Maurer/Timm Quail Ridge UCD Student Endowment Order Books here Original Poems and Thoughts website Email Frank here: frankmaurer41@gmail.com

Poems and Thoughts by Frank Maurer

Search for:   All Poems   Topics   Titles   Help

Massachusetts

The Connecting Limb opus 20

After many decades I returned to my natal town.
I walked here and there to see what had changed.
My original house was a certain destination.
Two houses to the south on Lake Avenue,
Was a gently lower sloped area behind the old gray Daugherty home,
Where we climbed trees--mostly maples--Acer saccharum
I sought out one tree through which we often climbed,
To see if the arboreal aberration of my youth still existed.
I looked and looked upwards, but did not see the object of my visual seeking.
It was a limb with a comfortable circumference
From which we hung, marveling simultaneously:
This particular limb was connected on two ends,
Bridging itself between two trunks!
What anonymous growth act caused this strange structure?
Two trunks bound by a contiguous limb?

The fascination was more than a passing thought.
All us boys continually enjoyed
Touching that strange limb, just for a moment.

My Wonderful Tree House opus 57

The huge White oak, Quercus alba, stood waiting in our yard.
It was almost begging that a little boy
Would hoist up 'prefabricated' framing
To finally form a well constructed tree house!
It was to be my hideaway after a day at school.
I sometimes even slept there overnight, much to the chagrin of my parents!
To ascend, a pulley and a rope system lifted me
With its board seat through the first stage,
Then, with railroad spikes carefully driven into the trunk, to complete the trek.
These devices ultimately protected the tree inhabitant
From any enemy marauder attempting to invade,
Yielding to the occupant, bliss, thirty feet high up in the air.

Frank the Milkman opus 61

Twice a week, Frank, the milkman, would back his truck into our long driveway.
Bottles would clink and an array of milk would appear.
Used bottles were exchanged and off he would go.

One day, Frank asked my mother if I might ride with him on his route.
I had shown interest as a young boy and was thus rewarded.
What a wonderful trip through my neighborhood in a MILK TRUCK!
I will always remember how Frank, the milkman,
Had fulfilled a little boy's dream--
To ride and deliver things in a milk truck!

A Time to Decide opus 74

I am a sun child; A flower child.
And a child of pacifism and peace.

As a child, when confronted with a fight, I ran.
When my brother, John, would confront me pugnaciously
I would turn and run into the bathroom and lock the door;
I knew I was bigger and would hurt him.

Later, real decisions were to be pondered.
A war, the 'Vietnam War' was raging.
I was in graduate school studying,
But working with the Cornell Young Quakers as well.
In protest, we carried medical supplies
Across the Peace Bridge to Canada
Symbolically stating that the American Red Cross
Should not be restricted to help only US soldiers
And not others in need.

Then the government applications for the status of Pacifist.
My lottery number was 374 and all I could do was wait.
My choices were to serve as a medic in the military;
Or to serve time in prison as a non-cooperator;
Or flee to Canada to live a new and different life.

No choice, in the end, had to be made:
The war, as all wars eventually do, ended.
I had stood up for what I thought was right.
Then, with some mental wounds,
I was obliged to responsibly carry on with the rest of my life.

Marshfield Woman. One opus 80

My friend, Eddy Fineberg, of high school days, and I,
Decided to take a longish bike trip from Newton, Mass, to the Cape.
Unbeknownst to us, a hurricane was pending,
But into the unknown fray we went.
On a beach near Marshfield on the Cape, the storm met us.
I remember the wind and the waves--
The sand, driving parallel to the ground against our faces.
As young guys, this was just adventure.

On the beach, we met a group who invited us to their beach house.
Once inside, they explained that their father
Had constructed this snug and low structure to withstand any storm;
It was true: low concrete walls wedged into the rock wall.
The interaction amongst us was wondrous for me.
I was invited by one--a woman of about 40--
To visit her and her childrens' Marshfield home someday.
She was lovely, friendly and sympathetic towards a young man.
Eddy and I stayed and slept on the floor during the night's storm.
Next day, we all eventually said goodbye
And I waited in my heart to make that intriguing visit.

My Brother John opus 87

My brother John was two years younger than I
And two years older than my sister, Susan.
The two, being part of an odd number of siblings,
Would often form an alliance, leaving me the third one out.
I was often in some brotherly combat where I thought I might harm him.
There were times,when a conflict would become too aggressive,
And therefore I would run and hide in the locked bathroom,
So as not to cause a possible injury.

John was a very good looking boy.
He was very popular and behaved as a cool kid.
I would ride my bike everywhere,
Carrying a briefcase in high school and wearing a trench coat.
John would have none of that by walking and carrying a bookbag.

I listened to and played classical music,
While John was a 'pop guy'--the Top Twenty.
I went to college (Antioch) and he became a walking postman.
John married a young woman--I forget her name.
He 'rescued' her from a family struggling and aspiring to be 'upper class'.
The parents were forcing her to come out as a debutante.
She wanted none of it; John and she married;
I was not there, but my parents were the only guests at the wedding.
If there were other reasons, I do not know of them.

Later I had an Antioch Co-op job in the San Francisco area--Richmond--
Working as a biologist, collecting whale specimens
In the last of whaling in the United States.
John and Ann--her name I now remember--
Came to visit me at my co-op job area, meeting me in Chinatown.
Marriage had matured John and we three had a wonderful time:
I remember taking several photos--
One of John standing up on the base of a lamp post.

Back to work, I was sampling whale vitals as they were brought in for slaughter.
One night about 2 AM, as I remember,
The payphone in the hallway rang--
I thinking it was notice of the boats once again arriving.
It was my father, saying John was hunting and had been killed by a stray bullet.

My knees weakened with confusion, but a determination came over me.
I wandered through the streets of Point Richmond,
Ending up at Gretta Tedrick's house (at 2 AM)-- a family I had befriended.
They let me in and I listened to Bach's B Minor Mass on their record player.
After which, I flew to Pacific Palisades and the funeral.
I talked a lot with Ann's sister and walked with her
Through the chaparral in the neighborhood.

At the chapel, I remember requesting some music by Bach;
I had, thus, prevented some schmaltzy, 'nothing' music to be played.
There was a reception perhaps, or some get together at the house.

Life went on and flowed into all the kaleidoscope of events that have followed.
Do read my several written thoughts and be informed of other remnants of my life.

The Poppies of Elsinore, California opus 92

When I was 10, I had my own paper route.
I folded each paper, stuffed them all in the cloth paperbag,
And rode off on my bicycle.
One afternoon about 1951, I was folding the papers
And reading the headlines that day as I folded,
I saw something I would never forget--
Why, I do not know, but there it was:
"The Earth's Population is now 3 Billion People."

Of course, now within my lifetime of 71 years from that time,
The earth has reached a growing total of over 8 billion persons!
The predictions are that things may level off at 10 or 11 billion.
Goodness-------.
Now on the radio today there was a news item
That in 2019, Elsinore, California, had thousands of visitors
To view the superabundance of Spring poppies.
So many people that it clogged the town to a standstill--
No towns people could follow their normal movements!
The highway blocked, driveways blocked, shopping centers blocked!
Then, Covid for two years and no visitors.
Now 2023 arrives with another poppy bumper crop.
The town was so traumatized in 2019,
That the mayor proclaimed all peripheral roads and parks were closed--
There were so many people who came before,
That now, NO ONE could enjoy the canyon flowers by the town.

Three billion to eight billion population and everyone is penalized--
Just trying to view some flowers!
Will we be able to manage our populations
With ever more growing vital life needs such as
Meds distribution, food availability, fuel consumption?
How might we really manage with such chaos?

Some Thoughts opus 106

I am older now--coming on 82 years!
I wonder how, with so many dropping dead around me,
That I have made it so far.
The ones close and still around me--many--ignore me
Or are short, and only text--seeing that they
Have such 'demanding' pressure to exist!

I remember the (Newton, MA) neighbor children
Across the street banging their kitchen pots--
The end of WWII of which I was not really cognisant
Nor of its horrors.
I did learn later how my father designed
The Army Aircorps oxygen masks to fly--freeze free--
Higher above the Axis powers' aircraft.

I timidly was involved in the Civil Rights movement,
But when Vietnam loomed into our lives,
I was strongly involved in protests and countering wherever I could.

The planet is now challenged with our neglect of the air and sea.
The remainder of my life will be towards staving off this disaster.

But as I age, there are those who respect my efforts
And those who do not yet recognize my worth:
Strong statements to put me in my place.
Loving outreach which I wish for;
Lost because of the new communication--
Little talk and only the cold world of texting and emails.

I am not sure of what will become of me or my conservation attempts.
I feel helpless in the looming of inevitable death.
I will be in eternal darkness and powerlessness.
No longer able to care nor help nor act.
Will someone reach out with a soft, warm, loving hand?

Flying I. Dream of Flying opus 110

As a child, I always longed to fly.
I would stand at one end of a field
And, with my wings which were part of my body,
I would start to run, wings outspread and pumping;
Slowly I arose into the air, my legs bending backward.
Straining ever-more, I strove with great effort
To rise higher and higher--the goal was to be able
To clear the hedge of trees which confronted me.
In my mind of imagination, I would always
Be relieved when I would always clear the trees.

Having accomplished my act towards complete freedom,
I winged my way across the world to pure adventure.

Flying II. A Trip to Buzzards Bay opus 111

Being quite young--perhaps 4 in 1945,
I remember one trip with my Dad to Buzzards Bay, MA.
We were in the high altitude equipment production plant,
I, standing next to his right side,
As he expounded some directions to a coworker.
My Dad always had soft, large hands,
With a particular scent.
I will always remember that sweet, masculine scent.
I am not sure what moved me at that moment,
But I recall moving closer to his side
(I was tall enough to reach his hand on his extended arm)
And nuzzled my nose into his palm,
Inhaling his delicious scent; giving me a childlike high
And a basic mammalian feeling of belonging
To another of my species:
To another whom I knew had accomplished important and great feats--
And to whom I belonged as a child of my dear Father.

Flying III. At the Airport opus 112

I dreamed of flying all through my childhood--
First, by having actual wings which were a part of my body musculature,
Followed by a more realistic bonding with actual flying machines.
Growing older--10 or 12--I often asked my father
About the many stories I heard him tell concerning testing, the terrible 'bends',
And the triumphs and manufacture of his war-time inventions.

(My father did a great deal of business flying--
Let alone, having designed the oxygen mask and other related equipment
For higher flights--41,000 feet--by our pilots during WWII,
Who were assaulted from above by--for a while--Axis pilots.)

As a result of hearing all this past history during my youth,
I wanted to see real aircraft and thus one day,
Departed with my father to the Boston Logan International Airport to watch planes!

There was a long viewing ramp along the roof
On which I roamed from area to area--
Following all the arrivals and departures of every airline--a thrill a moment!
I could have wandered back and forth forever,
But there was always that time to go home.

Flying IV. The Interview opus 113

As my interest for flight was increasing ever-more,
And I had reached the Junior High level,
I was assigned, along with all my classmates,
For each of us to interview a person in a desired, future profession.
Of course I chose to speak with a pilot.
Somehow, because of all the 'Million Miles' my father had accrued,
He managed an interview for me with an American Airlines pilot;
With all my written questions ready--
And planned space to pen my expected answers.

I remember the sunny afternoon, driving together with my Dad,
Back to the airport, but now to a large office complex
Below the observation walkway where I had watched planes so often in the past.

The interview went well, yielding in depth information,
And I left feeling a greater longing to somehow fly a plane.

My Lost, Saved Tooth opus 124

I remember it was the day Einstein died--
In the 50's.
My family, including Dad, Mother, John, and Susan,
Was doing the traditional family visit to Washington, D.C.;
Our impressive, but historically troubled capitol.

We children were "horsing around" in the morning hotel room
And my mother was just plain fed up,
Grabbed her hairbrush and attempted to smack me on the rear--
But, I swung around and the blow landed on my mouth!

Well, the tooth eventually died;
The root was refilled and remains now a dead entity.
In later age, as my other teeth are themselves challenged,
One that is standing strong is the old, dead tooth!

Indeed, one may not always be able to extrapolate an unexpected future!

{'The best laid schemes o' Mice and Men gang oft agley (awry),
Robert Burns, November 1785.}

Music To My Ears, I. The Early Days opus 210

Since I was tiny, I always had music in my life.
My mother played the old upright piano
During the day at times and later, to put us to sleep.
At five, I started piano lessons with a neighbor teacher.
I advanced some, even recording a duet,
"The Happy Farmer" with my mother.
Mrs. Winkler, married to a Swede who sold knicknack stuff,
As near as I remember, from his car, was my teacher.
She was stiff and formal
And I soon decided at six or seven years to stop.
My mother told me, Winkler had said I would never play music again!
In the meantime, I discovered at six
A big, deep cabinet my father had hand constructed for my mother,
In which were classical 78 record albums--
Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Beethoven, and perhaps Wagner;
Large albums of three to five 78 records--six to ten sides with complete works.
I played them all over and over again.
Once, when I was deep in thought, musically,
My mother came by and said, "Why don't you go out and play?"
Another time she came by and asked, "What are you thinking?"
I seriously answered her, "I am contemplating death."
(I had raised and butchered rabbits from the age of six,
So I knew the 'birds and bees' of rabbits (and humans!)
And how to ready a rabbit for the pot in 20 minutes--
I got faster 'as I aged'!)
At ten years old, I attended dance school with Mrs. Cohn.
I always sat near the trio of men who talked with me--piano, sax, and drums.
In sixth grade at Hyde Elementary School,
They needed an upright double bassist.
I had been given a 'Seashore Test' to check musical prowess and ability--
I may remember it was administered to my whole class.
Well, the music teacher approached me to join the orchestra and play bass.
We had an hour and a half lunch hour between sessions.
Instead of going home for lunch, I practiced by myself
And after one half hour, I walked home, two blocks away,
Lunched and walked back to school.
This continued in Junior High School, when I finally got my own instrument.
It was a big, old, very dark heavy bass,
Which had been, not delicately, reconstructed.

In High School, I went to a private music school for lessons--
My mother drove me and the bass, four miles to the school each week.
My teacher was Mr. Spinney, an older, dark haired,
Very soft spoken man, whom I respected very much
And from whom I learned techniques and fingering.
(He helped prepare me for the school's annual concert--Grieg's piano concerto.)
After about three years he told me I was ready for a more advanced teacher.
He suggested a bassist in the Boston Symphony!
I was about to graduate and leave for Antioch College, Yellow Springs, Ohio,
So I did not follow that advice--who knows what that might have led to!
I left Newton, Massachusetts, and my first wonderful girlfriend,
Seta DerHohanessian, an incredible flautist, whom I loved dearly.
I will always remember my first date, when I drove my parents' car to Seta's home.
We, with others, played the Bach Flute Concerto in B flat.
I was in heaven, with her and being allowed to drive alone--
My wilder, younger brother, John, was not allowed to drive until after 16!
(Seta and I lost track until 30 years later, when we met during my 50th HS Reunion.
She was a year older, so I actually attended two Senior Proms!)

One outstanding memory was when Donald March, HS orchestra director,
Allowed me to conduct the orchestra for some piece, which I remember not;
Yet another moment of being in musical heaven.
I was indeed very content with those early musical years
And, indeed, with almost every day of my youthful process, becoming an adult.

The Tusk opus 212

When I was a young boy in Newton, Massachusetts,
My neighbors on one side were an elderly Armenian couple.
Harry Adalian and his wife, Lucy, spent their early lives in Turkiye.
One of his stories, 
Was how a Turkish soldier had swung his sword
Reaching to his left ear,
And sliced off the edge of his ear--
I did not know then, but he had been a part of the Armenian Genocide.

Harry came often to visit, 'consulting' on various family projects,
Like when we dug our little fish/turtle pond--
A summer project for me and my younger brother, John,
Which we dug in two days!
Harry suggested to my father that it should be named "The Little Sip",
Contrasting to an ocean, "The Big Drink".

At any rate, I was later told that Harry was dying,
And I was asked to come visit to say goodbye.
We talked together--I was precocious and had many adult friends.
Harry then pointed to a long, spiralling tusk in the corner.
He said it was a narwhal tusk, brought back by Admiral Byrd
And had been presented to Mayor Curley of Boston,
Who then passed it on to Harry, a prominent local rug dealer.
Harry then said, "I want to give this to you,
Since you are a budding young naturalist,"

The tusk travelled with me as a prize and loved possession
Around the world from MA to OH to NY to Turkiye to Africa to Sweden,
And then returned to California, where it stayed.
One day on my farm in Davis, California,
I walked by my door, where the tusk always stood
And it was gone--my heart literally sank.
I was then much older--80--and this was to be passed on to my two sons.
I had invited only two or so people to come into my house,
As I had been ill for a while,
So its disappearance was mysterious, but suspicious.
I had not realized how much I had cared for that tusk;
Its beauty, its history with dear Harry, and indeed,
Its very own history, coming from so far away.
I wait for its return--perhaps its new owner will grow tired
And realize it truly belongs to its rightful owner.
I have a few years, perhaps, to wait and anticipate its return.

Windchimes by my Window opus 214

I loved sailing as a young man--
The invisible power of the wind, moving a vehicle.
I also flew kites as a child.
One was so large it nearly lifted my brother off the ground!
On our frozen lake in the winter,
I sail skated with a gigantic kite held on my shoulder.
Often as I conducted my field work in Wyoming--
I raised two or three kites simultaneously, tied to my van.

With a quieter life on my farm, but still with wind,
I collected windchimes--always lovely, each very different.
I sit outside under the tree which, now large,
Was one of my mother's living Christmas trees,
Enjoying the chorus of chimes as I read and pen my thoughts.
Also, as I am doing right now, I awake very early to write,
Listening to my family of chimes outside my window--
Remembering all of my life's encounters with the wind.

Music To My Ears, II. Middle Years; Antioch College opus 223

Adding a bit more from High School, I was serendipitously introduced to jazz.
(1956).
The Newton High School was performing the 'Connecticut Yankee' musical.
After the final successful performance on that Saturday evening,
I was encouraged and invited to go to someone's home,
Taking my upright double bass with me and jamming!
I had never done such a thing--just extemporaneously playing by ear.
I knew all my musical keys, so knowing such with each tune,
I thought I might be able to 'fake it' somehow.
In fact, it really worked and that was the beginning--
I performed jazz, along with the classical through Grad School!

Well, I arrived (1959) at Antioch College, Yellow Springs, Ohio.
I jumped right into classes--music, science, literature, religion.
Of course, I joined the orchestra, led by David Epstein,
A good, clear conductor and later, I would learn, was a violinist.
We had many hours (and years!) of playing together.

One quarter, it was announced that David would temporarily have leave
And Donald Keetes, music history professor, would take his place.
Keetes was a light, indecisive conductor,
So I almost immediately switched to choir!
It was for only the quarter, and I missed my bass,
But I learned much about using my vocal cords,
Rather than fingering on large gut and steel strings.
The following quarter, I met Keetes again as professor
In a music history class--no singing notes, just notes.
He was a student of Hindemith and very knowledgeable.
My term paper, being deeply into religion and seeking a personal god,
Was a comparative study of the Masses of Mozart, Beethoven, and Stravinsky.
I remember hiding away to write at Lady Alice Bingle's apartment downtown.
She had nursed my father during his illness while he was
A student at Antioch, years previously.
I trepidatiously handed in my paper to Keetes,
Who surprised me with a big, fat A!

During my fifth and final year (I had taught in Switzerland for a year abroad),
David Epstein came to me after one of our rehearsals,
Asking if I would conduct a movement of Bach's Brandenburg Concerto #3,
While he performed the solo violin part in its designated musical movement.
Remembering my one opportunity in High School
And how wonderful the experience turned out to be,
I immediately said 'yes' and got to work, studying the score.
A real score, so complete, with one page containing the entire ensemble.
So you can imagine, the pages were turned quickly!
The graduation concert, including my conducting debut, went very well.
At this point in my life, I was struggling with career choices
Between religion, music, and biology to earn my future keep in the world.
After much thought, I chose biology, which, as it turned out, was a wise decision.
Music, however, continued to be a large part of my life.

The Fire Pole opus 257

I grew up in Newton, Massachusetts,
The city, with a good educational system.
As many of you did, third graders toured
Their neighborhoods.
The one trip I remember was to the fire department.
And there was the brass fire pole!
The firemen demonstrated coming down
Through that hole in the ceiling!

Years later, now with two sons, living in their barn room,
And remembering my past, I asked
If they wished to have a pole.
Giving a resounding 'yes',
I simply cut a hole in the floor!
During all their youth,
Descending for school or chores,
They each glided down a pole to meet the day.

The USS Constitution: Recollections of a Boy on One of Our Greatest Ships opus 272

Now sitting in Boston Harbor--Still commissioned!
The USS Constitution was visited by a small school boy.
A very large ship for a little boy,
Who imagined all that might have occurred,
While this ship was a weapon maintaining freedom.

Quick maneuvering, flashing cannons on her decks,
Dexterously guided by her captains.
It is said, cannon balls were deflated by her oaken hull.
That is the origin for the name 'Old Ironsides'.
Very low decks, as remembered by one
Who imagined how much bending would be needed
To be a tall man in amongst such quarters.
Used by Jefferson to quell
The ravaging Tripoli pirates in the Barbary War!
This beautiful wind powered ship
Shall always be a memory of inspiration
To now a grown, experienced cosmopolitan man,
Who continually revered every moment,
While conducting his own sailing.

(Reviewing sections of Kilmeade's and Yeager's
'Thomas Jefferson and the Tripoli Pirates', I was jolted
into what was done with pirates blocking US trade and
today's efforts to break the world blockade of the Red Sea
and Suez by the Yemeni Houthis. History does repeat itself--
the Mediterranean and now the Red Sea. I was truly
overwhelmed reviewing our history.
My breath was taken away, almost to tears.)

Where does Prejudice End? opus 288

I have held this in for many decades.

I was raised a progressive Protestant
(I am now, as you may have read, a Humanist),
In Newton Massachusetts as a Congregationalist,
A church resulting from the competition with the Prebyterians
Where the 'Congregation' regulates and governs itself.
I rang the huge church bell for services (now automated!);
I led the young people's group to reach out to others--
We shared meetings with both Catholics and Jews.
(I now realize that Muslims were not at all present then in my life.)
I was a tolerant, open-minded young person.

I played music (see previous poems) in school orchestras
And met many other young musicians.
I was in a jazz band led by a Catholic trumpet player.
Because of his 'loudness' (like Mozart who detested the trumpet),
I moved to another trio with a Jewish leader.
When the trumpet player asked, "Why did you go to 'that group'?",
I answered, "Because they are better musicians."
I was open and accepting of people who came into my life.

In High School, I became good friends
With Eddy Fineberg, a French Horn player.
I had a 'tour' with him through his kitchen,
Where he explained that if I ever came to dinner,
(to which, I was never invited),
I could not eat off his 'Kosher cutlery'.
Later, when I was talking with his intellectual sister,
His mother cleared everyone out and began to admonish me
That I was not to interact with her daughter again,
Because my 'people' (ancestors) had ravaged Jerusalem
And contributed to the Jewish downfall--
I was personally thunderstruck and devastated.
On the one hand, I understand just what was going on,
But on the other, as a young person, it was difficult
To bear the pain and the feeling of near betrayal.

Fifty years later while chatting at a High School reunion,
Another fellow student said he had gone through the same situation.

I have lived knowing an Armenian High School girlfriend,
The people of whom had suffered in their own genocide.
My first playmate was a black first grader, in an all-white school--
His name I even remember--Billy Meritt.
I have lived with Blacks where I taught in Southern Africa.
I have taught with the last of the Constantinople Greeks in Turkey.
I have worked in the Civil Rights Movement.
I have also realized that ALL groups have their prejudices.
In that light I try always to remain open.
I have realized too, that some groups
Get more 'publicity' than so many others.

We should all feel the guilt for our subconscious dislikes
And realize that every group, with very few exceptions,
No matter what seems evident,
Has just as many prejudices as any other.
I believe this is why our beautiful blue planet
Is so very divided (with its human populations) amongst itself.

The Deafening Silence of Quiet Snowfall opus 329

My son just sent me a few-second video from the mountains,
Where he is introducing my grandson to the snow!
The video was dark, but depicted the soft-falling flakes in the limited light.
I suddenly remembered my first skiing attempts
On our neighbor's Massachusetts backyard slopes.
I then remembered my trips with my two boys--separately--
Because of their different ages,
To the ski slopes of our neighboring Rockies in eastern California.
Thereafter, my thoughts went further back to my student days,
Where I taught as a teaching job in the Alps of Switzerland.
The school, The Ecole D'Humanite, was in Goldern, above Meiringen,
Above which was the Rosenlaui Gletcher (Glacier),
Where Sherlock Holmes was 'first murdered'.
One day it was announced the school would all use the Gondalbahn,
To be transported to the actual 'Alp', the highest elevation of the mountain.
From there, we would ski down, ending up in the school yard!
I remember it was overcast and gently snowing.
The powder was so very soft and glass-like.
Descending on the slope was effortless--almost as if one were levitating!
Stopping now and then--there was no speed competition--
I listened to the absolute silence of the falling flakes,
As they gently accumulated around me, muffled in their fall.
It was a chilling experience of so much surrounding activity,
Accompanied with absolutely no sound.
My Heart shudders at 82, 60 years later,
From having had the privilege of partaking
In such an incredible human experience with our beautiful Nature.

(Sadly, with the Climate Crisis, many areas of our planet
Will no longer have skiing, let alone even snow!)

Might I have been a Coworker with Betsy Ross? opus 376

If I were born in a different era
And perhaps with a different chromosomal arrangement,
I could easily have trained to be a seamstress.
As a child, I participated with my father
To work on the sewing machine (on which he taught my mother!),
Creating a sail for my outrigger Grumman canoe.
I later sewed by myself, a huge 15 foot sail
Which I utilized to hold on my shoulder
And sail on skates across my belov-ed Crystal Lake.
Around that time, I tailored a seven foot kite
Which, when inaugurated,
Almost raised my little brother, John, off the ground!
When first married to Maggi, who tragically died in Africa,
I designed and made with her, while in Turkey,
A completely round black cape with a hood!
At any rate, it is clear I enjoy the art of sewing.

To finish with Betsy Ross, Washington came to her,
Proposing a flag with stars.
Being of English Heraldic stock, he wanted a six pointed starred flag.
So the story goes, Betsy replied that six pointed stars were very laborious,
But with proper folding and one snip, a five pointed star could be
rapidly formed.
Do check out European stars (eg on coins) and see for yourself.
At any rate, in a different time, I might have been mass producing
five pointed stars!

6 June 1944 opus 383

So many gave their lives on that fateful day
In many various ways to stop the Nazi oppression.
I was a young child of three on that day,
My father being in the very midst of it all.
He, because of his educational background--
Physiologist and engineer--
Was absconded to work in secret
On high altitude breathing equipment.
Our planes, limited by freezing O2 masks,
Were pummelled by the high flying Germans.
First, he designed a mask with a double layer over the face
Which, when warmed by the cheeks,
Would allow continued flow of life giving O2.
Then he tested them in chambers and in the B-17s.
This effort was the beginning towards his early death,
For he carried a rheumatic fever, wounded heart from childhood--
He lasted until only 57 years of age, in spite of medical intervention.
Third, the government instructed that he form a production company
To produce for the war, all sizes of needed masks and goggles.
This he did with a 'partner' who was later revealed as dishonest.
So much confusion and turmoil for him at the war's conclusion.
I remember several trips to Cape Cod to visit a French-Canadian attorney,
Hired to protect my father, innocent on all counts.
While they worked on the case,
I met a glorious sand and beach grass habitat!
I never completely understood everything until years later.
I do remember the eight white plaster head models,
Placed under the cellar workbench,
Used to model for the many face variations, sized for a proper mask fit.
One thing I learned was that my father's beautiful coin collection,
Which he often showed us children, needed to be sold.
If he were still alive, what a joy to discuss with him today
All the wonderful coin sagas I now myself have learned.
So many memories like this linger in my 'historical mind'.

My Mount Monadnock Campers' Hike opus 389

When I was about 10 or so, driving somewhere with my father and the family,
I distinctly remember his verbal disapproval of all the trash thrown
out along the highway.
Soon thereafter, Massachusetts signs popped up on the roadways
Declaring a $1000 fine for dispensing trash on the highway's edge.
That lesson stuck with me on a field trip during my wonderful Audubon
camp activities,
Where we learned of the geology as we climbed Mount Monadnock (most
climbed in NH).
In our backpacks we all carried a lunch enclosed in a brown paper bag.
We hiked to the top, the counsellor pointing out geology, flowers, and
tree species.
At the summit, we perused the sights below and ate our lunches.
There were about 20 kids and lots of paper waste accumulated.
The question arose: what to do with the trash--
(This item for discussion would never have occurred today!)
Our counsellor, I distinctly recall, told us to stuff the bags between
a rock crevice.
I was horrified and immediately countered with
'We should not do this--it is wrong!'
I am not really sure why I was so motivated
(Perhaps from my father's outrage with the highway trash),
But I organized all the kids to gather the bags, stuff their backpacks,
And carry the trash down to be disposed of in parking lot receptacles.
There was complete cooperation, overruling the counselor's instructions--
And that was the beginning of my efforts to support nature for the
rest of my life!

Coming to Terms with Hell opus 398

I was six years old and freely moved through my neighborhood.
My basic territory was one block long.
My address was 301 Lake Avenue, Newton Highlands.
Across the street below the opposite houses, ran the old steam engine line--
Later to be converted to cleaner electric MTA street cars!
Out of my house and to the right all the way, almost to Walnut Avenue,
I met one day a playmate named Sparky.
We were on the sidewalk, greeted each other,
When suddenly Sparky came out with, "You are going to Hell!"
I was young, confused, and didn't know what to do.
Well, of course. a six year old goes back to his mother.
What was said to reassure me remains in clouded history,
But I have somehow survived eight decades!

Perhaps Sparky's declaration got me to think--
I heard church bells a year later and asked to attend Sunday School;
Went on through high school and early college days,
Deeply exploring and partaking in religious thought;
But after meeting sophisticated biology and evolutionary theory,
I did and have now evolved in philosophy towards a benevolent Humanist--
And unless there is a great change in mindset,
I shall meet the next stage of life in mental comfort.
Thank you Sparky?

My Relationship with Horace Mann opus 411

"Be ashamed to die until you have won some victory for humanity."
This, of course, is a quote from Horace Mann,
The father of American Education in our country.
He started his work in Newton, Massachusetts,
Where I spent my first 18 years of life and attended school!
I had never heard of him--he was never mentioned in our curriculum.
I graduated from Newton High (now Newton North)
And went on as an undergraduate
To Antioch College (1964), Yellow Springs, Ohio,
The school from which my father also graduated.
Horace Mann was a president of the College (1852-1859),
Attracted because of its not being religious,
And, incredibly, that it was co-ed!

I spent five years attending Antioch, which included 'Education Abroad',
Teaching math at the Ecole d'Humanite in Goldern, Switzerland.
The school was quadrilingual, so I worked on Italian, French, German,
(and English).

Back on the Antioch campus, I continued to pass by a small obelisk
Bearing the Mann quote cited at the commencement of this essay/thought.
This quote has penetrated my thoughts throughout my life.
I have created (40 years) an educational, polyculture farm;
Have begun a land trust, Quail Ridge Wilderness Conservancy (35 years);
Created the Tartan Stone (25 years), commemorating Scottish Americans
Of whom I discovered I was one--connected with the first king of
Scotland (Alba).
(These Tartan Stones are housed in 35 state institutions)--
The creations were all manifested with a mallet and chisel,
Similar to my Pictish ancestors--great early (500 AD) stone carvers
of, now, Scotland.
Through all this, Horace Mann's admonition urged me ever forward
And still, even now, permeates my 83 years' actions and thoughts.

Norumbega ('Belonging to Norway') -- The Site of Vinland? opus 426

My father (and mother) loved to go fishing,
So he took us all (mother, John, Susan, and me),
To the Charles River (named after Charles I in 1614--
Charles was only a prince then, but explorer, John Smith
Had expectations for the lad--who later lost his head--
And then came the wicked Cromwell and thereafter,
The exiled , enlightened son, Charles II.)
(This is why the new British king is Charles III!)
Lots of history where I grew up--
I shall attempt to control my being an historiaphile!

At any rate, we often fished near a 40 foot fieldstone tower,
Built (1889) to pay homage to the supposed Vinland--
A Viking fort and settlement (1000 AD) started by Leif Erikson.
As children (and once as a returning adult) we, now I,
Often climbed the spiral staircase.
The Tower still quietly stands surrounded by comforting trees.
The fishing usually produced a sunfish or bluegill--occasionally a catfish.
Our family also enjoyed, at other times,
Norumbega Park's amusements across the river.

Later, in High School (Newtonville), I took classical double bass lessons
At the Newton Music School in one of the eleven 'Newtons'.
Our 'final exam' was the School's public outreach,
Performing Edvard Grieg's Piano Concerto in A minor, op. 16.
This was my first public performance with a large audience
And it was played in the very famous Totem Pole Ballroom at the Park.
(The Park itself survived from 1897 to 1963--the Ballroom, from 1930 to 1963.)

This Ballroom was to come twice again in my life,
When my first love Seta Derhohannesian, a senior,
Invited me to the Newton High prom,
Followed by Susan White, who accompanied me for my second senior prom.

Years later, for my 50th High School reunion, I returned to the Park,
But now (2008), I stayed in the Radisson Hotel now on the beloved Park's site.
The hotel's position was near the two bear cages I remember from childhood.
That year, while there, I looked up Seta and spent some lovely
innocent time with her.
We talked birds, as she was just starting some serious birdwatching--
I remember, hearing for the first time, in my hometown, Newton,
A Cardinal's vocalization--they have shifted north resulting from the
Climate Crisis!

The Park was a focal point--not planned-- throughout my life.
It was called one of the many 'trolley parks' from the 1890's,
Where many parks were created for business at the end of a trolley line.
This park at that time, and little known to me, had been declared
New England's finest amusement park--including the Totem Pole Ballroom
Which heard the music of Miller and Dorsey echoing through its walls.
I truly have lived a life surrounded by wonderful history,
Which has obviously nurtured my mental ontogeny!

To No One opus 434

In my youth you taught me your strong ways.
I was tolerant and interested and did not repel you.
You made it clear when showing me your dishware--
If I were to come and share repast,
I would be forbidden to use that dishware.
That was my introduction to your eating laws.

Later and older, I was talking with a female teen,
Who was plain to view, but nicely intelligent.
Her mother entered and cleared out all but me
And announced that my ancestors had destroyed Jerusalem
And I was never to become close to her daughter.
I was shocked, but innocently agreed with what, I was not certain.

Attempting dating, I was snubbed once by other parents
When I arrived to pick up their daughter for a dance.
At my fiftieth reunion I heard the same story from a fellow male student.

(I donated my hand carved stone for the new high school building!)

Much later in my seventies I returned from far away
To the general territory and people with whom I grew up.
I was kindly invited to the home of a now fellow elder.
They kept the laws to which I was introduced so long ago.
When we took repast, I found I was eating off a paper plate!
This to me was another blow going way back to that girl's mother.

Now I watch and have watched since 1948,
The constant battles and the taking of territory
With that reinvasion, 2000 years later.
Yes, there have been great injustices,
But is all this worth it to either side and to their innocent children
Who know nothing of this history and are just taught to suffer and hate?
Guilt is very powerful and sometimes can be misled
To an erroneous and painful conclusion.

Needless Killing opus 483

My thoughts suddenly flew back to the morning
When I was six--my mother insisted that they care for my rabbits,
On a winter morning when I always took care of my pets.
On coming home from school I witnessed
The scattered white hair over the ground--
My favorites, butchered by two neighbor Boxer dogs.

So, yesterday evening, as I walked out to urge my two hens
Back into their safe shelter for the protected night's sojourn,
There were leaves all over the area near their pen--
No. The leaves were feathers near two dead bodies.
I had raised these two from their tiny beginnings.
They grew and manifested into regularly ovulating adults;
So many eggs consumed each day, with extras offered as gifts.

It was only two hens, but it really put a hole in our lives.
The sack of feed was only half used--
The remainder went to supplement the three emu.
The morning routine to check water and food suddenly ended.
The evening no longer was a time
To guide them into their safe cat carrier shelter--
The dog(?) villain had beaten me by an hour to urge them to safety.

What to do now?
I pondered a bit; then, determined, I dry plucked them,
Carefully gutted each wounded corps, saving the giblets,
And gently placed their remains in the fridge.
At least now those bodies I had so carefully fed,
Will become part of my body as their eggs had for so many months.
To me this is a superior conclusion, rather than, demanded by sentimentality,
To just bury them in the ground or, worse,
To simply heave them into the mindless trash.

My Dear Childhood Friend, Frances Brown opus 516

Ah, Frances Brown. She was a friend of my parents,
But I was also included by her in our own friendship.
She had a deep chortle for a woman--early smoking?
She always had a nice middle-aged scent.
And she always paid attention to me when we were together.
She was the church secretary and wrote the chosen verse
In my new bible--'The man who builds his house on a rock...'
Her printing was impeccable and solid.

One adventure we had was a snowy trip to the Boston Symphony.
My father was dubious because of the weather,
But she laughed it off and said that her 'Bug' would make it fine.
It did make it fine, having a wonderful concert.
Afterwards I joined Frances and her husband, Morrie,
At their home for an 'overnight' and breakfast.
I remember the guest room and the fresh smelling sheets.

I always enjoyed, as a young one, intelligent adults.
Frances taught me about the 'older generation'
And that they had much to offer in their wisdom.
Frances is long gone, but I will never forget
Our comradely interaction and her kindness,
Helping me to grow into the adult stage of my life.

Overcoming the Impossible opus 528

I had a terrible fish allergy when I was young.
I rolled on the floor, gasping for breath, and no one understood why.
Ahh, finally it was figured out that I had a severe fish allergy.
I went weekly to Dr. Clifford to have weekly injections
And then bits of fish, from those I had caught in our local Crystal Lake.
It didn't work, so months of immunization went down the tubes.
At camp I washed dishes to earn a scholarship;
Fridays were lethal when I wiped the sweat off my head,
And the fish oil in the sink's sudzy water would get into my mouth.
I persevered, hating this allergy, trying tastes of fish defiantly.
Finally at 50 years, my biology changed and I could taste fish carefully.
One day I went into a fish market and asked how this and that tasted.
The fishmonger was perplexed, until I explained about my past allergy.
At last I was free. I had persevered and had beat my biology.
Last night I cooked up a lovely piece of flavored Cod.
In past times, that would have been like Socrates imbibing the hemlock.
My biology did help, but my insistence got me over the goal.
Perhaps that is why the 'impossible' projects I have tackled,
Many times were successful, because I had learned not to give up.

Seta opus 529

A Bach flute concerto plays on the air.
My first love was Seta, a flautist in high school.
Our first date was meeting and playing music at her home.
I knew her parents well; her mother,
An Armenian, soft-spoken woman;
Her father, a very short Armenian artist
At the Rhode Island School of Design.
I remember when he showed me
His plastered juxtaposition of egg cartons;
Beautifully conjoined to create an optical illusion.

Seta and I met at a 50th Reunion for Newton High School.
She had aged, but was soft and conversant.
Dementia hit and her son took her off to California.
I was never able to converse with her again.
The magic of early youth, lost at the end
In silence and an unfulfillment of words.

The Fate of Two Sons opus 530

The recent incident in Venezuelan waters reminded me
Of my Antioch Co-op job (1963) at a whale processing plant in California.
I was hired as a Federal employee to collect samples
From whales taken in that Pacific area, during the closedown
Of the last USA whaling station near Point Richmond.
(During that time, my brother, John, 20 years old,
Had been shot in the back by a hunter, perhaps miles away,
Who fired in the air, with no backing to shield the bullet's trajectory.
There was no sound as he dropped to the ground.)

Filmed by his father, a son with his packraft
Was taken into the mouth of a whale!
"I saw blue and white; I felt slime against my face and smelled the bad breath."
"I was released and I and my rubber boat were again on the surface!"
Father and son had been paddling to a nearby island to explore.
When asked if they would attempt to venture there again,
They both agreed they would definitely try once more.
The Humpback Whale could not have been able to swallow him,
He being spared because of the whale's narrow throat.
If one were swallowed (only possible by a Sperm Whale),
The acids in the four stomachs and lack of air would have been fatal.

My brother was lost and this young man was wonderfully spared.

Marrow opus 558

As a child, I often chewed on a chicken bone to remove the marrow.
I was not aware at the time, but I was following
The masticating practices of the Neanderthals
(And those of my own early species).
There is ample evidence that the many smashed bones
Of both animal and, in certain localities, of Neanderthal,
Were a desired part of the consumption of the bodies.
Marrow has a distinct texture and taste
And was, then, specially desired nutritionally
And perhaps sometimes ritualistically.
Learning this now, gives me a closer feeling for and understanding
Of my very unique hominin ancestry
And, unknowingly, as a child I uninstructedly and instinctively,
Mimicked my very ancient forebears in one of their regular practices.

Lexington, Massachusetts opus 566

When studying at Weeks Junior High School (about 1954)
In Newton Center, Massachusetts, I was learning French.
My teacher was Madam Neufeld, a wonderfully vivacious person.
French was my second new language after one year of Latin.
I had changed, after advice that the French would better help in a science career.
Madam Neufeld lived in Lexington, Massachusetts, where she invited me to visit.
I liked her as a sympathetic teacher and accepted her hospitality.
I clearly remember going to Lexington Bridge and the Green,
Where the Revolutionary 'Shot heard 'round the World' had occurred
I also had a very dedicated older, white-haired history teacher,
So my visit to the Bridge was ever more meaningful for my young mind.
Tomorrow, 19 April (1775), will commemorate
The 250th anniversary of the start of the US Revolution.
I am glad I have lived so long to see this day and time
But I am full of worry and anguish for our present and future,
As I am sure they were in those early days of turmoil.

Libyan Desert Glass opus 634

As a boy, I lived in Newton, Massachusetts, about 10 miles from the Atlantic.
Occasionally my parents would take us children to the beach.
Much less frequently, I would walk the beach and find pieces of worn glass.
Later, living in California, I would travel to towns 
Where waste was formerly and sadly dumped into the sea.
Amongst the old pots and pans, batteries, car parts, and electronics,
One would find pieces of water-worn bits of glass of many colors.

Now, with an added interest in meteorites and tektites,
I have even later learned of Libyan Desert Glass, 29,000,000 years old.
 
These random glass chunks of usually yellow, but sometimes dark or green,
Were discovered in one fall in 1932--the specimens I have were collected in 2008.

So, just how is this glass of the desert actually formed?
Well, we have great heat and sand--a suspicious combination.
And why is this glass found only in this particular desert?
By chance, a meteorite fell in the Libyan Desert;
Hot material; which on contact, melted the sand, forming glass 'blobs'!
A second hypothesis states that glass was formed from an airburst.
It appears this is one of the very few areas on a desert, except the Sahara,
Where this has serendipitously occurred.
What a wonderful find to enchant those outer space lovers.
If this enthralls you, look up how a tektite is formed--
So subtlely different than the formation of this wonderful Libyan Desert Glass!

Railroads in My Life opus 661

My father (Frank) was a railroad brat.
His father (Albert) was a B and O conductor on the trains (the one in charge),
And he often pulled up his son into the caboose,
As they slowed for a crossing in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.
As a child, I lived with American Flyer model trains.
The Boston and Maine railroad with steamers passed my house daily.
While passing through the city of Newton, Massachusetts,
I don't ever remember a whistle blown.
However, at my grandparents' farm it was so different.
The New York Central crossed the farm a few miles to the west.
Each night as I lay in bed, the longing whistle would sound from the distance.
I loved that sound and longed for its repetition.
There were many other influences over my lifetime.
As a child, another thought, concerning my grandfather,
When the old railroader took us to the now demolished roundhouse,
Climbing into the cab of one of the huge Malleys
And watching the turntable redirecting one of these huge work horses.
The last truly dynamic instance of whistles was in New Mexico.
I was in plateau land near Mountainair
And far below the astoundingly long trains,
Would blow long, haunting calls across the valley.
This has all changed now, as I live far from a railroad.
Nonetheless, the incredible mournful whistle-calls are entrenched deeply in my mind.

The Lugging of Coal Clinkers opus 662

I just heard that the world-wide use of renewable energy
Has outstripped by more than half the use of coal.
Coal is a dirty, polluting substance which releases masses of CO2.
The mining of coal also causes Black Lung in the human workers.
Ironically and thoughtlessly, the 'regime' wants the use of coal to increase,
But has cruelly cut all research funds towards this terrible disease.

This announcement has brought forth from my childhood memories,
Our urban household use of coal to winter-warm our New England home.
The delivered coal order (by the ton) was poured down a hatch into a huge bin.
Later, the coal was carried in buckets to the basement furnace,
The shovelled black diamonds were cast through a fire-roaring door;
Just how much each time I used to throw in, I do not remember.
I always remember the iron-clunk sound as I closed the iron door.
But that was not all, in order to stay warm.
As days passed, the furnace had to be periodically cleaned!
Burnt coal leaves a so-called 'clinker' waste. (Possibly a New England term.)
We had huge tongs, used to remove these clinkers to a metal barrel.
These clinker-barrels had to be dragged up, out of the basement
And dragged down the driveway to the curb collection site.
A lot of work all winter, just to keep warm.
Contrast that to today, where an urban home just clicks a switch.
Presently living in the country, our counterpart to my childhood travails,
Is wood burning with all its analogous chores.
Now, no more wood burning, yielding to my solar-produced electricity.
We have come a long way.

A Sad Gerrymandering Flood opus 666

I was born in the state, Massachusetts,
Where the ignobile activity, Gerrymandering,
Was created to gain political power.
I am not at all proud of this anti democratic project.
We see now that states which have formerly striven
For fair and balanced internal political power,
Are now seduced to Gerrymander in order to tip national power,
Thus losing the aforementioned balance within each state.
This now opens a rush towards unfair, unbalanced, 'undemocracy'
In a once-society working towards representation for each and all.

When Do Children Play? opus 700

When I was a child, some 75 plus years ago,
We were sent out to play, with or without lunch,
And were expected to be in before dark (winter)
Or by supper time (summer).
To add to the verbal agreement, my mother rang a large ship's bell, 
To make sure we knew that the hour of return had arrived.
There was no worry nor even a thought
That we children were in any mortal danger.

Today, such unsupervised freedom would never even be contemplated.
Children are walked (driven!) to school each day and then retrieved--
I was perhaps walked to school on my first day of first grade.
With so much concern and fear by today's parents,
Why is it that the same concern does not exist
For their children, when using social media?
It is also a great 'trouble-maker' for children's well being.
Some, even going so far in a troubled way,
To take their own lives because of great distress.
Many of such young ones do not even contemplate going outside
To enjoy and be calmed by the original Nature from which we all evolved!

The Christmas Bird Count (A Christmas Remembrance) opus 717

The US Audubon Society, this year, 126 years ago, 
Began the Christmas Bird Count.
The winter season was chosen to count bird populations,
Which are settled in for the winter, and more accurately counted.
These 'amateur' data gathering efforts aid scientific understanding 
Of bird population dynamics.  
As a child, birds were a major group on which I focussed.
Starting with many avian observations in my home yard,
I grew restless to explore beyond my half acre homestead.
I learned about the Audubon Christmas Bird Count 
And gained permission from my parents to join a count,
Which unfolded for me on the Massachusetts coast.
Sea birds were all unfamiliar to me and I drank in all the new species.
Many years later, I began the count on the Quail Ridge Reserve,
Which Nora and I labored so diligently to create and see flourish.
On pondering this wonderful past, I began to calculate
That, now being 84, and having joined my first Count at about 12,
(Before the halfway mark of its existence!)--
A bit of a shock, and then pride welled within me
To realize I had been participating in such an historical flow of events.