Skip to main content

Pine Needles

 


Oh oh oh, Pine needles in my socks

Oh oh oh, It’s like walking, walking on rocks

Oh oh oh, Pine needles sting my toes 

Oh oh oh, Pine needles getting up my nose!

 

Chorus:

Ooh! Pine needles everywhere, do doot do doo

Pine needles in my hair, do doot do doo

Pine needles here and there, do doot do doo

Pine needles in my underwear!

 

Oh oh oh, Pine needles sting me like a bee

Oh oh oh, Yet they make me hap-hap-happy  

Oh oh oh, Pine needles from the Christmas tree

Oh oh oh, Remind me of family!

 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

patience

  I’ve been ruminating, as these days dwindle, on the concept of patience. I’ve always thought of myself as virtuously calm when hours need wasting waiting in airports, for car service or medical appointments. I look down at fidgeters, galumphing men who pace small spaces, and women who sigh and then sigh again, louder. With a book, I can sit happily for hours anywhere. I’ve even been known to pull out the laptop and noodle on my own novel in planes, trains and laundromats. But the kind of patience I seek is more than sitting quietly and judging others (not a virtue, I know.) Patience can also be an INTENTION (my word of 2024) and YES ( my word of 2023).  Patience is faith that putting one’s intentions out there into the universe will, eventually, be recognized if not rewarded. Patience is my word for 2025.

In the Manger with Jesus

  Young children have a hard time understanding complex ideas and things they can’t see. This is why they say the darndest things as adults struggle to explain concepts like God, death, and the small microbes that live on their grubby little fingers which they should wash before supper. My nephew, we’ll call him Sebastien, was four years old when my father passed away. Dad had Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, and while he had trouble breathing and didn't have much energy, he always had time to read a story or share some red grapes with Sebastien. There were lots of naps in the big easy chair with Grampa. When Dad got sicker, the chair was moved out of the front room to make way for a hospital bed. Dad died on December 24, 2009, as my brother and I held his hands and my mother stroked his face.   At Sebastien’s house, his mother struggled to explain what had happened. Why there would be no more naps, stories or grapes with Grampa. “His get-better-bed didn’t work,” s...

Nick in Time

My mother didn’t teach me to shave;  she actively tried to stop me. She argued that I was too young, unconvinced by my pleas that all the other girls were doing it; unconvinced by the 34 Double C bras she had to order from the Sears catalogue. I didn't want boobs at aged 10. I didn't know what to do with them. I didn't want hairy legs at age 13, either.  I had a mind of my own and my body, alas, did too, regardless of Mom's "too young" argument.  By grade eight, all the other girls – or at least one of them – suggested I see to my legs and underarms before we donned bathing suits for the upcoming co-ed class swimming lesson, which was a big deal. We were to be bussed from our small rural school to a sports complex in Kitchener, big deal.  I would see Robert Woods in his bathing suit and he in mine, big deal! Without telling Mom, I simply borrowed the gummy turquoise Lady Shick that she kept in a bathroom drawer alongside a congealing jar of Noxema and a disi...