19 December
This morning I taught Amy. We read Thumbelina. I vaguely remembered reading it as a young boy but, coming back to it as an adult, I was rather surprised at the explicitness of this old fairytale.
Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived alone in the middle of a wood. She had a beautiful garden full of flowers. She liked to work in her garden to keep her hands busy.
The woman was very lonely. “I want a child!” she said. “If only I had a child!”
At night when she was alone in her bed and her hands were not busy with the flowers in the garden, she would say:
“I want a child! I want a child!”
One day, a strange old man came to her house while she was working in the garden with her flowers. He spoke kindly to the woman.
“You look sad, my dear,” he said.
“I want a child,” said the woman. “I am lonely and I want a child!”
The strange old man smiled. “I will give you a child!” he said. “I have a magic seed. We will put this magic seed in your pot tonight and in the morning you shall have the child you want!”
So the woman put the strange old man’s magic seed in her pot that night and the next morning she found a beautiful little girl kneeling on her flower.
“Why, you are only as big as my thumb!” said the woman. “I shall call you Thumbelina.”
So she did and they all lived happily ever after.
Amy put the book down and we started revising the simple past tense. I found myself wondering what happened to the strange old man. Did he live happily ever after? I rather suspect he did, in his own fashion. After all, there must have been plenty of other gullible lonely women wanting his ‘magic’ seed.
In the afternoon, I went to Chachoengsao to attend one of the funeral rites for my grandmother. There will be seven days of monks chanting in the temple for her and then on Monday, her body will be burned and that will be that.
I went to the temple early with my parents to receive the guests. After the chanting, there would be food for everybody. My grandmother’s coffin lay in state at one end of the temple hall, surrounded by flowers, joss sticks and candles. Hundreds of plastic chairs had been provided for the guests. At the front were some rather impressive carved rosewood seats. I asked my mother who they were for.
“They are for the extinguished guests,” she told me.
This morning I taught Amy. We read Thumbelina. I vaguely remembered reading it as a young boy but, coming back to it as an adult, I was rather surprised at the explicitness of this old fairytale.
Once upon a time, there was a woman who lived alone in the middle of a wood. She had a beautiful garden full of flowers. She liked to work in her garden to keep her hands busy.
The woman was very lonely. “I want a child!” she said. “If only I had a child!”
At night when she was alone in her bed and her hands were not busy with the flowers in the garden, she would say:
“I want a child! I want a child!”
One day, a strange old man came to her house while she was working in the garden with her flowers. He spoke kindly to the woman.
“You look sad, my dear,” he said.
“I want a child,” said the woman. “I am lonely and I want a child!”
The strange old man smiled. “I will give you a child!” he said. “I have a magic seed. We will put this magic seed in your pot tonight and in the morning you shall have the child you want!”
So the woman put the strange old man’s magic seed in her pot that night and the next morning she found a beautiful little girl kneeling on her flower.
“Why, you are only as big as my thumb!” said the woman. “I shall call you Thumbelina.”
So she did and they all lived happily ever after.
Amy put the book down and we started revising the simple past tense. I found myself wondering what happened to the strange old man. Did he live happily ever after? I rather suspect he did, in his own fashion. After all, there must have been plenty of other gullible lonely women wanting his ‘magic’ seed.
In the afternoon, I went to Chachoengsao to attend one of the funeral rites for my grandmother. There will be seven days of monks chanting in the temple for her and then on Monday, her body will be burned and that will be that.
I went to the temple early with my parents to receive the guests. After the chanting, there would be food for everybody. My grandmother’s coffin lay in state at one end of the temple hall, surrounded by flowers, joss sticks and candles. Hundreds of plastic chairs had been provided for the guests. At the front were some rather impressive carved rosewood seats. I asked my mother who they were for.
“They are for the extinguished guests,” she told me.
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