Brown paper packages tied up in strings...

When I was a little girl, my mother and I were in the habit of going for walks. There was something poetic about these walks, partly because we talked a great deal about the natural world set out all around us: what we could see and what lay buried beneath the cold winter's snow. But also, as we walked through the sometimes terrifically cold and windy evenings--I recall our winter walks the best--we spoke silly rhymes and recited poetry, even if it were only a few lines from each poem we wanted to talk about.

In moments like these I suspect my mother was a lover of words and, had she been born later, may have had opportunity to develop her fascination, but for then we roamed the streets and fields, calling out the name of the first thing we set our eyes on after we opened them, then trying to come up with words to rhyme. Sometimes these would be phrases, nonsense ones even, or sentences that we took turns stringing together, spinning a yarn in verse.

On one particular evening we were probably about 15 minutes from home when we decided to go back. It was especially cold and the wind had picked up. She told me of a time when all the snow from the park we were just then passing had blown in a drift to the line of houses across the street from the front most area of the park, completely closing off the entrances. That memory of hers seemed to make the cold colder, the wind nippier, my desire to hold my coat closer to me, stronger. We took out a package of soft chocolates and, as was our wont, passed to each other one. They were medicinal, created for our long and arduous outings, made to gives us strength against the arctic chill. And we sang words to give us the strength to make it back to camp.

It was cold
And bold
The night not yet old
In the fold
'til untold
were my rolds
to help me hold
from the cold...

She seemed satisfied when I laughed my childlike laugh and acknowledged the "not-quite" rhyme in there. I'd always assumed she knew the words that were meant to be represented, but I also know now what she was looking for. She understood something about the connection between the way we use words, what we know about them and our cognitive abilities later. As a talented nurse she was an authority on health, but unschooled in language arts. Later I wondered what she'd learned in nursing school about brain development and how much of it she carried with her. She read a lot of journals, but generally to do with psychiatry, and was a fan of Edgar Allen Poe, so all things considered, she did have a pretty strong lay base. But I believe she also had an instinct.

Years later, having read that walking during pregnancy helps speed up delivery, I now have wound up with a child of my own who loves words and walking as much as my mother and I both did. In fact, he recognized the alliteration of that very word pair when he declared his love for the two. I explained to him what it is called and he tipped his head, as if trying to remember, then gave it a single shake as if to dismiss the effort, for he could not. At least not from this time. We went on to discuss stories from our respective childhoods.

"When you were a baby, I used to sing silly songs to you, made up as I went along but to the tune of other songs."

"What are they?"

"You remember one of them--it has lasted all this time." Together we sang.

I love the way that my baby boy smiles
For him I'd walk over one hundred miles.
I could go out in the fields and then bring
all of the sunshine right back in for him.

When the dog bites
When the bee stings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
and then I don't feel so bad.