Already found by me?
Lord, you have given me so much,
Take back some wealth to Thee.
Ruth Amelia Little
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We tried to break our high-strung Boston, Mitzi, from chasing
cars and nipping at their spinning tires. One day she got her foot caught under one of those tires and walked on three legs
from then on.
FUN
I will not scold you, little doggie,
For chasing cars must be a lot of fun.
But lying in your bed, your wounds all bandaged,
Reflect upon the foolish things you've done.
We warned you, didn't we, my darling,
Telling you such actions lead to pain?
We punished you and in the yard we tied you,
Why did you have to chase that truck again?
Don't look at me so pleadingly, dear doggie.
You know that I will try to make you well,
And here are little visitors to see you.
Their tears drop down, their sympathy to tell.
I will not scold you, little doggie.
I, too have known with pain when day is done,
And quiet followed wild, chaotic laughter,
That foolish acts do not wind up with fun.
Ruth Amelia Little
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A critic might say "It's nice but it's an overworked theme." Yes it is, and maybe it's because
so many poets voice their regrets that time does move on so swiftly.
Late
I knew that she was lonely --
I knew that I should go
To put my arms around her
And say, "I've missed you so."
But time moves on so swiftly,
And sweeps me in its flow.
Today I went to see her,
Too late for her to know.
Ruth Amelia Little
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I wasn't present when her own mother, my Grandma Alverson, died, but my
mother's memory of it merits repeating. Her reference to her father meant Dr. Alverson, a small town doctor, who was driving
his two-horse buggy to a house call on a bitter winter night. The assumption was that his fur collar folded up
around his ears kept him from hearing the approaching train.
Eternity
The preacher talked about Eternity.
It seemed so plain for it is just around the bend.
I could not know, but I could dimly see
The beautiful beginning of what might seem the end.
Remembrance came thronging from the past.
Surprising thoughts of beauty at the last.
I saw my mother in release from pain
For just one moment radiant again.
Joyfully raising her worn hands from her bed.
"They're coming!" Smiling, welcoming she said.
"Who's coming, mother?" "Why, they all!
They all are coming." Perhaps she heard them call.
Beyond the bend in my life's flowing river
I glimpse this cleft of light. Dear ones will come!
For Christ, who knows how much I love is giver
Of love like His for my eternal home.
Why! Shall I know at last my father's kiss,
Forgotten since I was a babe of three?
And will my husband be the first, in bliss,
To turn my face the love of God to see?
They're coming, All of them. As time grows nearer
It seems each memory of past love grows dearer.
The preacher talked about Eternity,
And it was just around the bend; it seemed so clear to me,
Ruth Amelia Little
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| Mother |
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There's a special magic about Mark Little.
He's my son and that makes him special. And he's your Daddy and that certainly makes him special.
But there's a special magic about him that you won't find in all sons or all Daddies, and if I tell you something about him,
maybe we can figure out just what his magic is all about.
He was a quiet and thoughtful little boy. Not the type that would organize a softball game,
but the type that would learn his school lessons with ease.
He was thrilled when he brought home from the first grade a small book his teacher, Mrs. Shaffer,
had made for him and his classmates. It was made of two small sheets of paper stapled together to make eight pages, and she
had DITTO'D (that was an old-fashioned way of making copies) some drawings of a rabbit and a simple little story and the name
of the booklet was "The Rabbit Ran." There were only about a dozen different words in the story.
But the important thing was: Mark could read it all by himself. And he's been reading ever
since.
He was born in Deasrborn, Michigan, on July 21, 1961, and we moved to Mansfield, Ohio when
he was five. We lived in a three-bedroom house on Yorkwood Road, but later finished the basement and that's where Mark had
his bedroom.
Mark and his brothers, your Uncle Steve and Uncle Dave, all liked music. For years we bought
season tickets to the Mansfield Symphony concerts at Malabar High School, three blocks from our home.
Mark and Steve took piano lessons. Later, Mark took violin lessons and played in the orchestra
at Appleseed Junior high school and then at Malabar High school, and when he was in college eh taught himself to play the
classical guitar.
Steve quit taking piano lessons because he got bored with the simple little pieces, but later
he taught himself to play the piano, and taught himself very well.In high school he played slide trombone in the marching
band,
Dave took only a few lessons, but taught himself to play the acoustic guitar and electric guitar.
Then he got a good buy on a used keyboard and brought friends out to the house to jam with soft rock music.
All three boys went to Mansfield's Ranchwood Elementary School. It was a nice neighborhood
and a number of the boys' friends were sons of doctors.
Mark always liked poetry. In about the second grade he learned about pollution; that was in
the 'sixties when Americans were just beginning to talk a lot about the environment. His class was assigned to write about
pollution, so Mark wrotehis very first poem:
"Polution is bad. Pollution we have had.
Now we have too much, and soon we can't do
such a thing as living."
They built a new shopping mall, Richlan Mall, west of Mansfield, and it had a sunken lounge
with benches for resting. Next to the lounge was a pet store, and the boys always insisted on stopping there to look at the
pets. One day as we rested in the lounge Mark and Steve (Dave was too young) borrowed some pencils and used the blank side
of some adverising papers andbegan drawing pictures of rabbits. They told us there was a prize for the best drawing.
Then we looked at Doktor's Pet Store. It was nearly Easter, and in the window was a sign "DRAWING
FOR A FREE RABBIT."
I about the second grade Mark learned about the Americn Indians, He really got interested,
and began making Indian drums and peace pipes. I told him about flint arrowheads, and that people are still finding them today.
Later that day I found him digging a hole in the back yard. He was confident he was going to find some arrowheads,
All three of the boys went through the Cub Scouts (you had to be eight to join) and Boy Scouts
(you had to be eleven). The Cubs were organized as Pack 107 and met at Ranchwood School. For seven years, from the time Marked
jopined the cubs until Dave went up to Scouts, I was the Cubmaster, and for much of that time their mother was a Den Mother.
Cub Scouts age eight and nine were considered too young to go camping in the wilds. Bit the
rules permitted them to have sleepouts in someone's back yard, if there were parents and telephones available. I think those
eight-year-olds were too young, for when the pack had a sleepout in a Den Mother's yard some of them brought their
teddy bears as sleeping partners.
But ten-year-old Cubs were eligible to join a Webelos den to help them get ready for Boy Scouts.
They could go camping in the wilds if they had plenty of adults along. Once our Webelos Den camped out at the Boy Scout camp
- seven boys, all with their fathers. Scott Young's dad was a doctor with a family practice. Brad Banko's dad was a
pediatrician. Greg Auchard's dad was a bone specialist. Alan Lindquist's dad was a pathologist. Keith Kine's dad was a dentist.
Jeff Jolley's dad, and Mark's dad, were the only two that were not in the medical field. We joked about having plenty of medical
help in case of an accident.
When Mark joined Boy Scouts he was small for his age. That alway bothered him a lot, and having
the last name of "Little" didn't help matters, either.
Some of the older scouts were making plans to go backpacking at Philmont Scout Ranch in New
Mexico. Bruce Drushel, who had hiked Philmont the year before, was giving a talk to the troop, and told them "If you're in
good shape it will be easy, but if you're not in good shape it will be pretty tought. And if you're like Markey Little, well,
I don't think you should go to Philmont at all." There was laughter. For years Mark resented that cut-down. He made up his
mind that, when he'd hike Philmont, he'd be out in front of the whole troop.
Love,
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