Onsdagsord ~ 22. marts ~ Words for Wednesday

Denne gang er den danske version længere nede på siden.

-- 🐸 -- 🐸 -- Yesterday was International Frog Day -- 🐸 -- 🐸 --

In March, the Wednesday's Words are on River's blog. They were chosen by Susan Kane, but her family is having medical issues. Ergo, if you want to play along, hop over to River's blog.

For today we had these words:

1. mine
2. child
3.foundation
4. careful
5. bird
6. dig
     and/or:
1. hate
2. sadness
3. lemon
4. attach
5. breakfast
6. time

Thank you Susan Kane for good Words, and to River for posting them. I continue last week's story of Susan and the frogs.

"Yes they are mine," Susan said.

Thora looked sternly at her. "My child, those are ordinary frog eggs, aren't they?"

"Commonplace, green frog eggs, yes." Susan replied. "They are the foundation of a new frog tribe in the swamps. So please be careful when touching their terrarium."

Susan's visit to the minister had been quite the disaster. He was nice enough, and served tea and scones, but no way was he going to give up fertilizing his roses. He used to win the prize at the annual flower show with them. And on the way home a bird, a big one, had hit her from above. She had had to dig out bird poop from between the strands of her best straw hat.

Some days later she had visited the frogs, and what she saw made her hate the minister even more. All the frogs were dead or dying from the strange fertilizer in the water. A sadness stole over her, but then she found a strand of unharmed frog eggs and had an idea. She brought the eggs with her to The Unicorn Farm where she put into a lemon coloured terrarium. She had the idea of teaching the tadpoles and later young frogs, that a yellow smell did not mean something bad.

"Well," Thora said, "you are nothing if not resourceful, that small amount of fertilizer should not kill off the frogs. It sure must be something they have learned. Just take care not to become attached to those tiny jumpers."

"I won't!" Susan said. Their brains are so strange, I keep describing tastes with words meant for colours or sounds when I have been teaching them. It's quite confusing when I describe my favourite breakfast cereal as that waltzing, purplish one. This is a one time exercise. But I hope the tadpoles will give on their knowledge to coming generations,"

-- 🐸 -- 🐸 -- I går var det den Internationale frø-dag -- 🐸 -- 🐸 --

På dansk
Lige som sidste uge er det Susan Kane der har givet os ordene og ligeledes er de at finde på Rivers blog. Vi har fået de her ord:

1. mine
2. barn
3.fundament/grundlag
4. forsigtig
5. fugl
6. grave
      og/eller:
1. hade
2. sorg /tristhed
3. citron
4. knytte
5. morgenmad
6. tid / gang

      "Ja, de er mine," sagde Susan.
      Thora kiggede alvorligt på hende. "Mit barn, det er helt almindelige frøæg, ikke sandt?"
      "Ja, det er æg fra grønne frøer, helt almindelige," svarede Susan. "De skal forhåbentlig danne grundlag for en ny frø-stamme ude i sumpen. Så vær forsigtig, når du rører ved deres terrarie."

Susans besøg hos præsten havde været noget af en katastrofe. Han var flink nok og serverede te og scones, men han ville på ingen måde opgive at gøde sine roser. Han plejede at vinde præmier ved det årlige blomsterudstilling med dem. Og på vejen hjem havde en stor fugl ramt hende med en ordentlig klat. Hun havde måttet grave fuglelort ud af fletværket i sin bedste stråhat.

Nogle dage senere havde hun besøgt frøerne igen, og det, hun så, fik hende til at hade præsten endnu mere. Alle frøerne var døde eller døende af gødningen i vandet. En tristhed stjal sig ind over hende, men så fandt hun en hob uskadte frøæg og fik en idé. Hun tog æggene med sig til Enhjørningegården, hvor hun satte dem i et citrongult terrarie. Hun fik en idé om at lære haletudserne og senere de unge frøer, at en gul lugt ikke var ensbetydende med noget dårligt.
     "Jamen," sagde Thora, "det er da smart! Den lille mængde gødning burde ikke slå frøerne ihjel. Det må helt sikkert være noget, de har lært. Bare pas på, at du ikke bliver knyttet til de små springfyre."
    "Bare rolig, det er der ikke nogen fare for!" sagde Susan. Deres hjerner er så sære, og det smitter. Jeg bliver ved med at beskrive smag med ord, der normalt beskriver farver eller lyde, når jeg har undervist dem. Det er ret forvirrende, når jeg til morgenmaden beskriver min yndlingsmüsli som den der lilla i valsetakt. Det er absolut en engangsfornøjelse. Men jeg håber, at haletudserne vil give deres viden videre til de kommende generationer."

Regn ~ Rain

     EC skriver i en kommentar, at hun godt kan lide regn ... det kan jeg også, dog helst om natten og i modreate mængder. Ikke når det bare drypper hele tiden og hver eneste dag. Så når vejrmeldingen ser sådan her ud bliver jeg lidt negativ.
     Der er så meget, jeg gerne vil i haven. Domen skal bygges færdig, vedbenden skal tæmmes, der skal luges, og graves, og flyttes, og repareres, og, og, og!

EC says in a comment that she loves rain. So do I, in moderation. Rain is fine even necessary - now and then. But when the weather yesterday, today and in the near future looks like this piece of drip-drip-drip, I get a bit depressed.

I have loads of things to do in my garden. I have a dome to build, an ivy to tame, beds to weed, flowers to plant, I have to dig, rake, carry, mend, ...

Source/kilde:
Data DMI -- Graphics BedreVejr

Jævndøgn :: Poetry Monday ~ No Poetry so far :: Spring Equinox

NOW rigth this minute spring starts. It's Spring Equinox. It's raining, and I'm busy editing a magazine. And Buzzards ... I got them mixed up with vultures, and have been thinking of the Undertaker from Lucky Luke and his black hearse all day - not conductive for a nice and relaxing day.
For this reason no poems about either buzzards, vultures, owls or indeed any other feathered creature have formed inside my head.

-- 🦅 -- ⏰ -- 🦉 --

     NU, lige i dette øjeblik begynder foråret. Det er forårsjævndøgn. Det regner, og jeg har travlt med at redigere et blad. Og musvåger, som er dagens tema, fik jeg forvekslet med gribbe, så jeg har tænkt på bedemanden fra Lucky Luke og hans sorte ligvogn hele dagen - det er ikke ligefrem befordrende for en god og afslappende dag.
     Derfor kommer der ikke noget digt om hverken gribbe, musvåger, ugle elle nogen andre fugle i dag.


 - - - - -

Next Monday Celebrating Earth Day is our theme.

Søndagsbillede - Laksefarvet ~~ Sunday Selection - Salmon Range

     Det er pludselig gået op for mig, at der ikke står Salmon Pink, men Salmon Range på månedens farve. Det vil sige alle laksefarvede nuancer er OK.
     I dag, mens vi ventede på bussen, fandt jeg denne stakkels efeu, der var blevet sprøjtemalet, men lystigt groede videre. Bladenes bagsider er en eller anden laksefarvet - ikke sandt 😉

Yesterday I noticed that my Colour of the month is Salmon RANGE, not Salmon Pink. Hence all remotely salmon coloured things are OK.

Today, while waiting for the bus, I saw this ivy, painted by graffiti painters, but still growing. And the backside of the leaves are within the salmon range

Der er for øvrigt en fejl i farvekoden her jeg har skrevet forkert - RGB koden skal være 229-081-055.

There's a typo in the colour code. My fault. The RGB code is 229-081-055.

Onsdagsord ~ 15. marts ~ Words for Wednesday

In March, the Wednesday topics are on River's blog. They were chosen by Susan Kane, but her family is having medical issues. Ergo, if you want to play along, hop over to River's blog.

For today we had these words:

Field
Frog
Smell
Check
Visit
Gate
     and/or:
Abandon
Immune
Temple
Hand
Minister
Habit

But first, the words and a story in Danish - for English, scroll down.

- - - - - 🐸 - - - - -

     I marts er onsdagsodene leveret af Susan Kane, men da hendes familie har helbredsmæssige problemer, er ordene at finde på River's blog.
     Til i dag har vi fået de her 12 ord:

Mark
Frø
Lugt
Bremse
Besøg
Barriere/spærring/låge
     og/eller:
Opgive
Immun
Tinding
Hånd
Præst
Vane

Jeg har skrevet endnu et lille afsnit af min uendelige historie om Susan på Enhjørningegården. Kronologisk er det et stykke ind i første år, efter at Susan har lært at lytte til andre dyr, end den mus, vi hørte om her.
     Det lader til at bare det, at jeg besluttede ikke at skulle deltage i alle de her udfordringer, har fået ordene til at strømme igen :D

Susan sad midt på marken. I dammen kvækkede en frø så Susan troede dens stakkels hjerte var ved at briste.
     "Hvad er der i vejen, lille frø-mand?" spurgte Susan. Hun forventede ikke noget svar, men pludselig kom lugten af svovl forbi, og hun måtte bremse en impuls til at rejse sig op og løbe sin vej. Hun spurgte frøen, denne gang lidt mere bevidst. "Frø-mand, hvad er der sket?"
     Frøen kvækkede igen, højlydt. I Susans hjerne dukkede et billede op. Frø-manden, der ønskede at besøge sin frø-kone, nu det var blevet forår. Men der var noget i vejen, en eller anden spærring.
     "En barriere?" udbrød Susan. "Kan du ikke bare krybe under den? Du er jo lille."
     Igen kvækkede frøen, igen så eller forstod Susan halvt hvad frøen mente. Det var ikke en barbarisere eller en afspærring, ikke en låge eller sådan noget, men et eller andet, der forhindrede hr. frø i at vende tilbage til sin dam og til fru frø.
     Med manglende tanke for følgerne lagde Susan sig fladt ned på jorden og stak hovedet helt hen til frøen og åbnede sit sind for hr. frø. Nogle ikke så rare episoder med dyr, der ikke var pattedyr havde vist hende, at hun ikke var helt immun over for deres mærkelige sind, men frøen lød så desperat. Hun så ham tage en dyb indånding, hans kvækkeposer svulmede, og en lille åre i hans tinding pulserede i takt med hans hjerteslag. Han udstødte et kæmpe-kvæk, hvilket fik Susan til at slå hænderne for ørerne, men samtidig "så" hun frøens problem. En bæk, der gik gennem sumpen, lidt fra Enhjørningegården, var blevet fyldt af noget, der lugtede svovlgult og skarpt - synæstesi var et af problemerne ved at have med padder at gøre.
     Susan lukkede sine øjne og sine tanker for frøen, og tænkte sig om. Der var en svovlfarvet lugt i vandet, som forhindrede frøen i at komme på besøg hos sin frø-kone - hun så stadig den lysende, iriserende boble, der var knyttet til dette begreb, og hørte de jublende triller. Hvad kunne den svovlgule lugt mon være ... 
     Hun rejste sig op, stadig usikker på benene efter den tætte kontakt med frøen. Hun vidste præcis hvor problemet var, nu skulle hun bare se om hun kunne finde ud af hvad det var.
     "Jeg kommer tilbage, frø-mand," lovede hun.
     Frøens lave, rumlende kvækken var et løfte om at blive.
     Gåturen og den friske luft klarede Susans hjerne og gjorde hendes ben mindre geléagtige. Snart stod hun ved den lille bæk. Hun kiggede på vandet, der så helt ud som det plejede, intet unormalt der, så vidt hun kunne se. Så lagde hun sig på knæ og rørte ved det kølige, klare vand. Det føltes også normalt, men hun vidste, at det var det ikke - i hvert fald ikke for en frø. Hun formede sine hænder til en skål og smagte, puha, det var ulækkert. Skarpt, bittert og med en gul smag - noget af frøen var stadig i hendes sind. Hvordan kunne det være? Susan fulgte den lille bæk mod strømmen. Kornmarker, skove og langt væk nogle sommerhuse. Selvfølgelig!  
     Nu vidste hun det! Hun vidste, at præsten boede i et stort hus lige bag sommerhusene ved udspringet af den lille bæk, og han havde for vane at gøde sine roser, lige inden det blev regnvejr. Det havde han sikkert også gjort i forgårs, og nu generede gødningen frøen.
     Hun kunne forestille sig to løsninger. Enten kunne hun bære frøen over det forurenede vand, eller også kunne hun neutralisere gødningen. Den første løsning er den nemmeste lige nu, tænkte Susan, mens hun vendte sig om og fortsatte i retning af frøen. Men jeg skal finde et antistof mod gødningen. I morgen vil jeg besøge præsten.

- - - - - 🐸 - - - - -

Back to Susan at Unicorn Farm. Somewhere in the first year, when Susan has been taught how to listen to more than the mouse we heard of here.
It seems that telling myself that I was free to join these challenges or not has made my brain work anew - the sunshine outside is not hampering me either.

Susan sat in the middle of the field. In the pond a frog was croaking his poor heart out.
"What's the matter, little Frog-man?" Susan asked. She did not expect an answer, but suddenly the smell of sulphur wafted by, and she had to check an impulse to get up and run. She asked the frog this time a bit more deliberate. "Frog-man, What happened."
The frog croaked again, loudly. In Susan's brain a picture surfaces. The frog-man wanting to visit mama frog now spring had come. But the road was barred, by something, looking like a gate.
"A gate?" Susan said, "could you not just go under it? You're small."
Again croaks, again Susan saw or understood in some way what the frog meant. It was not a gate, not a real one anyway, but some kind of thing preventing mister frog from returning to his pond and to mama frog. With total abandon Susan stretched on the ground, putting her head close to the frog and opened her mind for mister frog. Some not so nice episodes with non-mammals had shown her that she was totally not immune to the lure of their strange minds, but the frog sounded so desperate. She saw him draw a deep breath, his vocal sacs inflated and a small vein started jumping in his temple. He send out the grandfather of all croaks, making Susan clap her hands to her ears, but simultaneously she "saw" the frogs' problem. A stream crossing the marshes off the Unicorn farm had been polluted by something having a sulphur coloured smell - synaesthesia was one of the problems communicating with amphibians.

Susan closed her eyes and mind to the frog, thinking. A sulphur coloured smell was in the water, preventing the frogs from visiting - she still saw the luminous, iridescent bubble attached to that concept and heard the jubilant trills. What could that strange smell be ...  
She rose, still wobbly after the violent communications from the frog, she knew exactly where the problem was, now to see if she could discover what it was.
"I'll be back, frog-man," she promised.
"The frog's low, rumbling croak was a promise that he would stay.
The movements and fresh air cleared Susan's brain, and made her legs less wobbly. Soon she stood at the small stream in question. She looked at the water, nothing could be seen. She kneeled down and touched the cool, clear water, it felt normal as well, but she knew that it was not - at least to a frog. She cupped her hands and tasted, phew! it was nasty. Sharp, bitter and yellow-tasting - some of the frog was still in her mind. How come? Susan followed the tiny brook against the flow. Fields of grain, woods and far away some summerhouses. Of course!   
Susan knew. She knew that the minister lived in a big house upstreams of the small swamp where the frogs lived, had a habit of fertilizing his garden just before the rain came down. She was sure he had done so the day before yesterday, and now the fertilizer bothered mister frog.
She saw two solutions. Either carry the frog over the polluted waters, or neutralize the fertilizer. The first might just be the easiest right now, Susan thought, turning around and continuing direction frog. But I am going to find an anti-potion to that fertilizer. Tomorrow I will visit the minister.