The Icicle

An icicle appeared overnight outside my kitchen window recently. I admired it from my viewpoint at the sink as I swished my dishes around in warm soapy water. It was almost as long as the window – about three feet. I took a picture of the icicle, because I admired it so. Then, more intense winter precipitation added layers to the icicle. It grew, both in girth and length. I was amazed by its tenacity as it clung by icy fingernails to the snow-covered roof’s edge. My husband took a tape measure out one day and reported it was “pretty close to six feet.” Day after day, I admired Mother Nature’s work of art.

Being a writer, I thought I could use the icicle as a simile or a metaphor. The Robert Frost poem, “Fire and Ice” which I used to teach to my students in my American Literature class came to mind. If you have not read the poem, it presents the arguments of some people who believe the world will end in either fire or ice.

Read the poem here: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44263/fire-and-ice

In his poem, Frost used “ice” to depict world destruction by hate. My icicle could be analogized in that way. It began cold and small, as hate sometimes does. Then just as other people sometimes jump on the bandwagon to embrace hateful beliefs, small droplets of moisture attached themselves to the icicle, creating a cold monster. My icicle could also be a symbol of destruction. I detoured around it rather than walk underneath it on my way to the mailbox.

Then one day, temperatures rose above freezing, and drops of water dripped off of the shrinking icicle. I imagined, still using the analogy of ice equaling hate, the hate was melting away and becoming more logical and grounded there among the river rock at the edge of my house. I thought about people who become educated about an issue or become acquainted with specific individuals instead of spewing hatred towards a whole group of people. I imagined the water sinking into my lawn and beginning a grassroots effort to bring renewed life and love to next spring.

I pray that the hate in our world will melt away as well.

Mary Poppins

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In 1964, when I was nine years old, our friend and neighbor Ruth Davenport called my mother to see if I would like to go to the movies with her son Johnny. I had never been to a movie theater before, and I was super excited to be invited to see Mary Poppins. As soon as the perfectly coiffed Mary Poppins (Julie Andrews) dressed in a black coat and hat floated effortlessly on her umbrella from the sky into that darkened theater, I was drawn into a world where anything is possible if you suspend your disbelief. Mary Poppins and her chimney sweeping friend Bert (Dick Van Dyke) sang and danced their way through the streets of London and jumped through the sidewalk into pretend worlds I could not have even imagined. The Banks children, Michael and Jane, were swept along for the ride. The experience was “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”! (I learned that amazingly long made-up word and repeated it later to impress my parents.) 

Recently, when Mary Poppins Returns was advertised as “coming to theaters soon,” I knew I had to go see it. While I am not above going to the theater alone, I thought it would be much more enjoyable to take my nine-year-old granddaughter with me. I told her the story about seeing the original Mary Poppins when I was the same age as her. In the Jeep on our way there, I sang “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” and “Let’s Go Fly a Kite.” Since I am compulsively early, we were the first to arrive in the theater, so we had our choice of seats. We moved three times before finding the perfect spots - close, but not so close that we had to tilt back our heads to see the screen. Megan sat ready with her popcorn and soda on which to snack during the movie.

We sat impatiently through the commercials and previews before the actual movie came on. I think I was more excited than she was when Mary Poppins (Emily Blunt), clad in a bright blue coat and red hat and gloves, floated down through the clouds to land in front of the home of Michael Banks, now all grown up, in his time of need. I sat there by Megan and could not stop smiling, except for the touching scenes through which Megan and I both sniffled a little. One time was during the song "The Place Where Lost Things Go." More of my favorite songs from this movie were "A Cover Is Not the Book" and "Nowhere to Go But Up".

     After it was over, I said, "I hope they don't wait 54 years to make another one!"
     Megan replied, "Yes, because I will be old then!" She didn't think about the fact that in 54 years she will be my age...or maybe she did. After all, she is honest, like me.  It was a
“supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” day!