07.02.11

Dearëst Zoë,

The Ballad of Edith Rose

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few. 

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you.   

I had a love of my own.

His form was fine and fair

and when he spoke of love,

he spoke of me with it to share.

Yet on the very next day,

when I held out my hand,

that man, he turned and ran away.

That man; he turned and ran.

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

Were not sung only to you.

My mother, she cried in vain.

My father cursed the day

that I should ever be born to him;

a daughter undeserving his name.

So on the very next day,

I packed everything I owned:

my comb and lyre, one silver ring

and bade farewell to home. 

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

The road was long and hard.

My belly grew round as the sun.

I begged and I stole to stay alive

and when I was lucky, I sung.

I sang every ballad I knew

and wrote a few ones myself,

warning young girls if they wanted heroes

they should learn how to save themselves.

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

Eights months passed in this way,

till I was brown as a mouse.

Finally my journey ended

at the gates of a fine house.

A singer they already had,

but no one to keep the geese

so I was allowed to stay

and wander the fields in peace.

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

The geese I led from house to field

and in the evening, back again.

During the day, I’d pat their heads

and at night, I would sing to them.

The Lady of the house, passing by

charmed by what she heard,

stopped to listen in secret

as I sang to my birds.

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

“You will sing for the house,”

she commanded to me.

And there was naught I could do

but graciously agree. 

As big as a warship,

I stood erect and sang

and through the hall,

my words rose and rang.

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

When I was at last done,

a deep silence fell over the crowd.

The Lady stood and tipped her head

and the applause was thunderously loud. 

“It is true” spoke the great queen,

“many girls fall prey to sweet words

and when they are at last ruined,

the men run off swift as curs.”

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

 “No man shall unpunished go”

spoke the kind lady once more

“for ruining girls with false words

and marking them after as whores.”

Just then, the singer did appear.

His form was fine and fair.

It was my once true love

With his golden and wavy hair.

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

 Not recognizing who I was,

with the Queen he did agree.

“Every man,” he cried, “who plays at games

must be forced to pay the fee.”

It was then that I revealed myself,

and spoke my truth and shame.

And all the court did turn to stare

at he who was to blame.

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

“Out with you” spoke the queen

and by the arms he was seized.

They dragged him from the house

and then through the gates he squeezed.

Just as he had once before,

that man began to run,

but I stayed on and sang my songs

and happily raised my son. 

Girls, you must slay your own dragons.

Heroes and knights are too few,

and the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you. 

And the fine, honeyed words of the wandering poet

were not sung only to you.  

__________________________________________________________________

You have a Great-Great-Auntie Edith.  She lived in England in a village called Heachem.  There were lavender fields and a little church with an ancient graveyard.  She collected chicken bones and bread crumbs in a little plate on the kitchen window sill to feed the birds during the winter.  She made Welsh Rarebit for me which I had spent an entire day worrying was actually "rabbit" and wondering how I could turn it down politely.  You can't imagine my relief when I got to the table and it was only a bit of cheese on toast with mustard.  I was elated not to be eating a bunny.  Auntie Edith made a bear with me.  She helped me cut out the pattern, stuff it, sew the eyes on and everything.  I distinctly remember every step.  She was very patient with me and it was comforting to work on it together in the toasty warm living room while outside was often spitting freezing rain.  I loved your G.G. Auntie Edith very much, but not as much I don't think as your Granny loved her.  Auntie Edith was like a mother to Granny.  Many of Granny's happy girlhood memories came from the love of Aunt Edith and Aunt Mill.  They were sisters who lived and worked together their entire lives.  I don't remember Aunt Mill as well as I do Auntie Edith because Aunt Mill died when I was still pretty young.  

This ballad isn't really about your G.G. Auntie Edith, but I did name it in honor of her because like the young woman of the story, she was very fiercely independent, self-reliant and brave.  Those are qualities I can already see in you.  Of course, they can make being your mothering challenging at times, but I want you to know I am proud of who you are and I think that G.G. Auntie Edith would have loved you to absolute pieces as well.  

All my love,

Mama