Books at Packer

There will be a fund to purchase photography books at Packer Collegiate in Elizabeth's name.  Eric Baylin, her photography teacher, who was so influential in getting her to think of what it takes to make a good photograph, will help with selection.

Elizabeth loved Pippi Longstocking


It's the birthday of children's novelist Astrid Lindgren, born in Vimmerby, Sweden  (1907). She grew up on a farm in southern Sweden, playing with her brothers  and sisters and listening to her family tell stories. Eventually she got  married, had a daughter, and gave up working at age 24 in order to stay home  and take care of her kids. One day, her daughter, Karin, was sick in bed, so  Astrid started telling her stories of a spunky, strong, independent girl who  mocks adults and manages to get by just fine without a family, caution,  education, or the opposite sex. And that girl was Pippi Longstocking, with  magical powers, a pet monkey, freckles, and bright red pigtails that stuck out  on either side of her head. The book was published as Pippi Långstrump (1945) in Sweden, Pippi Longstocking in English, and it became one of the most  beloved children's books of all time. She described Pippi: "Her hair, the  color of a carrot, was braided in two tight braids that stuck straight out. Her  nose was the shape of a very small potato and was dotted all over with  freckles."
 Astrid Lindgren went on to write more than 80 books, and  died at age 94.

Nine Months

 
I have grieved for you as long as I carried you in my belly
Obviously I liked being pregnant more
this state is torture
You are just gone
vanished
I know what happened to your body
but I don’t know about your soul
I want to speak to you so much
and hear your voice
I read your notebook today
so fresh alive
you said my mom is so sad
If people are capable of change
I am changing every day
but one thing is constant
I thought I was bringing you in to the world to grow old
I thought I would get to see you middle aged
none of that
none
of
that

When you were a baby Liza and I rocked you around the house
bouncing you on my hip
singing I’m an old cow hand
from the rio grande
any old song that would cheer you
calm you down to
slumber

I sang you lullabies
Do you  remember the one
All the pretty little horses
Oh darling
I am lost  

How Dina Aunty relished her memories. Mummy and Daddy were the same, talking about their yesterdays and smiling in that sad-happy way while selecting each picture, each frame from the past, examining it lovingly before it vanished again in the mist. But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be re-created—not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.

> From A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry