How Many Know This Poem?

I never heard of the poet John Greenleaf Whittier until 1990, the year after I began homeschooling my oldest son Christopher.

I had ordered some books from Abeka, and the chapters in the third grade history book were all biographies. One of those biographies was about John Greenleaf Whittier and, according to the author, his most famous poem, "Snow-bound." Do check it out; I linked to a version with the most delightful illustrations.

It took many more years before I actually ever read this very long poem. Child number five was in high school, and I found the poem online. It's really long, so we didn't read it one sitting. 

Here's my point in sharing this story.

People often enjoy the sameness of holidays and the traditions that get passed down in families; we look forward to revisiting them every year, and they give stability to our lives. So it's natural to feel their loss this year, when we've already experiences so many crushing losses.

But nothing ever stays the same, and even traditions evolve. Everyone is a little older, and we have new family members: spouses, in-laws, babies. Maybe Grandma isn't here this year, or maybe Grandpa isn't all the way there.

Yet just because we can't have Thanksgiving the way we want it, doesn't mean we don't have plenty of reasons to celebrate - or that we can't sidestep the rut of some-old thinking by thinking in a new and fresh way - like reading a poem you've never read, written by someone who once shared our world, and gave thanks, and enjoyed pumpkin pie (although mostly like none as good as Aunt Bess made it), and has only his words left to show he was here.

I first read this poem when I wrote the third installment of "Before The Blood." The town's mayor (after a wee too much to drink) decides to recite it for everyone at a harvest party (to the groans of those within hearing).

In fact, I'll let him introduce it. But first...

May today be blessed and beautiful for everyone reading this blog, and may you ever find reasons to rejoice and thanks.

Mayor Pike, left hand wound conspicuously in linen, jumped up. "Now, Owen, where's the culture? Where's the art?"

With a friendly leer, Mr. Munson staggered aside and swept Mayor Pike into the foreground. "Let's hear it, fancy pants."

Swaying from side to side, although he did his best to conceal it, Mayor Pike managed to get to center stage.

"A little John Greenleaf Whittier, if you please. I shall now recite, 'The Pumpkin.'"

Mr. Munson moaned, clutched his heart, and slumped. "Janet, how the hell do you suffer him?"

"He makes up for it." Mrs. Pike smiled a mysterious smile, and her eyes danced.

One hand on his chest and bandaged hand to the sky, Mayor Pike assumed an exaggerated orator position and began:

"The Pumpkin" by John Greenleaf Whittier

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,

And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,

With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,

While he waited to know that his warning was true,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,

And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,

When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board

The old broken links of affection restored,

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

 

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,

Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!

Below is the pumpkin pie Rebekah baked yesterday using a new technique.