I liked making lanyards, especially the hex ones. My dad had X-Acto Plexon in his dime store so I had a good source, My fine coordination made the lanyards terrible looking though.
I don’t think Alex feels the same way about her mom, but this poem gives all the feels for those who do.
The LanyardBY BILLY COLLINSThe other day I was ricocheting slowlyoff the blue walls of this room,moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,when I found myself in the L section of the dictionarywhere my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelistcould send one into the past more suddenly—a past where I sat at a workbench at a campby a deep Adirondack lakelearning how to braid long thin plastic stripsinto a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyardor wear one, if that’s what you did with them,but that did not keep me from crossingstrand over strand again and againuntil I had made a boxyred and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,and I gave her a lanyard.She nursed me in many a sick room,lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.Here are thousands of meals, she said,and here is clothing and a good education.And here is your lanyard, I replied,which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,strong legs, bones and teeth,and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.And here, I wish to say to her now,is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,but the rueful admission that when she tookthe two-tone lanyard from my hand,I was as sure as a boy could bethat this useless, worthless thing I woveout of boredom would be enough to make us even.
BE THIS GUY 7 months ago
Alex doesn’t want to lose her camp ID like she did last year.
Hello Everyone 7 months ago
What’s a LanYard?…Sorry, Semi-Luddite here.
snsurone76 7 months ago
OMG! Doesn’t she think of ANYTHING but high tech??
PoodleGroomer 7 months ago
I thought Python was all of Java and more.
batdi 7 months ago
Look up poet Billy Collin’s “the lanyard”
gantech 7 months ago
“I want to learn a foreign language.”
“You already have, Sweetie.”
mindjob 7 months ago
The tug of war isn’t for her
allangary 7 months ago
Look up Billy Collins’ poem, “the Lanyard.” It’s wonderful.
random boredom 7 months ago
JavaScript should have been one of the easiest languages for someone like her to learn.
clc6 7 months ago
“The Lanyard” is also a poem by Billy Collins, which is a small masterpiece of humor and irony. The poet reads it to us on YouTube. >
ladykat 7 months ago
Making a lanyard is fun.
fourteenpeeves 7 months ago
She’ll’ end up making a birch bark canoe
mistercatworks 7 months ago
Don’t forget “world peace”.
willie_mctell 7 months ago
I liked making lanyards, especially the hex ones. My dad had X-Acto Plexon in his dime store so I had a good source, My fine coordination made the lanyards terrible looking though.
ChuckAnziulewicz 7 months ago
A lanyard. By braiding those long plastic strips. I understand.
Fuzzy Kombu 7 months ago
[She also wants to lose … um, her fear of DNS? of SFTP? her vir…oh, never mind.]
kzturtlegirl 7 months ago
I don’t think Alex feels the same way about her mom, but this poem gives all the feels for those who do.
The LanyardBY BILLY COLLINSThe other day I was ricocheting slowlyoff the blue walls of this room,moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,when I found myself in the L section of the dictionarywhere my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelistcould send one into the past more suddenly—a past where I sat at a workbench at a campby a deep Adirondack lakelearning how to braid long thin plastic stripsinto a lanyard, a gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyardor wear one, if that’s what you did with them,but that did not keep me from crossingstrand over strand again and againuntil I had made a boxyred and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,and I gave her a lanyard.She nursed me in many a sick room,lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,and then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim,and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.Here are thousands of meals, she said,and here is clothing and a good education.And here is your lanyard, I replied,which I made with a little help from a counselor.
Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,strong legs, bones and teeth,and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.And here, I wish to say to her now,is a smaller gift—not the worn truth
that you can never repay your mother,but the rueful admission that when she tookthe two-tone lanyard from my hand,I was as sure as a boy could bethat this useless, worthless thing I woveout of boredom would be enough to make us even.