"Mormors lilla kråka"

...is a children's song/game played in Sweden. According to what I read, "It can be played as a Lap Rhyme or a Circle Game. It's also sung while going around the Christmas tree or Maypole. At the end, everyone crouches down."

I don't know about you, but I don't go around the Christmas tree. I know what a Maypole is but I don't think I have ever seen one in person. Everyone crouching down sounds like our "Ring Around The Rosy". The song and accompanying movements for the Lap Rhyme version that my children enjoyed were taught to me in Boca Raton, Florida, in 1969 by Swedish couple Conny and Yvonne Evborn. Conny is a man's name in Sweden; he and Yvonne were husband and wife. I met them earlier that year when IBM sent me to Stockholm for the whole month of February to learn about the IBM 1130 computer. IBM Sweden sent Conny to Boca Raton for several months and he brought Yvonne with him. In December we invited them over for dinner around Christmas and after dinner we sang "Silent Night" together, Mrs. RWP and I in English, Conny and Yvonne in Swedish. Then Conny taught us the game to play with our children. Around the time of the great Y2K brouhaha I also played it with my grandchildren. I am waiting for our great-grandchildren to get a little older so I can play it with them. Anyway, here are the words to the song they taught me:

"Mormors lilla kråka"

Mormors lilla kråka
skulle ut och åka,
men ingen hade hon som körde.

Mormors lilla kråka
skulle ut och åka,
men ingen hade hon som körde.

Än slank hon hit,
Och än slank hon dit,
Och än slank hon ner i diket.

Än slank hon hit,
Och än slank hon dit,
Och än slank hon ner i diket.

Here is an English translation:

"Grandma's Little Crow"

Grandma's little crow
Wanted to go for a ride,
But she had no one who drove.

Grandma's little crow
Wanted to go for a ride,
But she had no one who drove.

Then she slipped here,
And then she slipped there,
And then she slipped into the ditch.

Then she slipped here,
And then she slipped there,
And then she slipped into the ditch.

The Swedish language has three extra letters after z, namely å, ä, and ö. The å is pronounced oh, the ä is pronounced eh, and the ö is pronounced like the oo in book.

Furthermore, k is sometimes pronounced like sh and sometimes not, and sj is sometimes pronounced like kw and sometims not, at least it sounds that way to my ears. For example, the word körde in the song above is pronounced sherda, and the number 777 which spelled out is sju hundra sjuttio sju sounds an awful lot like kwer hoondra kwerty kwer, especially when older Swedes say it. Younger Swedes say shoo hoondra shooty shoo instead, go figure. I find esoteric details about language fascinating and I'm sure you could not possibly live one minute longer without knowing what you learned in this post.

You are most welcome!

I, Don[ald J.Trump] Quixote

Dear Reader,

Enclosed please find for your consideration and entertainment a completely unauthorized ramble through the gray matter of the 47th president of the United Stats, a peek into his psyche, a glimpse of How He Probably Sees Himself, in two parts.

A. Part 1.

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go

To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far

To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a Heavenly cause

And I know if I'll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unteachable star.


B. Part 2.

Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel
jLike a carousel that's turning running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that I find in the windmills of my mind.

Like a tunnel that I follow to a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that I find in the windmills of my mind.

Keys that jingle in my pocket, words that jangle in my head
Why did summer go so quickly, was it something that I said?
Lovers walking along a shore and leave their footprints in the sand
Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of my hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway and the fragment of a song
Half-remembered names and faces, but to whom do they belong?
When I knew that it was over I was suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning to the color of her hair!
Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never ending or beginning on an ever-spinning reel
As the images unwind, like the circles that I find
In the windmills of my mind.


[Editor's note. My apologies to (1) Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616), author of Don Quixote, (2) Mitch Leigh and Joe Darion, composer and lyricist respectively of the 1965 musical production Man of La Mancha, (3) composer Michel Legrand, French lyricist Eddie Marnay ("Les Moulins De Mon Coeur", 1968), and English lyricists Alan and Marilyn Bergman ("The Windmills Of Your Mind", 1968. For this post I have changed the perspective from second person (you, your) to first person (I, my) in an attempt to get inside the head of Donald J. Trump. I do want to point out, solely in the interest of accuracy, that the French lyrics speak of the windmilles of my heart while the English lyrics speak of the windmills of your mind, which may or may not be significant. I'm not sure I achieved what I set out to do, but it was an interesting exercise nonetheless. --RWP]

Of the people, by the people, and for the people

Today is what used to be celebrated in this country as Lincoln's Birthday because Abraham Lincoln, 16th president of the United States from 1861 to 1865, was born on this date in the Year Of Our Lord 1809 in a log cabin in Kentucky. The anniversary of his birth now receives scant attention, if any in the media and among the populace. How soon we forget. I mean come on, people, he freed the slaves.

In addition, the birthday of George Washington, first in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen, used to be observed on February 22nd. But both Lincoln and Washington have been relegated to the ash heap of history and replaced in our national conscience and calendar by something called Presidents Day that occurs on the third Monday of February so that federal employees could have yet another three-day weekend. That's not according to me, that's according to Lyndon Baines Johnson. This year the date is February 17th and all US presidents will be remembered as great citizen-patriots, every last one of them, or so we are encouraged to think.

This post is (a) deadly serious, (b) mildly iconoclastic, (c) excuciatinly accurate, (d) a pathetic attempt at humor (British, humour). Pick one.

More completely unrelated ABCs

A. The English language contains lots of words from other languages. Many of them are food words found in restaurants (quesadilla, tortilla, taco, enchilada, coq au vin, beignet, croissant, filet mignon, wienerschnitzel, ravioli, spaghetti, fettuccine, tiramisu, teriyaki, hibachi, won ton, wok, I could go on). Wines come to mind also (cabernet sauvignon, cabernet blanc, pinot noir, chardonnay, champagne, chianti, zinfandel, rosé) but many ordinary, everyday words that have nothing to do with food or drink have been absorbed into English from other languages as well. Such words are referred to as loanwords. Here are a few of them:

shampoo
khaki
hula
sombrero
karaoke
salsa
chutzpah
dinghy
banana
penguin
divan

Can you think of others?

B. On January 1, 2023 at phrasedictionary.org, writer Chris Drew wrote, "Similes are like little linguistic gems that help us vividly describe the world around us." I would delete the word "like" (thereby turning it into a metaphor) and just say that similes are little linguistic gems that help us vividly describe the world around us. At least, they can be if they are fresh. Sometimes, though, they grow stale. Sometimes they become clichés. Here are a few that come to mind:

as cool as a cucumber
as cold as ice
as hot as hell
as warm as toast
as soft as a baby's bottom
as hard as a rock
as quiet as a mouse
as high as a kite
as drunk as a skunk
as happy as a clam

I have no idea how happy a clam is or how drunk a skunk can be.

Again, can you think of others? Remember, this is a G-rated blog, by and large. Yorkshire Pudding, this means you.

C. For the last six weeks, Storyworld has been sending me one question a week as a prompt for writing pieces that will be compiled into a book at the end of one year. As you may remember, our oldest son subscribed to this project for me as a Christmas gift. That is the reason my blogposts have slowed to a crawl. I'm not going to share what I have written but I thought I would let you see the questions that Storyworld has sent to me so far:

1. What's something you've made that you feel especially proud of?
2. What was your mom like when you were a child?
3. How did you get your first job?
4. How did you meet your spouse? When did you know that you wanted to marry them?
5. What song always brings back a particular memory?
6. Where were you when you found out that JFK had been assassinated? How did it affect you?

It's going to be interesting just to see what questions I will be asked as the weeks go by. I hope they don't interfere with my blogging to any great extent.

D. February is a big birthday month in our clan of 22 souls. We have birthdays on the 4th, 6th, 9th, 18th, and 20th, and by "we" I mean (in no particular order) my son, my grandson, my great-grandson, and the wives of two grandsons. I have always been a card sender but the world is working against me, both by increasing the size of my family and by increasing the cost of a postage stamp. Seventy years ago a first-class stamp cost 3¢ but now one is 73¢.

On that happy, clamlike note I will bring this post to a close so that we can ponder the great mystery of life together.