WHERE THE WILD THINGS ARE--save your money and don't send your kids

My copy of Wild Things--a bit shabby but still with its Caldecott Medal intact

I really wanted to like the new movie Where the Wild Things Are, based on the book by Maurice Sendak. But once again Hollywood has ruined a children’s classic. DH and I went to see it last night and came home disappointed.

The wonderful monsters and the little boy are faithfully reproduced on the big screen. The young man who plays Max is cute and real. The story is followed as it was written. But all the fillers really left a bad taste in my mouth. Max is dealing with normal frustrations at home that come with a single mother and a big sister. He acts up, gets in trouble and ends up in the boat.

But The Wild Things are even more dysfunctional than Max’s people. They loom and argue. They whine and hate and destroy. They ostracize and sulk. No escape for Max here. Nothing funny. Nothing exciting. At one point Max divides them into gangs and leads his group into pelting the smallest Wild Thing with dirt clods until he is injured.

The kids in the theater with us looked confused. We all expected a fun adventure not bad group therapy. At least Max realized his mom was valuable. He told The Wild Things he wished they had a mom, said goodbye and left for home in his boat where he found his supper waiting for him and it was still hot.

Weekword-BROWSE

Browse verb: 1. to feed on or graze 2. to crop and eat in the field

I grew up on a dairy farm. Twice a day, every day, through every season, we milked large black and white Holstein cows. Holsteins are a breed that originated in Northern Holland and are known as the highest producing dairy animals.

Our big ladies provided a steady income for our family. Earnings from the milk helped to feed us, pay our bills and put four kids through college. Each cow had a name and a personality. Mom was in charge of the barn while Dad worked hard in the fields of hay and grain. Kid chores included helping with the milking, cleaning the barn, preparing for milking and feeding the animals. The smell of manure reminds me of home in a good way.

For more Weekword posts visit Frayed At the Edge.

METASTASIS

"Metastasis" by Eileen Black

If love is life

And joy is a dancer,

Then disease is pain

And hell is cancer.

Dedicated to those who know.

THE THIRD SEASON

When dawns are long and cool and gray

And birds no longer wake the day

The angle of the sun moves low

And no one dares to mention snow;

I brush the soft dust from my toes

And hide them down inside my shoes.

When noonday sunlight on my skin

Changes from a thick to thin

When youngsters hurry off to school

And cotton gives away to wool;

I have some time for thoughtfulness.

It's autumn that I like the best.

As stated in the sidebar: the photo and the poetry are my work.