A Few of My Favourite Things 23 of 52

I fell behind with these posts, and am going to get caught-up this week! It wasn’t for a lack of favourite things, though. Photo taking time seems to have gotten the better of me, with these longer evenings, I’ve been out walking or in the yard gardening. However, the daylight hours are still precious, and I spend the majority of the week working hard inside an office, as soon as I get home, I make dinner and sit down with the family, then comes the bedtime routine, and then walking/exercise/gardening time, and then my own bedtime –which always seems to come far too soon. Do any of you feel that way? That the day has escaped you, that even though you’ve accomplished the majority of tasks that you desire to be completed, there’s just not quite enough time delegated to completing everything. I’m guilty of not scheduling indoor photography time, and when the light is gone, it is gone and I don’t have the equipment to make our home appear sunny and light-filled.

All of these excuses remarks, are to say that I’ve scheduled time this week to get caught-up on the indoor photography, and will be writing-up seven posts this week to get back on top of things.

Pretend it is only April 30th, and I’m totally on top of things, week 18 of 52 of My Favourite Things…

It is no surprise to most that I’m of Scottish heritage. I’ve got freckles, I look like a natural redhead, and my skin is of a ghostly-white pallor. My parents emigrated from Scotland to Canada in the 1970s, so we grew-up surrounded by quick-tongued, odd-languaged, deeply-accented folks. We’re tight with our friendships and our finances. We’re thrifty, grounded, and sarcastic. We’re not the type to be bound by beauty and lightheartedness. There’s something about being Scottish that relates well to the hardships of life (ie: our family motto is something akin to ‘suck it up princess’).

However, all this sternness and austerity is lost when it comes to poetry. I love poetry. I have always loved poetry. I will forever love poetry.

My aunt left me these two bound books of Robbie Burns poetry and song. They are early editions, not first editions – but second and third editions. They are well used. They have an earthy, musky smell. They are falling apart, and I adore them. They look like poetry often feels. The books have been loved, used, tossed-aside, worn, grey, warm, and redeemed – a little like Burns himself… scandalous old codger that he was.


As a child, one of my favourite poems was Tam O’Shanter (you’ll need the translation if your scots are not up to par). 

Even though we’re an austere and hard folk, there’s a light-hearted laughter and a deep love that lies buried deep within our bones, we know how to love and to love very deeply (while at the same time, realizing how fleeting it all is).

My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

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