Florence & Rose: The Crepe Paper Train

Copyright 12th February 2015 Elizabeth Paterson

Florence and Rose were both very fine rabbits;

They kept their ears brushed and had very fine habits,

And every so often they would bound down the lane

To jump up on board the pink crepe paper train.

The train started rolling with billowing steam

And Florence then served up some strawberries and cream.

They sat down beside a bright, clear window pane

And admired the views from the crepe paper train.

Rose hopped in excitement and Florence giggled with glee.

They ate lemonade scones and drank raspberry tea.

And they waved at the horse with the caramel mane

And leaned out the window of the crepe paper train.

Florence wore a sunflower hat on her head;                       

She'd tried to hold onto it, but it blew off instead.

It flew over the meadow and far through the plain

And then far from sight of the crepe paper train.

Rose saw a pot on the sill filled with Clover;

She would fashion a garland and hopped quickly over

To cover dear Florence's head with the chain

And rally her friend's spirits on the crepe paper train.

The train took them home to the dandelion hill

With the great willow tree and the old flour mill.

Florence and Rose, in the cool falling rain,

Waved farewell to the crepe paper train.

Milo's Library

Copyright 23rd February 2015 Elizabeth Paterson

Milo was a mouse who lived in a great library.

A library wasn’t usually a place for a mouse to feel welcome, but in return for his promise not to chew on any books, Ms Watkins, the Librarian, had given Milo cheese and a cozy shoe box to sleep in.

Milo also served as Ms Watkins’ reader.

Ms Watkins was an elderly woman who was now half blind; it had been years since spectacles had given her any benefit.

Milo enjoyed reading to Ms Watkins and the library provided so many books to choose from.

He loved them all.

His whiskers would twitch with delight as he read the lively rhymes of Dr Seuss, his paws would float jovially in the air as he pretended to be pulling on the strings of the puppet Pinocchio, and his nose would rise up in the air as he would imagine smelling the roses in the Secret Garden.

But his favourites were the Tales of Beatrix Potter. As a mouse he found a common ground with books that told of rabbits in jackets, ducks in bonnets, and yes, a mouse in a dress and apron!

He knew the smell of those pages as precious and individually unique to the other books in the library.

But today the beautiful collection of complete tales was missing. At least, it was not in the place on the shelf where it should be and he didn’t think it had been borrowed; on those days he would content himself with “The Wind In The Willows”.

To ask Ms Watkins if she’d seen the beloved book would be a waste of time. Her poor eyesight was worse some days more than others, and as Milo now watched her pouring her tea into the biscuit jar, it seemed to be a bad day.

If only he could prick up his round ears and hear Mr McGregor shouting “Stop thief!” through the pages.

He knew it so well he could almost taste the lettuces, and smell the radishes.

Smell! That’s it!

Milo knew the smell of that book like a blue cheese. He lifted his nose to the air, not to smell the roses in the hidden garden of Misselthwaite Manor, but to catch the scent of those pages.

It was there. The scent was caught amidst the dusty air of the library.

He scampered quickly across the great carpet and followed the scent as though a string was pulling on the end of his nose, passed the Wizard of Oz, to the large round pillow on the floor next to the children’s books.

A young girl was curled up with the book, and when she saw Milo, she gently patted the spot beside her, inviting the little mouse to join her.

He bounded up to her side, and with great anticipation he watched her turn the first page.

“Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were –“

Flexing Muscles

Someone wrote a few tips on a creative writing website I read recently. They talked about treating your writing like a muscle. USE IT DAILY, they said. Write a letter, an email, jot down a short poem, scribble a note to a friend, or if you really have the motivation, tackle a chapter of that great novel you've been dreaming about. Whatever the medium, flex your writing muscles and strengthen them with daily use.
Well, the idea of daily seems out of reach given the fact that I'm a stay at home Mum to two gorgeous children and other commitments, but perhaps I can ascribe to the 20 mins a day 3 times a week strategy they used to encourage for physical fitness.

So far I have been writing mainly children's stories. After reading so many books to my two year old son, who I will call Ewan for privacy, I started to become a little frustrated with what I was reading. I was even more disturbed about things that I have been seeing on the ABC 4 Kids television shows. I feel as though whoever produced 'Yo Gabba Gabba' must have been taking illicit drugs; the psychedelic themes make my head hurt. Then there is the absence of educational value in ridiculous shows such as 'In the Night Garden'; "Oh look, we're going to ride the Ninky Nonk", (next day) "Oh look, it's the Ninky Nonk", (next day) "Oh look, Iggle Piggle is on the Ninky Nonk". Can you hear the beat of my head thudding repeatedly on the table?
Alas, they fall very short of the expectations I had when I entered Motherhood, and perhaps that's more where the problem truly lies - my expectations.
Of course I don't remember what my interest in books was like when I was two, or if my mother let me watch much tv except for Play School (or if there was much else other than Play School for toddlers to watch in 1989). But as I grew a little older my mother would read to us books such as the Chronicles of Narnia, The Secret Garden, and Beatrix Potter's tales.
I've realized that these books are really beyond the interest of a two year old. Beatrix Potter will be the closest bridge in the gap between simplistic writing and pictures that aim to get a child to develop a love of books as they grow, as Beatrix Potter combines a more sophisticated vocabulary, more engaging themes, and has the benefit of drawing further attention with beautiful illustrations.
This is how I wanted my writing to be when I decided to write something for Ewan to read and enjoy someday. I loved the idea of having beautiful illustrations with words themselves that induced vivid imagery in the readers imagination; perhaps vivid enough that the pictures would be made a little redundant. To foster the imagination. To encourage the idea of constructing things in your own mind without being spoon fed what everything is supposedly meant to look like. After all, if our children can't learn to challenge what's given to them then we are essentially deviating towards a totalitarian society. Dramatic, perhaps, to suggest such a degradation of life as we know it, but it is something to ponder. Where exactly was it that changes in our society happened? There is not always a clear big event that changes in history have pivoted around but something more invisible; in the daily little things where we decide to make change.
Can we keep creativity alive? Can we nurture curiosity that leads to invention and innovation?
Just spare me another riveting adventure of the Ninky Nonk because I already know that Iggle Piggle will be the last one to get to bed.

Whoa what a workout... muscles flexed...must be time for chocolate :)