• Posted on April 16, 2015
Hurry Hurry Mary Dear cover3

Hurry, Hurry, Mary Dear

Years ago, I used to work in an independent bookstore. Of the many customers who came my way, most have faded into the past. Sandy Muldrew is one of the memorable few. Not only have we remained friends, he shared, and continues to share, my passion for beautifully illustrated picture books. Although our (superb) tastes frequently overlap, our collections diverge, and so I thought – why not spread the passion around and invite him to write about one of his favourites? I am pleased to say, it worked! And so, I will turn this blog over to Sandy for the first, (and hopefully not the last), guest post:

When Donna asked me to write a guest blog for 32 Pages, I wasn’t sure if I had a worthy book that she had not yet touched upon. Recently, I have been relying solely on her excellent recommendations to add to my collection of illustrated treasures (and subtract from my bank account). But then I remembered a perfect candidate – it’s one of my seasonal favourites – Hurry, Hurry, Mary Dear. While not exactly a children’s book, it is more of a charming poem illustrated with mirthful joy, written and illustrated by N.M. Bodecker in 1975 and then re-illustrated as a tribute by Erik Blegvad in 1997. They were two Danish expats and lifelong friends who shared an art studio in Connecticut. And this is where the poem itself takes place – on a farmhouse in New England – which is appropriate because the heroine of the piece embodies the pioneering spirit of Plymouth Rock. In fact, despite being thin as a rail, she is able to accomplish more in one day than the rest of us could hope to achieve in one year.

Hurry Hurry Mary Dear dill the pickles

The poem begins innocently enough with Mary’s layabout husband issuing the first of his many edicts: “Hurry, hurry, Mary dear, fall is over, winter’s here,” he yawns from the comfort of his warm bed. “Not a moment to be lost, in a minute we get frost! In an hour we get snow! Drifts like houses! Ten below!” At this, from dawn’s early light to dusk and night, we witness Mary’s super-human endurance as she completes one impossible task after another. All the while, she shows the patience of a saint as she is put through the paces by the constant commandments issued by her unseen spouse (supposedly from somewhere deep within the warm house – far, far away from draughts). “Pick the apples, dill the pickles, chop down trees for wooden nickels. Dig the turnips, split the peas, cook molasses, curdle cheese.” As the harvesting becomes increasingly ridiculous (cook molasses??), it is all offset by the wonderfully humourous illustrations of the scrawny Mary with her sharp nose, tiny feet, and ever-present apron and black stockings. She wields her axes and shovels like Hercules taking on the Hydra and Cerberus.

Hurry Hurry Mary Dear chop3

“Churn the butter, smoke the hams, can tomatoes, put up jams. Stack the stove wood, string the beans, up the storms and down the screens.”

Hurry Hurry Mary Dear molasses

Through all of this – as the wind picks up, the leaves fall, the trees bend, and snowflakes appear – our poor Mary, flushed and frazzled, seems to age twenty years. Her nose reddens, her hair becomes disheveled, and her back bends like an exhausted hunchback. As day turns to night, the impending snowstorm descends upon the house with it’s full fury. Mary finally retreats indoors but her day is far from done.

“Pull the curtains, close the shutters. Dreadfully the wild wind mutters. Oil the snowshoes, stoke the fires. Soon the roads are hopeless mires. Mend the mittens, knit the sweaters, bring my glasses, mail my letters.”

Hurry Hurry Mary Dear kitchen

Dutifully she scurries about and obeys the offscreen patriarch who we finally see again – stuffed into his rocker with slippered feet, pillow and pipe. “Toast the muffins, hot and sweet and good for me. Bake me doughnuts, plain and frosted…What, my dear? You feel exhausted? Yes, these winters are severe! Hurry, hurry…” With that, like the tea, she finally reaches her boiling point and dumps it all over his head “…Mary dear.” Perfect!

I love this poem not only for it’s humour but also for it’s comforting notion of winter hibernation. Thankfully none of us have to go through the Herculean efforts of Mary, but, still, there is always autumnal work to be done to ready one’s house for the season’s first snowfall. Is there anything more comforting than getting all the leaves raked, the hoses put away, the garden dug, and the windows washed before the first flakes fly? As the furnace kicks in and you get that whiff of singed dust from it’s summer disuse, you can’t help but feel snug and smug. Sporting slippers and sweater, you survey your realm with satisfaction (from the warmth of your indoor sanctuary). You brew a pot of tea, nibble on some biscuits, settle into your corner wingback, and open up a good book. And, all the while, the wild wind mutters. There is a primitive pleasure in this. It Hurry Hurry Mary Dear wind muttershearkens back to the first time we crawled into a cave to escape the elements. Despite the absence of biscuits (not yet invented), we, nevertheless, overcame the cold and the wet by lighting a fire, huddling together, and telling stories. Then, as now, we are still lulled to sleep as the muffled storm rages outside. While, today, it is much easier to keep warm and dry, the sense of satisfaction persists. We still take great comfort in retreating indoors and shutting the door on the cold – and that is wonderfully conveyed in a poem like Hurry, Hurry, Mary Dear. Every fall, I reread it to experience, once again, that feeling of gezelligheid. I hope you will seek out this book and when the snows arrive next November (or possibly October…), you too, will be entertained and warmed by it.
(P.S. Watch for Mary’s constant companion – the ever-present black cat. It appears in every scene – sometimes in the foreground, often in the background, and once in shadow only.)

Review by Sandy Muldrew

Hurry, Hurry Mary Dear written by N.M. Bodecker, illustrations by Erik Blegvad. This edition published by Margaret K. McElderry, 1998

  • Posted on November 04, 2012
Bear has a story to tell

Bear Has a Story to Tell

When I bought Bear Has a Story to Tell a few weeks ago, I had planned to write a review in a post about Autumn picture books. Since then it has snowed more than 30cm and Bing Crosby has had a play or two on my iPod. Autumn is a short season in the north. Early September looks like summer. Late September, all the leaves are yellow. By mid-October, the leaves have migrated south and snow has erased all evidence that we had any autumn at all. It’s no wonder that Halloween and Christmas vie for space on the shelves of department stores.

I welcome the snow, but I long for a more patient autumn, where leaves are not in such a hurry to change clothes and fly away. The lumbering bear in Philip and Erin Stead’s new book would agree, I think. Wandering through the woods in search of an audience for his story, Bear finds no takers; just a lot of busy creatures readying themselves for winter. Untroubled by the lack of receptiveness, this would-be storyteller instead offers to help each animal with their various preparations. Bear gathers seeds for a tiny mouse, checks the direction of the wind for a duck who is about to migrate south, and ever so gently, tucks a frog into a blanket of leaves and pine needles. This is a very kindly and patient bear, not to be confused with a real bear. Real bears don’t tell stories.

Once everyone is settled for the winter and the first snowflakes begin to fall, Bear snuggles into his den. His story will have to wait until the spring. But will he even remember what it is he wanted to say?

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  • Posted on February 08, 2010

The Hibernators’ Dilemma

In my years as both a bookseller and as a reader, I have discovered a most interesting and delightful phenomenon – books find us. The book you are meant to find will call to you, like dark chocolate peanut M&M’s and HGTV.

I no longer work in a bookstore and thus have fewer opportunities to flip through publisher catalogues and fondle freshly unpacked new releases in the shipping department, but the books I am supposed to find will still find me, or so I tell myself.

As for the books that are recommended by well-meaning friends and reviewers, well…I try to be nice. It’s that subjective thing. One person’s beautifully illustrated book is another person’s piece of sentimental schlock. I am the first to admit I am a tough customer.

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