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Poems and Thoughts by Frank Maurer

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Family

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!

Communication Parameters of a New Generation opus 63

My new daughter-in-law made it immediately clear:
"I do not wish to talk--a text now and then is permissible."
"All my friends speak with their parents-in-law
Only once or twice a year", (you foolish man).
In spite of foolishly attempting to talk,
Our relationship evolved worse and worse.

Strange and sad that a modern young woman
Can overpower a simple wish
Of an accomplished old man from another generation
Rendering an awkward silence--
Occasionally obtaining an insincere verbal intercourse between us.

25 June 1973, Lesotho, Southern Africa opus 72

Christine was pregnant--oh, so pregnant.
Consulting with our local Catholic hospital,
The doctor informed us that if there were a problem,
The child would be saved before the mother!
Mad searching for an alternative----
A black Mosotho, Dr. Mohapelo, a surgeon in Maseru--
A colleague of Christine's father, Dr. Jaques.
Now we confronted a breech----feet down.
Pierre was a large baby--what to do?

The moment came at home, water flowing.
Now a many mile trip to Maseru and the hospital.
(A birth in the Catholic hospital in Roma would have been so close.)
Maseru------Into the hospital and the operating room--
Electricity failing in the city,
But sun in early morning, coming through the upper window.
Sterile packs removed from the autoclave.
(I was there!)
Anesthesia, then the Cesarean cut in the abdomen.
The child was pulled up and out, umbilicus severed and tied off.
But oh, so blue--the little body was so blue!
A nurse held him upside down and pounded on his back.
"Is this normal?", I asked the surgeon.
"Not unusual", was the answer.
FINALLY, breath and a baby's wailing.
Relief.
The beginning of little Pierre Crispin's life.

Eventually back home and to a wood stove's warmth.
(Remember this was June, but in the Southern Hemisphere.)
Little, lovely child ready to meet the world.

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.

The African Bee (1969-1973) opus 75

In Lesotho (Le su tu), Africa, I was a biology professor.
Of course I taught regular science classes,
But in a country such as Lesotho,
One was obliged to give more back to this poorer society.
I thus decided one of my projects was to develop beekeeping.
Africans are basically terrified of the native, very untame bee.
For good reason. The African bee was always plundered and exploited;
Unlike the European bee, which was selected over time for gentleness.
Once again evolution--selection and mutation--play a major role.

At any rate, I travelled to Ladybrand, South Africa
To learn the art of African beekeeping.
I learned how to completely dress with several layers;
I learned the flowering sources for this species;
I learned the whole art of collecting and extracting the comb honey.

My first encounter with a swarm was in a garage.
Box ready. Smoker lit and in I went.
All were collected and confined in the cardboard boxes.
Everything went like clockwork--I had learned the art!

One works with bees often at night when they are grouped and calm,
But no matter when, a smoker is always needed.
I remember bundling Pierre, my one year old son, into the VW bus,
And driving out into the night with boxes, smoker,
Plus a plastic rounded hair curler to confine the queen,
To collect a nearby swarm and transfer it into one of my hives.
No problem. The child slept and I collected and delivered!

One incident I will never forget--so naturally profound.
A lovely, soft, quiet African afternoon'
As I tore open the corrugated wall of a trading post,
Behind which was a gigantic hive,
A Mosotho mother, baby on her back,
Stepped away from the crowd,
Squatted, let her stream of urine flow,
Got back up and walked away.
Such a beautiful sight of a natural human function.

At times, I collected whole combs to deliver to a local Holiday Inn.
The idea came to me that they serve the combs, Sundays, on silver platters.
They were delighted with the thought and combs were then delivered.

So, that was the beginning of my introduction to yet another fellow creature.
Beekeeping can be heavy work,
But such a sweet, calming way to pass one's time and life experience.

4 January 1980, Sacramento, California opus 76

My second son, after Pierre, was Basil Gavin.
Unlike his brother born in Africa,
Basil was an urban-birthed baby, born in Sacramento.
To carry on custom and that to which we were used to,
We found a hospital that conducted 'home births' with backup!
The young doctor was bearded and a bit Bohemian.
Thus, I offered to pay part of the expense with a butchered sheep!
He accepted and the moment finally came.
Pierre had been a breech, resulting in a Cesarean;
Basil would be a 'normal' birth--whatever that means.
As with Pierre, things got a little complex.
Forceps were needed to bring him out.
(Otherwise, nothing else unusual was required!)

After a time of recuperation, we all came home--
Once again, on our farm in Davis,
Basil was snuggled by a wood stove in the living room.
That's where life began and went on for many years--
A pastoral life, blended with remembrances of a former African experience.

Basil's Sweet Look opus 79

In order to build a closer relationship with my second son, Basil,
Santa left some money for Basil to take his father, me, out for lunch,
Followed by a shopping time for Basil to choose a special gift.
The trip started with a lunch at an Olive Garden Restaurant.
We consumed wonderful Italian cuisine,
And at the end, Basil pulled out his gift from Santa,
Held the bills and looked sheepishly at me.
Such a sweet look he flashed in my direction--
My heart ached with a joyful feeling;
Just for a moment, but one to remember forever.

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 SinkHole opus 95

We were on a University safari in the Kalahari, Botswana.
We had explored the Drotsky's Cave area and other local points of interest.
Now the geologists wished to explore a special remote sinkhole.
I, the biologist, went along, studying my own subjects.
After several days of Land Rover driving,
We arrived at a wide opening on the flat African landscape.
I remember a grassy, treed area--not quite a true savannah.
Much climbing gear, with many lengths of rappelling line was hauled out of boxes.
Camp was set up and evening cooking alleviating much pending hunger!

Next morning, with a beautiful winter (Southern Hemisphere) sun.
Each explorer started the descent into the deep darkness.
Instructions and descriptions were called up from the cavern.
(We had no communication devices, except our clear, projected voices.)
A long vertical distance of just a hanging downwardness,
Finally to contact with a sloping wall,
And then a rappelling to a flat floor of the deep hole.
There appeared to be no tunnels nor exits outward.

All who were descending had done so and my turn had come.
Truthfully, I was not enthralled to hang in darkness,
Reaching a nondescript floor and gaze around.
I had also just gone through a dramatic Cesarean with my first son, Pierre.
My head swam with thoughts of what to do.
Was I to appear as a coward amongst the others?
Was I to be an absent hero for my faraway family?
They had not a clue just what I was confronting.
Was a line to snap and I would fall to certain death?
Was I to truly be missing the experience of my life,
By deciding it would be completely foolish
To take a gamble--similar gambles in my earlier life
To which I would never have hesitated?

This was truly a most difficult moment of decision--
Seldom would one have had such an opportunity--
Stories for future devoted and adhering grandchildren!

I just could not do it. In the end,
I just could not do it. . . .
My fear of death was overcome by my need for life.

Who Will Win? opus 115

As with so many who sacrificed during WWII,
My father with a weakened heart, afflicted with Scarlet Fever in childhood,
Invented, tested, and produced his high altitude breathing equipment
To enable our pilots to outmaneuver their Axis counterparts;
He suffered the bends and stress at 41,000 feet
And died young at 59 years of age.
Many more sacrificed their lives much quicker,
From exploding bombs and direct bullets.

Why did so many sacrifice so much, so intensively?
Well, the world finally realized that a world under Hitler
Would be a life under a mad dictator.

Today, an analogous situation obtains.
The Earth's lungs are being polluted and suffocated.
Fires, flooding, melting, the disappearing Rainforest and pandemics--
All occurring too fast; unnecessarily.
Who is the Hitler now? Who wishes to control everything for Hiser* pleasure?
It is Us; and shamefully so, as indeed Pogo Possum** once uttered.

The question is: Will we truly unite and muster our efforts,
Realizing the terrific, self-destructive, pending danger?

Dedicated to Maureen and George

* Heesh, Hiser, Herm, Hermself; nonsexist pronouns coined by
Prof. L. A. Timm, linguist, 1966 and my late wife.

** Pogo Possum; Walt Kelly comic strip, political satirist, opossum:
'We have met the enemy and he is us' 1970 (first Earth Day in San Francisco).

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.}

A Text to my Grandson opus 128

My grandson, Rowan, is almost three years old--
Starting to be verbally interactive--what a relief and joy!
Today I texted him via his father's cell phone the following :

    Rowan! See my Betta fish (photo included).
    I think it would be nice for you to have one.
    Let's talk. L. (love).

Ok, why want to push a fish on a three year old?
Well, I have four wonderfully interesting Betta individuals.
I place them each in a large, clear vase--no aeration needed;
These beautiful, variable Asian fish gulp air whenever necessary;
Water change is limited and uncomplicated;
Feeding consists of five Betta pellets in morning or afternoon;
A water conditioner can be occasionally added.
Simple enough--but then the fun begins!

When I feed in the morning (a good time for me),
I first gently tap on the vase and let five Betta food pellets
Fall onto the water's surface.
These clever fish soon learn the routine
And even follow me as I pass by their individual vases.

Such fun and character-building for a little boy to learn the joys
Of interacting with another totally different species than he,
And there is a good chance, with some wise guidance,
He will be closer to having a healthy respect and 'reverence for life'.

To Meal Creators! opus 172

A friend called me one evening to wish me a Happy Birthday.
Within the conversation, she queried, 'Have you had supper yet?'.
I told her of my nibbles on a lingering, but good cheese,
Finishing up a can of cold New England Clam Chowder,
And a corn cob, rescued from the animal food I collect from a local grocery store.
(The corn cob was perfectly fine, just discarded because of appearance alone.)
Concluding the call, I thought of my past-- continual evening joy,
While married to my dear Nora, who loved to cook,
And who presented a coordinated, balanced and appetizing meal each evening.

How fortunate are those, coupled with a devoted, loving creator of meals!

Chance, My Grandson opus 207

Chance had tremendous challenges in his early life--
He had terrible digestive pain with much of what he ingested.
Diet, under the guidance of his parents,
Was juggled to make food intake less painful.
Chance had a 'different' sort of face,
With a cute, crooked smile (according to his father),
And strove hard to get over his weaknesses.
This boy, with his striving, did indeed, overcome those problems,
And he continually reminded me with his similarity
To Theodore Roosevelt's health struggles.
Chance worked on building up his body
By bike riding, bodybuilding, and coming to our farm to work.
When I offered to pay him for his labors,
He said, "I want no money from you, you are family!"
Chance increasingly became very popular with both his peers and elders.

One evening he borrowed his grandmother's car
And drove to the beach for recreation in the sand.
Something horrible occurred, where speed and three boys
Resulted in a terrible crash--all beyond recognition.

His absence has been a deafening silence--
We miss his airy countenance, always raising up our spirits.

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.

My Poems and Thoughts opus 213

Why all these poems and thoughts?
When I was recovering in the hospital with a new hip,
My son, Pierre, and others tidied up my house,
So I could move through with my walker.
I learned that he found my early poems,
Written on the backs of scrap paper,
And that when work was done they all read them aloud!
Being encouraged with such interest,
I began writing from masses of thoughts,
Resulting from my very rich life--
They just keep coming and coming.
Now they have a home on my Quail Ridge Land Trust website,
And have even 'graduated' to a website of their own:
(Poems by Frank Maurer).
As one wades through the random subjects,
One might see how my mind, observations, joys, and cares in life
Developed as I travelled in this 'mortal coil'.

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.

Remembrance of WWII and Vietnam. An Email from Loren opus 222

An email from Loren appeared, responding to my 'Gaza' poem--

'Beyond a threshold. It is hard to understand the scale of tragedy and loss.
I recently looked back on the tragedy that was WWII.
I knew it was catastrophic, but comprehending death
In the thousands/hundreds of thousands/millions is near impossible.
Difficult subject to tackle at 0800 Hours (the time of my 'Gaza' poem) or any time!'

My email response to Loren--
Yes, WWII. I was four, but remember the conclusion.
My father was involved in developing
The O2 pilots' breathing mask.
He had many interesting and harrowing tales
Which he related to his three children over the years.

I cannot look at the horrible films about such any more.
I declared myself a pacifist in 1966 amidst the Vietnam fiasco.
Trying times with all that and attempting to finish Grad school!
My number for the draft was never called,
But I was ready to choose among three--
A1 ambulance, prison, or flee to Canada.
I believe now I would have chosen Canada
And I would have become a passionate patriot!
(Who knows.)

Be well and stay in touch. I need the voice of youth
To surround me and help maintain some equilibrium.
As ever, Frank.

Reconciliation or (just) Recognition? opus 228

Three generations sat together at Thanksgiving,
Discussing, in part, their problems with communication.
The oldest one, who spoke well,
And did not grow up with electronic communication,
Actually apologized for having been so stubborn
To resist the new electronic mode of talking.
The middle generation liked the apology,
But offered no compromise.
The youngest of the generations,
Admitted he just did not use email and will not talk
With the oldest generation's attempt
Of at least trying to pass on something to him!
From the elder's viewpoint, minimally,
He only made a truce of emotion,
And gained no true compromise from the other two;
Hardly reconciliation and perhaps just recognition.

Humans are the only animal who evolutionarily
Can speak and have a complex, written language.
Will this marvelous genetic ability languish--unused--
And mutate back to vocal grunts and silence,
Augmented by spurts of electricity?

Music To My Ears, III. Later Years. Cornell opus 232

Well, I began applying to Grad Schools--Duke and Cornell being two.
I decided on Cornell in Ithaca, NY, near my maternal grandparents farm on Seneca Lake.
(When I started flying, I flew to visit the farm,
Repeating the Republic Seabee (pontoon) flight with my father,
When I was about 10 years old, first gliding over that same farm!)
The Cornell program was experimental,
Allowing certain students to skip Masters and proceed straight to Ph.D.
My professor was Charles Sibley in the Conservation Department.
He was an ornithology specialist and we studied that group, using starch gel electrophoresis.
I was being trained in the techniques,
And before I made a decision for a study subject,
Sibley decided to transfer to Yale.
I decided to stay and study with Daniel Q. Thompson, a conservation professor.
So, I took up the torch, working with the vole, Microtus pennsylvanicus.

As all this was occurring, I joined the Cornell orchestra,
Led by the well-known conductor, Karel Husa.
I became first bassist, with many concerts following,
One of which was playing at the Kennedy Center in New York City,
For the one hundredth anniversary of Cornell University!
On about my third year at Cornell, with the Vietnam War raging,
I, remembering my conducting 'history', approached Karel,
And asked if I might conduct the orchestra at some point.
He was very kind, but said that there were many 'professionals' in the orchestra,
And that would really not be appropriate, but added
That if I took his conducting class, I would be obliged to conduct!
Such a wonderful person, who understood a person's real desire.
I took the course, learned many techniques, and prepared my score--
Brahm's Symphony 2 and one of its movements--I remember not which.
I do remember one portion was a delightful two against three rhythm.
After weeks of preparation, my time arrived.
I watched the 'real' music majors doing their stuff--
So weak, with no real strength in their motions.
(A couple admitted to me that they had no interest in conducting.)
I wore a blue Tom Jones large sleeve shirt
And went through the paces with great gusto!
Upon concluding, I was completely elated and on a musical high.

Well, a year passed and the end of the term was approaching.
I was waiting to be conducted by a new batch of student conductors.
After one of the rehearsals, Karel came to me
And asked if I would like to conduct again.
I was delighted and he invited me to view a score--
It was the 'Unanswered Question' by Charles Ives.
The piece had three tempi going on simultaneously!
Karel asked me how I would conduct this short, but complex piece.
I said I would cue the trumpet and then cue the four flutes,
While maintaining my continual conducting of the complete string section.
Karel, who was a flamboyant conductor paused
To check the Ives' notes in the score--
Karel (I suspected) expected that the instructions would be
That one would fully conduct the trumpet and the flutes,
While just cuing the whole orchestra. (Impossible, I thought.)
Goodness, Ives suggested just what I had proposed!
Later, the demonstration went very well,
Of course after much work on the score.
Karel, I guess, was impressed with my performance,
And asked me, since the piece lasted only 10 minutes,
To repeat the whole work once again.
I was honored and terribly pleased.
I left Cornell after my four years with a Ph.D.,
Having aspirations and anticipation for my continuing, unfolding life.

(It is interesting that in my much later (1980's) farm life in Davis, California,
I came upon a new bird guide with excellently painted bird figures,
published by a David Allen Sibley, undoubtedly, Charles Sibley's son,
who took up the ornithological mantle, not with the study of genes,
but through pigment and painting. The names in this book were being
changed as a result of the newest scientific DNA techniques, the
result from some of the work in electrophoresis by his father.
History repeats and spirals upwards!)

Grief Unveiled opus 242

I have experienced grief several times during my 82 years--
A brother John, was only 20, a victim of a hunting shooting,
Where the unknown shooter shot in the air with no backing;
A father, his age at only 57, worn out from childhood rheumatic fever,
Which manifested its final blow from a weakened heart,
After testing high altitude breathing equipment during WW II;
A wife, Maggi, driving exam results from the University
To me in the field for proofreading and correction,
When her topheavy Land Rover overturned on a washboard dirt road--
The collision gently broke her neck, leaving no bodily mark;
A dearly beloved grandson, died in a terribly horrible car crash,
The horror shared with two companion boy friends, also dead;
A wife of 31 years, who died with a body riddled with cancer--
A great loss for me and her surrounding world.

I have never cried or became angry,
But rather have created a hand created marker,
Or created an endowment for students in our names together,
Or written narratives extolling their contributions to us all.
This type of grief behavior has been labelled as instrumental grief.
Intuitive grief is shown through emotion,
Such as crying, anger or outright emotional behavior.
I have, until I learned about these differences,
Thought I had not properly grieved.
It is a relief to now understand that I am not 'cold hearted',
And that many other fellow Homo sapiens, similarly grieve.

A Moment from the Past opus 243

Once again, I was in line in the pet store with more 'lizard-crickets'.
A pleasant young lady pulled back with a full cart of product.
She smiled as I said, "Thank you."
I paid and was walking out as she passed by me.
I said, "So you told me you have rabbits."
Then asking if she had chickens
To graze the droppings from the cages above.
"No," she said, stopping to talk.
"Did you have children in the Davis schools?"
I said yes and named my two boys, Pierre and Basil.
"Oh, I went to school with Basil!"
She gave me her name as Sevgi.
Rummaging through my mind for languages,
I said, not quite sure which language to grab onto,
"That means love!"  "Yes it is Turkish."
"Of course," I responded. She smiled that I had understood.
(I did live in Turkiye for some years.)
Her sparkling eyes prompted me to invite her
And her family to my farm.
We said goodbye, I, feeling a nice warmth of internationalism.
Travel in and learning about other cultures
Does add a further dimension to one's depth.

Obsolete Hormones? opus 250

Testosterone evolved to give males
The ability for aggression to protect.
Estrogen gave females the desire to create new life.
In our modern world unneeded Testosterone
Results in male rapes, murders, and male prison terms.
In our modern world Estrogen has generated desire for a birth,
Except when a 45 year old wants a child
And later realizes that the 20 year old offspring
Is overwhelming the aging mother!

Christmas Alone opus 251

I have always been sheltered by family to have companionship.
Now I am old and the youth are off on their own.
They do not realize how much they are now needed.
I wait for a moment to interact,
But in the meantime I have many wonderful memories
Which sustain me in thought to have continuous life.
So many memories of candlelight and the scent of an evergreen.
The future will eventually continue without me,
Although with a choice, I would love to see what might yet unfold!

A New Perspective on Santa opus 252

This is a saga told to me by my son, Pierre.
Rowan, my grandson, was being initiated
Into the stories of Santa Claus and
From where some presents come.
After a few tales of initiation, Rowan became emotional--
Non-cooperative, crying, and with belligerent behavior.
Both parents were clueless as to why.

After a time, it was slowly revealed
That the concept of Santa coming down the chimney
Created a disturbing thought of a stranger-intruder.
This might be because of all the news
Of violence surrounding us?
This imagined intrusion outscored
The thought of incoming presents!

Our Tree Shrew Affair opus 254

So far, biological studies have shown
All life on earth is related to a single DNA system.
Life shares its connectedness,
Demonstrating the relative closeness of our related status.
Clues of relatedness are also derived
From skeletal bone and tooth fragments.
In that light, the primary ancestor of primates--including us,
Was an arboreal, insectivorous tree shrew!
This is Purgatorius, from 65 million years ago, weighing 3.5 ounces.
The best fossil from 55 million years ago is Dryomomys.

It was always thought that these creatures were solitary.
Good science, with additional evidence
Now demonstrates that our primate ancestors
Appear to have lived as pairs--
Increasing their ability to protect each other,
To increase the success to forage food,
And to more competently raise offspring.
So now, as you snuggle with your partner,
Realize that this genetic behavior may be owed
To an arboreal, insectivorous tree shrew!

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.

'Vertebra' opus 259

(My daughter-in-law rarely communicates in any form, so it was a surprise
that I received a text! 5 January 2024.)

I have had an occasional visit from my 3 year old grandson, Rowan,
Who traversed my farm, talking with me about encountered objects.
He pointed out a whale vertebra, from one of my earlier biology jobs.
I repeated the word, 'vertebra', many times,
Also pointing out his own vertebrae, comprising his backbone.
My grandson had a great time and went back home.

Eight days later, his mother sent this text to me:

    Hi, Frank, sorry (as usual) for the lack of contact.
    I wanted to let you know something you would enjoy.
    Tonight Rowan said, "I hope my vertebrae are doing ok."
    I asked him where he learned such a sophisticated word.

    And he said, "From Papa Frank."

  It was quite impressive and very sweet.
  Thank you for teaching him these important things
  That he will carry forward in his life.
  I appreciate it.

I answered, "Yes, he liked that word. We were looking at
My whale vertebra then to his back."

Such an unpredictable, unforecast pleasure!

To Don, My Brother-in-Law opus 263

(A silly little verse to amuse him in his confinement.)

So you request sipping some vodka with tea,
Which you say must be imbibed together with me.
We have a long history of ups and downs together,
So we have much to chew on--and not just the weather.
It is nice to have revived our former involvement
And thus allow us ensemble, to fade into the firmament.

Book Banning opus 275

Why do certain groups of the species, sapiens,
Now that this species reads and writes,
Battle each other to abolish written knowledge
Of that of the other group,
Forcing contrary 'themes' to overwhelm, ideologically?
Well, perhaps,--idiocentric beliefs
That 'I am right--down with the other'.

A wise person, coping with this enigma, once said:
'Anger (or an absolute adherence to a dogma)
Is a form of ignorance.'
Consider the college kid who returns home, vacationing.
I was such a kid, but thankfully, I had educated parents,
Who only gently chided me for my 'outlandish' thoughts,
Knowing the same, they had endured.

My Haplogroup G on the Y Chromosome opus 293

DNA family ancestry became popular in the '80's and '90's.
I was very intrigued and sent in my saliva sample
To the 'pioneer' National Geographic laboratory, now gone,
Which yielded to '23 and Me' and other commercial groups.
My mother's X results showed my European and Scottish/Viking side,
While my father's Y yielded an exciting, unexpected history.
Instead of depicting a European story,
My Y chromosome showed a haplogroup G,
Found in the Turkiye, Armenia, Iraq, and Iran area--
The Fertile Crescent, origin of agriculture from 9 thousand years ago!
The haplogroup G was basically rare in Europe which demonstrated
That the practice of agriculture was not spread through warfare and plundering,
But rather through more gentle, cultural exchange.
Having applied to be a Pacifist, Non-combatant in 1966,
I was pleased that my biological background
Led me to a farming existence in Davis, California, my now home.
My maternal grandfather and Bill, his son, were also farmers.
It just took me 40 years to recapitulate my genetic beginnings!

Fashion vs Function opus 294

In 1978, when I returned to my country after nine years away:
Teaching abroad--Turkiye, Africa, and Sweden.
My mother found a 37 acre property in Davis, California.
The original house was situated in a north-south orientation.
She wished to add on for her own personal abode,
So we discussed, by letter, the position of the attached new home.
The orientation, of course, was a right angle--east-west position,
That was to catch the rays of the sun!

Upon my arrival, Mother hired a contractor and commenced the building.
I stayed out of the further design and construction--
Her temperament was such that one did not interfere.

My mother has now passed and I live in her former abode.
All has been well, except for some of the house design.
The tiny, unrealistic solar box has been relegated, obsolete.
The magnificent timbers, supporting the beamed ceilings
Protrude out of the roof, emulating the ribs of a large dinosaur.
All was well, until the huge climate change storms began to emerge.
The 'ribs' had conducted intense rainstorm flows into the house!
Three buckets are now engaged with each storm
To prevent the flowing drips, moistening the contents within!
The moral of this is, which even Frank Lloyd Wright might have learned,
(A few of his designs are documented as having difficulties),
Flaunting architecture could be redesigned to render a humbler display.
(Consider the huge cumbersome tail of the Peacock to attract females
Against the overwhelming 'non dimensional' vocalizations of the Nightingale.)

Nikki: A Benevolent One or a Potential Dictatress? opus 296

Nikki Haley is wondrously standing up to Trump,
Even though she forwarns, as he,
Of repressive potential laws to curb women's freedoms, etc.
It is said she met her potential husband, William Michael Haley,
Declared he did not look like a Bill (nickname for William),
And to this day, he was then, and is now, (her name),
Michael!
Should we admire a woman who 'officially' renames her husband,
Or should we fear that she, if coming into power,
Would also be a dictatress 'for a day'?

Oh, Dear Southern Alabama opus 310

Our Southern states maintain their infectious friendly cuisine and manners.
Sadly, they hold onto 19th century-thinking concerning several subjects.
Specifically, here, is the question, when is a human, really a human?
The Alabama Supreme Court has now ruled
That a frozen embryo (a fertilized egg) is a child!
Since when could we ever freeze a child?
Since when is a frozen, unattached embryo, (an 'extra uterine child'),
And not within a female uterus, ever be considered a human child?
One of the repercussions, of course, is that 'childless parents'
May no longer be enabled to have a child!
Blind religious edicts lead to human tragedy,
When juxtaposed with the present, technological world.

Science has been developed to yield a life more 'disease free',
As well as a life with reduced mindless toil.
Here, science has allowed human couples, unable to conceive,
To be able to have a possible and healthy pregnancy.
This certainly is a clash of modern technology and continual archaic thinking.

Rationalizing Age opus 319

While chatting on the phone with my son, Pierre, today,
I mentioned my continual, 'gentle', consistent pain
In my somewhat unsuccessful hip replacement.
I told him that at 82, to endure this
'Inconvenience' with my ambulation,
I just rationalize, and tell myself quietly,--
'I am only pretending that I am simply old!'

Flying XI The Snowstorm opus 320

{It has been quite a while since I wrote my last 'Flying X'.
There have been many distracting world events to deter me!
These Poems and Thoughts were initiated to pass on some personal histories
For my two boys and any other family members who may be interested.
It has thus evolved, as well, to include commentary of all sorts,
But still remaining within the realm of my thoughts and concerns.}

While at Cornell as a graduate student, I flew small planes,
Having joined a University flying club.
To maintain some sanity during all the serious PhD studies,
Music in the Cornell orchestra and occasional flying here and there
Were the antidotes to clear my head from the challenging academic thinking.

After a few years of flying, I became quite proficient,
So I met more and more challenging weather situations.
In the winter of 1967(?) I was flying back to the Ithaca airport
When, suddenly the weather changed as it did often in northern New York.
Snow flurries from the Great Lakes spread across the area.
I had landed at an airport about half an hour flying time from Ithaca.
I called the control center and explained I needed to return to my home base.
(Probably the need was the result of a pending oral exam!)
After some discussion I convinced them I could fly on.
I had told them I knew all the highways leading to Ithaca
And that I would fly above the roads, following them to the airport.
Ok. I took off, flying at about 1000 feet, still maintaining a visual of the ground.
The snow was light, but thick around me.
I remember seeing the vehicles passing below me.
It was a sight I would never dismiss from my mind.
I did wonder, while above them, just what they thought of all this!
I followed the main highway west, turning left or south,
Then on to the anticipated runway ahead.
I believe I came down on runway 31 where I had learned to fly!
As I touched down and the wheels squealed in joy with the earth,
My heart was relieved, but in harmony with the joyful rubber below me.

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!

On This Day Three Decades Ago--Our 4 July opus 382

On our 37 acre farm, we had 14 fish ponds.
Every week I harvested Channel Catfish for local farmers markets.
On this day three decades ago, I first, then later my two boys,
Paddled out to the center of our largest pond bearing legal fireworks.
As dusk arrived, the fireworks, from the middle of the pond,
Would be released to the delight of all onlookers.
My mother, Elizabeth, was still alive and especially enjoyed them.
In those days it was quite safe, being in the mid-pond,
But with today's temperatures of 110 degrees F and such surrounding dryness,
To do such would be an act of folly and probably would be called in!

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'.

Dear Women opus 385

Have you completely thought through the implications of how you will vote?
Remedying the Climate Crisis--how it will affect your children.
Maintaining our world treaties, thus stability for your child's future.
Women's health--how the wrong choice will jeopardize
Your sisters' and your daughters' and your fellow women's lives.
Please use your feminine intuition in making this most important choice!

I speak as a humble man.

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?

Butterfly Massacre--A Sequel opus 404

Barely within a few hours of emailing out my 'Butterfly Massacre' work,
Comments started drifting in--some writings do that and some do not,--
This one hit a nerve conveying comments such as:
'You are right on the money. We see the butterfly slaughter
Almost every year here in Texas.' (Texas)
'This is brilliant, Frank! Thanks for sharing.' (Illinois)
'Going over a Colorado pass, we encountered masses of butterflies,
Not Monarchs. They were more gray. I suspect we killed thousands.
I was sick. We were both horrified.' (Iowa)
'Oh, Frank, so true. We are, as a species, a blight on the so-called
natural world.
If we could just realize that the natural world
We so blatantly dismiss is what keeps us alive.
For how long is anyone's guess. Thanx my friend.' (California)

There is a soft spot with humans concerning butterflies--
Not soft and fuzzy like a Koala, but beautiful and gentle fliers.
My second son, Basil, who often comments wryly on my Thoughts,
Queried: 'Will this not simply lead to a gradual evolution
To higher flight paths of the surviving migratory and other insects?'
This observation may not be out of the question!
Studies done on wing length of Cliff swallows,
Nesting under bridges and continually avoiding cars,
Evolved shorter wing lengths, resulting in quicker maneuvering.
Shorter wing lengths yielded more survivors--
Could higher flying, during migrations, allow for more butterfly survivors,
Encountering large numbers of vehicles?

A California Saga--Freezing! opus 419

I have lived and farmed here in Davis for decades.
In the 80's the winter task was to wrap pipes,
And cover plants, preventing freezing.
On the plus side, I skated with my two boys on one of our fishponds!
Never, would we have envisioned a warming, changing so much.
Now it is drought, fire, and water challenges--
Wells, once dug to a depth of thirty feet,
Are now obligated to excavate to hundreds (200 then 400)!
I am near the end of my time on this earth--
How, in 'god's name', will my offspring
Cope with these huge, rapid, human-induced changes,
Manifesting, on the once climatic 'golden age' of our planet we so loved?

Afternoon of my 83rd Birthday (Train of Thoughts) opus 423

Guests at 1700 Hours have departed and I sit alone
By my small pond in a gentle breeze.
Quiet, with a bucolic sense all around.
A Great Egret patiently fishes, then slowly rises up and disappears.
Recounting my birth certificate, recording the time I emerged into the world--
0115 EDT--if daylight time had been created then (it had--March 1918).
That would mean the exact time of 83 years,
Would have been 2215 Hours PDT on 24 August 2024.
Funny how things shift around our planet.

So, at 1100 Hours, Pierre's and Basil's mother, Christine, came to celebrate!
When your ex-wife comes to truly visit, you have done something right!
(I think she might be a little bored, lacking a challenging
conversation now and then.)

Then Pierre (son) and Julia (his wife) and belatedly Rebecca (a friend)
Tumbled in for a moment of greetings and tumbled out, just as fast, to
Burning Man.
Christine and I were left with cake and South African Gem squash and figs
To discuss for a full four hours--she was to stay only for one or two.
Reluctantly on both our parts--so different in life's orientation,
I had to send Christine on her way into the five-o'clock Sunday traffic.
A very nice interaction of two, who seldom interact.
How wonderful if Kamala and Trump and their followers
Could interact in such a peaceful and sane manner.
This was, indeed, a thoughtful and meaningful meeting of two differing minds.
Thank you, Christine, to take the time and be tolerant enough
To propose, to expound, to contemplate and allow the possibilities of compromise,
Which could exist in a world of needless, non-empirical debate.

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!

My Neanderthal Past opus 451

I often think of those Neanderthals from my past;
Wondering just who coupled
With my first Homo sapiens mother.

Attempted Robbery opus 463

We all have seen reenactments of various robberies--
Banks, stagecoaches, in an alley, during war.
But have you actually been a part of and felt what it was like?
Around August 1973, I was on home leave from my African teaching job.
I was half way home in Rio de Janeiro for a stop over,
Spending an evening at the theatre, then walking back to the hotel,
where Pierre, my first born, (three months) and his mother were waiting.
I decided to take a short cut behind the main thoroughfare.
Walking in a lighted, but narrower area between buildings and the river,
I was commencing to pass by two 'guys' leaning against the railing.
As I passed, they suddenly confronted me with a small, silver pistol.
We spoke different languages, but I knew what they were demanding.
I was larger than they, so I talked, holding out my arms to appear large--
Just like Konrad Lorenze (an ethologist) had done, confronting a barracuda,
To ward off the giant fish while scuba diving--
And it seemed to work as they impatiently waved me on.
After saying 'Obrigado' I moved away, but decided on a strategy;
In case they tried to shoot me in the back,
I ran with a premeditated zigzag to avoid a clear shot.
No shot occurred and I was most relieved as I rounded a right corner.

Was I afraid? As I remember 50 years later,
I was seized with adrenalin and tenseness, but not with fear.
It passed through me as an extreme event in life
And not a pending tragedy with possible wounding or death.
No matter what, it still remains vividly in my memory.

My Verbal Rambles with Regan of Texas opus 466

Hello, Regan, It is the middle of the night and my mind still races.
For the stores, prohibiting those distinguished guests with bare feet,
Just sew some of your own moccasins for your shopping experience.
COMPROMISE WITH TRIVIAL MATTERS, BUT STILL WIN.
Glad Ms. Caroll is mending.
Just had part of my head amputated for cancer.
Had a jovial time with the surgeon. We know each other well.
I have used guns on the farm now and then--rats!
(I hunted one deer with a bow for three years and succeeded--THAT is sport.)
My brother, 20 years old, was shot in the back from a long distance,
So no sound was heard--he just dropped next to his hunting partner.
I opposed the Vietnam war and was vindicated
When MacNamara stated before he died that it was a 'wrongful' war.
I have historical schizophrenia with guns and war.
What fun we could have discussing over a good ale!
I would even go barefoot to be accepted in your presence in that bar,
If you so insisted, and of course if they even let us in.

I am alone for Thanksgiving, so I am planning a simple repast
Of Taters, Nips, some good Scotch, and of course Haggis.
Are you familiar with such?--with the ignorant, a bad reputation,
But so delicious--no different than a wurst or a humble 'hotdog'.
All include, historically, everything left on the floor and walls. . . .
And we eat that stuff at our national pastime. . . .
So why does everyone dump on Haggis???
Damn, it would be nice to have a good face to face with you.
And in between chats, I would help you wrangle up some Fallows
For shipment to some rich Texan rancher with 12 oil wells!
(We need those rich extravagant ones to keep us peasants in business.)

Be so well!!  Frank.

A Ceremony Over an Opossum Skull opus 477

Humans have tended their dead over centuries in many ways:
Some burned, some left for the vultures,
Some buried in several configurations.
Are these customs instinctual, or learned through culture?

Well, I was walking around my pond the day after Thanksgiving
With my son, Pierre, and his son, my grandson, Rowan.
We watched wild turkeys in the sun, with their exploding iridescent colors;
We munched on the desert jojoba seeds, from shrubs transplanted to the farm.
Suddenly we came upon an opossum skull buried in the grass.
Rowan was immediately mesmerized, as we pointed out its morphology.
Quickly Rowan commenced pulling out neighboring grass blades
And tenderly laying these herbs over the skull.
He repeated this ritual several times, until we moved on.
As we were observing things farther from the opossum,
Rowan turned and walked all the way back to the burial site.
He then proceeded to pull more grass, further covering the skull,
Then returned to us to continue our observations.
He repeated this maneuver thrice more in the exact same way.
So sweet to see--a tiny four year old boy,
Crouching over an opossum grave, which he was helping to lay to rest.
It was then that the original question (from above) came to me--
Is this an innate behavior or something that just must be done?
I shudder thinking about the profundity of this query.
My mind drifts back to the time when Homo sapiens
Intermingled with Neanderthals, each species interacting differently
As to what is now known from their early cave habits.
It seems the Neanderthals possibly 'taught' Homo sapiens how to bury their dead.

I revel in the new knowledge we are gleaning
From modern technology and methodology.
But it seems my question still remains in the ether around us.

Story Telling opus 478

Story telling is a very human trait.
How a story is told, molds the strength or weakness
Of a person or group.
Families who know and understand their stories,
Produce stronger and better adapted individuals
Facing life's challenges.
So, talk with one another and be stronger (in life)
During your passage through time.

A Note to a Daughter-in-Law opus 481

The murder of my two lovely hens by a dog(?)
Does not at all equal my sadness
By not being able to just plain
Talk with you and with your son.
Strange, I could talk with my two hens,
Even verbally, urging them into their shelter at night.

So, finally, I could talk with two sweet birds,
But not with a 'bird' who is human.

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.

Reaching Out to Those 'Others' opus 488

Many radio programs I have been listening to during this holiday season,
Ask that we try to reach out 'to the other side'.
Well, it took hold, so I texted my quick Holiday greetings
To both my closer friends, but also to those I have for several
reasons lost touch.
It is difficult to reach out to people who are adamant and unyielding.
I am truly in a quandary, but I shall send more 'innocuous' messages
And see if anything softens in our interactions.

To My Two Sons opus 503

I am trying to be a very good Grandfather
For your sons (or nephews),
To make up for any inadequacies,
While being your parent.
I have a few years to fulfill this pledge.
Bear with me.

Love, Your Dad.

Paper Whites Responding to the Rain opus 506

The rain used to come in November,
Bringing up the Narcissus Paper Whites,
But now with a shifting climate
Manifesting a new weather,
Our blooming season commences much later.
So, now January, and the real start of the beautiful,
Fragrant blooms
Around pond 12, where they have always come first,
Reminds me of Nora, who started off
Our flower project these forty years ago.
So long, dividing bulbs, continually burst open.
And such a scent, perfuming the kitchen
And reaching out as far as able.
Sweet scent; sweet memories.

A Child's Mind! 1 opus 513

Rowan, my 4-year-old grandson, visited today.
I had hidden a four inch wide metal 'ladybug' in the grass
For him to have a game to try and find it.
I told him it was his to take back home,
But, for the moment, all he wanted to do
Was to have it hidden once more,
So he might attempt to look for it once again!
He repeated this three more times, without tiring.
I asked him again if he would like to take it home,
Or possibly leave it at the farm
To hunt for it on the next visit.
It had a lovely red carapace with seven big white spots;
I thought for sure he would take it home.
Nope, he asked me to save it here
For his next round of 'seeking'.
I am never sure what his little mind will come up with.
We had such a lovely, meaningful afternoon.

A Child's Mind! 2 opus 514

After our 'ladybug' hunt, we, Rowan and I, looked at our thumbs.
I showed him they rotated around and could oppose all his fingers.
I told him we were the only animal with such a dextrous thumb.
He seriously looked down at his moving thumbs,
Then looked up at me and said,
"This is how I can pick up things so easily!"
We went on to discuss that monkeys cannot do such, as well.
I mentioned that monkeys also have thumbs on their feet,
But they were also not completely opposible.
I added that we had no 'foot-toes', because we are real walkers.
He looked down at his bare feet and said,
"We are really special, Papa Frank!"
I smiled with satisfaction that I got the lesson successfully across--
A new dimension in thought for my growing grandson.

A Child's Mind! 3 opus 515

Once again, my 4-year-old grandson, Rowan,
Asked me, as we were sitting in my cozy bedroom,
To make him his favorite 'cocktail' which only Papa Frank could make!
I am walking much slower now, following health issues and aging.
I got up and slowly walked to the kitchen to prepare his drink--
A mix of part water, part cranberry juice, and part orange drink.
(The only ingredient missing, which I make for his father,
Pierre, and for me is citrus-flavored vodka.)
Rowan followed me to the kitchen,
Where he watched me make his concoction.
Rowan again followed behind me, when he blurted out,
"Papa Frank, you walk as slow as a tortoise!"
I couldn't help but laugh and then turned to him, chuckling, saying,
"I love tortoises; I live with tortoises; and I am happy to walk like one!"

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.

A Source of Emotion. (A true tale.) opus 539

A father was informed that his son's car had struck a deer.
The father then drove to the son's side to give aid and comfort.
The car was damaged, but drivable.
The son was emotional and even in tears.
Upon calming down, father and son, then returned home.

With analysis, an interesting and in depth enquiry might now be asked.
Were the understandable flow of tears a result of
Self emotion? Compassion for a killed deer?
Or both of these sources of emotion, resulting in those tears?

A Fortunate Old Man opus 546

I have many memories of 'good' and 'bad':
It is all relative.
I have reasonable health.
I have warm or cool shelter--
Depends on the season.
I have nourishment--
Recycled, roadkill, entomophagous, or deluxe.
I have activities to keep my mind astute--
Conservation efforts, writing, fundraising,
Discourse with those who wish to engage;
Tending and feeding my animals--
From fish (Bettas), to bird (emu),
To reptile (Bearded Lizards), to mammal (Angus calf):
I have them all--my constant companions.
I have occasional friendly visitors
Who gift me bits of wonderful food
And to some, in return, I donate some remuneration
For various student and conservation causes;
But, most profoundly, my two boys (men),
Who check in on me, converse with me, help me,
And keep my faculties honed to sharpness.
It could be far worse.

My Pictish Beast Tattoo opus 577

Among other peoples, I am a Pict--
The tattooed or painted ones of Scotland.
I first saw the petroglyph, 'Craw Sten' of Rhynie
Several decades ago atop its hill--
Angled salmon above and Pictish Beast beneath,
On a standing stone two meters high.
I have utilized the image of this Beast
As a logo on all my literature.
Now, after 10 or more years of pondering,
I am ready to endure a baptismal tattoo
On my own left forearm.
I shall be kilted, with a hippo tusk lying nearby,
Accompanied by a bunched cluster of ancient mammoth hair.
There shall be a Swiss cow bell, as part of my past.
I shall add ancestral Erectus and Neanderthal stone tools,
Formerly used to skin said mammoths.
An attending Turk there, shall represent the Fertile Crescent;
A South African shall represent our African human origins;
And Drew, the artist, returned from 39 years abroad
Will represent my own sojourn in Sweden.
We shall be conversing in Swedish and Turkish and English.
After one half hour, I shall be marked for the remainder of my life.
Just as the new pope was recently inaugurated into the church,
So shall I finally be enfolded into my Pictish fellowship.

This poem shall be read before commencing with the marking (21 May 2025).

Fathers' Day (15 June 2025) opus 588

A book recently released, outlined 'The History of Fatherhood'.
During the author's research,
He asked his adult son what makes a good father.
The son's immediate response astounded his father--
'A good father should be funny and give many hugs.'
The author, amazingly, thought for two weeks,
Before he concluded that this described his wife's behavior and character!
Over the years, since the first Fathers' Day, 110 years ago, indeed,
The role of fathers has slowly evolved from a powerful disciplinarian
To a more participating, gentle role of parent.

The Weight of Two X Chromosomes opus 605

Could there truly be a benevolent, all-knowing deity creator?
Just compare the relative ease with which men (X/Y) 'sail' through life,
While women (X/X), the absolute necessity for the continuation of human life,
Must go through such relative torment to be bearers of that life.
Large breasts--unlike any other ape-- are permanently formed--
A possible platform for cancer.
Then menstruation, continually forming 'ripe' eggs
(But inconveniently in between the bleeding periods),
Until one is finally nabbed by a sperm to create an offspring.
Birth, often very difficult or deadly,--
And then several years of producing milk to feed such offspring--
Sometimes too much with accompanying pain and other times, paucity.
Then the female is discarded from reproductive abilities,
Through the process of menopause--far sooner in life than her male counterpart.
What makes this all happen,
Is that women are endowed with a longing for an offspring--a child.
And thus, such longing, masks the clear thinking,
Concerning all the trials she must go through (sometimes alone),
Allowing human kind to reproduce and multiply for the benefit of the species.

Hope is the Enemy of Courage opus 613

At age 19 while attending Antioch College in Yellow Springs, Ohio
A very intellectually stimulating academic institution,
I came across a book, 'Faith of a Heretic',
Written by a Yale Philosophy Professor, Walter Kaufman, in 1959.
The subject included not to hope, but to get in and do it.
My whole life seems to have followed that philosophy.

As a child I wanted to build a treehouse 30 feet high in an oak.
And I did so.
As a 10-year-old, I had a 'nature club' for 'younger' kids!
It went well, considering my tender age.
I wished to continue my father's abandoned large vegetable garden.
And I did so with my little brother.
I wanted to have a large pond for my huge carp and snapping turtles.
And I dug it.
I wanted to earn a PhD at Cornell.
And I earned it!
During my teaching job in Africa, I wanted to learn beekeeping with the aggressive African bee.
And I carefully learned the art.
I wished, back in the US, to start a polyculture educational farm; the Environmental Education Farm Foundation.
And, laboriously, I managed and did so.
I decided I must save California wildlife land and created the Quail Ridge Conservancy (Land Trust).
And it, with lots of effort, manifested itself, eventually becoming part of UC Davis.
I learned of the languishing of the creation of legislation for a California State Grass.
And after four years it was passed.
I worked in Wyoming to protect 7,000 acres of wildlife acreage.
And after 20 years,it was accomplished.
I learned I was a Pict of Scotland and established myself as a stone carver.
Lots of effort and work to do so!
After Nora, my late wife passed, I decided to create and manage a UCD Student Endowment.
And, believe it or not, it is functioning.
I wished then to create a 'Poems and Thoughts' website for my children to remember my life.
And now it consists of 580 plus poems for their, and others' thinking.

What I am saying is that the old philosopher's words were always there for me to manifest;
From childhood to near death, I have attempted to meet the challenge of my passions.
My advice to the next generation is to do such--
Never demur in your true passions and accomplish what you desire and must do. May it be good.

'Number Five' opus 623

Rowan, my grandson, is now 'number five'--
His fifth birthday was 6 August.
He called me while driving with Pierre, his father.
His school is out and he was going
To his other grandparents for the day.
He was so excited to now be five.
I wonder if I might talk with him when he is twenty five?
Or I muse if I might last until he is fifteen.
When he comes to visit for my birthday, I have ready
A lovely green malachite piece of copper-based stone,
A shimmering 'artificial' lump of crystals,
A shiny silver Kennedy 50 cent coin, along with a trilobite,
And a miniature of an Emperor Penguin in color.
Plus a lovely children's book for his Dad or Mom to read to him.
Happy Birthday, Rowan.

To Andrew: The Dual Existence of our Saturdays' Time Spans opus 628

Most noble Andrew; It is such as you who nurtures
The human world by caring for another Homo sapiens' offspring,
Plus further caring for that creature which co-evolved with us--
The dog, having evolved by way of human attention from the noble wolf.

While I, in a completely different vein, have spent the day
Toiling to save for conservation, a mere 2660 acres
Of our planet for use by other creatures than just us alone.
Which is more noble, that of the care of a child and dog
Or preserving a mere 2660 acres of the planet's large surface?
Time might tell--a result which neither of us may ever know.
We live with the anticipation that, that for which we exert our energies,
May be manifested to the delight of those angels
Which are only in our mythical heads.

May time Sunday be spared from your Mother's needs,
For us to have a moment of communication under the pine,
 
Juxtaposed by our tiny pond.

A Follow-up on 'Number Five' opus 635

I previously wrote a note about Rowan's (grandson's) birthday.
When he arrived to celebrate my birthday,
He immediately pulled out a small lava stone.
He said it was from his bar-b-que and was for me.
The party continued on, until I reminded him of his lava stone gift.
I asked if he would like to see one of my big red lava stones.
He responded affirmatively and I said it was by the porch. 
Astoundingly, he gave a quick nod and ran to that destination,
Knowing exactly where it was.
Barely being able to lift it, he moved it out into the open.
He looked at it, rubbed it, and then sat on it.
I asked him if he would like that stone in exchange for his.
Immediately he responded and posed for photos, sitting on his new gift.
Thus leaving a happy grandpa with a little lava stone
And a five-year-old boy with more than he was able to carry!

Another View of Death opus 642

A man was walking in a field with his daughter.
The two came upon the carcass of a mouse.
The father, seeing this as an opportunity to discuss death,
Begins to talk with his daughter.
The young child notices the masses of ants covering the mouse body.
The father realizes that the subject must now include decomposition,
And gently urges the girl to come away.
Walking a 'ways from the body, the girl turns back to the mouse.
She continues to watch the ants moving over and in the corps,
And turns to her father, "Look how these ants love this mouse!"
The yet untutored mind of a child, 
Often yields an unexpected, creative conclusion.

(This account reminds me of the two previous observations I made
about Rowan (g-son) and the opossum body found in our field.)

Usurpation of a Family Name opus 643

There was a family immigrating to the US,
Many decades ago, when Ellis Island was in vogue.
They were sitting on the hard-wooden benches,
Listening for their surname to be called out,
But which seemed never to be announced.
Suddenly a name commenced to be called--
Repeatedly.
No one responded. The seconds dragged on.
The father of the family rose and claimed that name.
Procedures evolved and the family 
Had a new name and a new nation.
Was this right or wrong?
What happened to the family who may have belatedly arrived,
Finding only that they were disqualified--
Sending them back to their nascent nation?
Were they escaping hardship or persecution?
History will never let us know.
Presently, the 'borrowing' ('thieving') family
Jokingly relates the story as a family triumph.

In these difficult political days for our country,
Would the harsh, present regime find them out,
Deporting them without a single humanitarian thought?
Again, we may never know, 
But such illegality has occurred throughout our history.

Solitary Confinement opus 648

California prisoners protested to eliminate solitary confinement.
This, for a human, is the worst punishment of all.
As in a family where purposeful isolation is employed,
The punishment results in anger and rebellion.
Humans should not be ignored nor isolated.
It results in nothing good.
Try to compromise, understand, and talk things out.
So many family rifts would be lessened to nothing.
An international example is the Palestinians 
Being robbed of their lands and originally isolated in prison camps--
Now, isolated in an open air prison with limited rights,
Along with warring persecution, all in the name of religious history.
Equal treatment would have lessened the problem to nothing.

An Unexpected Attack opus 659

July. My grandson, Rowan (5 now), visited me on my farm for another adventure.
We were feeding the calf and the emu when suddenly,
Rowan discovered scattered, strikingly-colored black and white varied feathers.
He began collecting them as any 'nature-child' would do:
Many from the body, several from the tail, and one partial right wing,
Maintaining the first eleven primary flight feathers.
These were all the remains from a preyed-upon Redshouldered Hawk.
What on earth had attacked and killed such a top-of-the-chain raptor?
Rowan and I discussed together as a five-year-old and a grandfather might do.
We slowly agreed that the only possibility was another resident raptor--
Which could be only the summer-roosting Great Horned Owl !
What a perplexing possible event, leaving us both astonished--
Nature around us often comes up with the unexpected.

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 Numbers in My Childhood opus 678

My home phone number was DEcatur 2-0466. I used this phone many times, especially during my teenage years, Calling friends, my love Seta, classmates and church appointments.

My family's main car was a Ford station wagon, license plate 43541, Massachusetts. I learned to drive in that car and took my driver's test among six foot high piles of snow! I passed. My first date with Seta was at her home. I drove my double bass over to Watertown, And had a 'romantic' evening playing a Bach flute concerto.

H2289 was licensed to a little yellow Nash Metropolitan Which my father drove and surprised us one evening. He needed a second car for his work at Arthur D. Little in Cambridge, Where he created and invented product models for businesses of all kinds. Father rejoiced when there were no more elongated bolt holes--US license plates were finally uniform!

My street number was 301 Lake Avenue, between Walnut Street and somewhere far north. It was named for Crystal Lake which was a few blocks north of our house. I fished there; I learned to swim there and we were banned from swimming as polio reared its head. (My mother, Elizabeth, had a deformed foot from childhood polio.)

My address always had Massachusetts,? 61,? We always argued where the comma should go. That was the small beginning of the North American zip code! We had 72 storm windows and screens we had to change every season. Long extension ladders were needed for the three stories of our old house. I was told this house was originally built by the Mafia.

There were six rooms on the first floor--

A dining room with carved wooden dragons at the upper corner of each door frame. My mother, tending the fireplace there, rose quickly and as was said, 'cracked her skull'. We lived with that reminder during all of our childhood.

There was the living room where my parents entertained And where we had the other fireplace and stood the Christmas tree by the bay windows. When the presents were distributed, I always hid one to have an 'extra' at the end!

Across the hall there was the music room with the record player and the upright piano. We had groups come and we played with combinations of instruments. My father even played his fiddle occasionally, and, of course, my mother played the piano-- Even in the evening to put us all asleep.

There was a small bathroom, a laundry room, and a pantry. These all joined the main kitchen where we read comics on Sunday, Cooked, and measured and quibbled over the size of pie pieces. (There's a photo!) There was a back stairway leading from near the kitchen area to the small hallway on the second floor. My father closed it off and stored food cans and liquor! I found this and snitched some, now and then!

Dad also put in a 'side door' to the driveway, where I would meet Frank the Milkman, so named.

Back at the main hall, there was a stairway with, I believe, 16 stairs to the second floor. The kneul post at the base of the railing was large and magnificent. (But at the finish of sliding down the railing, one had to always watch out for that large post.)

At the top of the stairs, which turned twice to the left, was another hall reaching our parents' bedroom, My sister Susan's room, and the 'boy's room', ('Chip' and John) looking over the flat roof, towards the street. Three rooms in all plus a bathroom, where Dad would tell stories, while sitting on the John! A fourth by the bathroom was Dad's office and study, where we often grouped to view collections of old Pennsylvania glass fragments,coins, and his anatomy books.

Going back to the top of the stairs was a door leading to the third floor. That was my realm. A small room to the left, where the old upright phonograph stood, which we cranked and played, A huge unfinished attic to the right, and my room straight ahead, past the skylight. My room had a linoleum 'rug' with the US map, a bed, my rolltop desk, bookcases, and a big closet. The window faced out to the street, and near which we had a rope tied to the radiator, In case there was ever an unfortunate fire which did occur many decades later And which I saw on a second visit, probably because the then inhabitants Had a large radio system, and just plain overloaded the whole system. Because of my mother's fear of snakes, I hid one in the bookcase. I also had a bullfrog which roamed the room, hopping occasionally into a pan central on the floor. This is where I listened to Public Radio, announcing the frightening sounds of the Korean War. That room was where Seta visited and we gently snuggled (only!) on my bed.

The skylight I mentioned was a straight-up wooden shaft. I figured out how to ascend it, Open it, and have a view of the whole neighborhood!

The basement stairs started at the kitchen and down 12 stairs. This is where the coalbin was, the furnace room, with the huge heating device, And a hallway where my father butchered rabbits (mine!) and an occasional squirrel. To the right of the stairway was my little work bench for carpentry. Further over was my father's work place with layths benches, drill presses, etc. He worked several years 'laything' 'cutters' to punch out gaskets for Armstrong Cork Company. Under one of the benches were six model heads designed by my Dad, which were used during WWII To model face shapes for pilot goggles and masks which he created. I always remember those white plaster faces staring out at me. His non-freeze goggles and breathing equipment helped win the war.

Our house and large garage were situated on 1/2 acre of a rectangular lot. We had at least two very large White Oak trees (Quercus alba), One of which I used to construct a 30 foot high tree house. There were also two moderately large Shagbark Hickory nut trees, Under which we collected and cracked open hundreds of little munchy morsels. I always liked looking at the trees' uneven 'shagbark' epidermis. High up on the bank above the driveway, stood a small Mountain Ash (A Hackensack'?, no that was the Larch nearby), Also called a Rowan, growing cosmopolitanly in the global north.) I was not aware at that time, I would later meet the Scottish Rowan (pronounced Rauwan) And my grandson, Rowan. During the summer, I was always fascinated with their small, lovely red berries. That so-called 'bank' was where I photographed my first bird picture (a Northern Flicker-- Then classified the Yellow Shafted Flicker) at eight-years-old. We had no Sugar Maple on the property, but there was a grove to the south In a neighbor's yard, where we also played. My father juxtaposed these native old-time residents, With hemlock, a small front yard boundary fir hedge, a large sprawling Forsythia, And masses of Rhododendrons with their magnificent blossoms, Interspersed with a population of Mountain Laurel.

I lived 1/2 mile south of Crystal Lake, where I swam, ice-sailed, skated, and fished. In high school, I wrote a paper on how the Lake's water was plped miles north, To Bigalow Lake to increase the water volume in order to service a mill there.

These were what surrounded near me as a child. I remember it as if it were yesterday and as I have done so all my life, To take in every detail of my surroundings. It is just the way I am.

To Julia opus 682

You joined my family six years ago,
Pledging enigmatically that you wished only very limited interaction.
Now these years later, I basically do not know who you are--
Your desires, your goals, your concerns, even your philosophy of child rearing!
It has pained me greatly to be so involuntarily distant from you,
Even after many years of gently and, admittedly, not so gently
Ways of breaking through your enigmatic facade,
I remain a stranger to you in my own family.
I fear this will never end, after much trial,
And you and I shall eventually pass on to the next phase of life,
Never having mingled our thoughts in what might have been
Mutual augmentation of our potential joyous selves.

An Ambivalent Scooter Owner opus 696

My grandson, Rowan, is now an 'older' five.
He has graduated from crawling, to walking, then running,
To his present stage of discovering the wonder of wheels! 
Wheels came into his life vicariously through toy trucks and other play things.
Suddenly, one day, he was presented with a small, three-wheel scooter,
Which he mastered and controlled, especially on his way to school.
Each morning his Dad followed him on his way to the halls of education.
He loved and enjoyed his little scooter, becoming bonded.

Then, I, his grandfather, contemplated something more 'grownup'.
It would have only two wheels, an adjustable handle control and brakes!
Well, it arrived in a big box, left unopened until Rowan's arrival.
While we were munching on burritos, the box, unopened, nearby.
I was explaining a few features about his potential new scooter.
Rowan was hesitant, saying he really liked his little three-wheeler,
And did not really want this upgrade in his life.
One exception became evident when he asked if there were any LED lights.
And no, there are no such upgrades on this model.
Out of the box it came, now being assembled by his Dad.
Gleaming white, large tires, and a fancy brake system.
Rowan viewed it with a little less reluctance,
Not wishing to betray his relationship with his first love.
He stepped onto the platform, handles firmly gripped,
And off he slowly, then more rapidly glided onward,
Left foot powering the sleek vehicle down the drive.
He never looked back, (until he returned),
Beaming with a newly discovered joy.
No ambivalence now, successfully having taken that unknown step,
As we all have done, leaving that familiar past,
Gliding into an exciting new, unthought of, until discovered, new world.

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!

Uncle Bill, a Young NY Farmer During WWII. opus 707

My mother and her family grew up on a farm in Watkins Glen, NY.
She had a younger sister, Georgia, and a little brother, Bill.
While I was struggling as to what to do during the Vietnam Conflict,
My mother, Elizabeth, told me a story about Bill, 
During his young years on the farm during WW II.
Because so many men were taken for the war effort,
Women took over this effort at home.
These women built weapons, took over manufacturing,
Transported planes within the US to their final domestic destinations,
And, of course, had to also manage their families and children!
In spite of the fact that many women took over the farming,
Many male farmers were required to remain on their farms
And also continue farming, along with their women counterparts.
My mother related to me how humiliating this was for Bill,
Who was one of those farmers who had to remain at home.
Whenever he needed to go to town for supplies,
He went on his business, ashamed to be seen.
I believe he never got over this, and when he dealt with me,
During my struggles as to what to do about my stance
To not fight and declare myself  a Conscientious Objector,
He disowned me completely and would never interact.
He was my favorite uncle, and the blow came heavy.
Our relationship never recovered, and the two of us
Will pass on completely unreconciled--
One aspect of my life, from which I will never completely heal.

The Making of a Stone Carver opus 709

My first trip with Nora, my late wife, to Ireland and Scotland,
Unfolded some adumbrations of my past ancestry.
I had done some genealogy before the trip for Nora's paper presentation.
I knew I went back to the Picts and the first Scottish king, Kenneth MasCalpine.
By actually being in these countries, it solidified my whole ancestry.
I attended seminars on the Pict's stone carving and woad tattooing.
(Woad is a European herb related to the mustards.
Woad is also a blue dye made from its leaves.)
When I returned home, I concentrated on learning to carve stones.
I found Mr. Rukala, the mason for the Sacramento Cemetery.
I and a young friend drove across the valley from Davis to Rockland.
Rukala met us, said he had twenty minutes for the lesson,
When he immediately began demonstrating with mallet and chisel.
As he proceeded, the main point became ever-clear--
Carve 'always away from the weak point or line'.
With this principle constantly in mind, one can rarely go wrong.
He presented me with a few old, huge chisels--never used--
And invited me to grab some stones on which to practice.
Then, he departed and we were left alone!
We drove home, picked out a large sandstone piece,
Originally found at Lake Berryessa and started in.
This first and quite well done carving, if I do say so myself,
Was of the Rhynie standing stone,
Depicting the fourth century salmon and Pictish Beast.
The instructions were perfect and the carving remains in my home.
To reach out with my craft; I left examples in several craft stores.
This was not a huge success, because I could not 
Match the price of the laser-made items.
I decided to participate in a local Scottish Games festival.
People began purchasing--everything went to my QR Land Trust.
An artisan came by and said, "I have not seen you before",
And invited me to another festival farther up north.
That started things off, developing to 15 festivals, 
Which I attended each year. 
The festivals covered Nevada, California, Oregon, and Washington--
A large commitment, but all a labor of love and fun.
I was showered in fliers, newscasts, brochures, and invitations.
A slow, but incredible fulfillment of reputation and devotion.
And so it went for many years and several hundred stones!

My Timeline opus 710

A wonderful preschool life with loving, caring parents and a little brother, John, and a littler sister, Susan.

Hyde School Elementary, Newton Highlands, MA (1946-1951). (I loved school and started piano and in 6th grade, double bass.)

Weeks Jr HS, Newton Center, MA (1951-1954). (Met students from other religions and began my love of Shakespeare. Orchestra for real.).

Newton (N) HS, Newtonville, MA (1954-1958). (More and better orchestra, personal relationship with a supreme being, love, readying for college.)

Antioch College, BA, Yellow Springs, OH (1959-1964). (New subjects and thoughts, orchestra conducting, Cooperative academic jobs--whales, a museum job, teaching in Switzerland-- end of formal religion.)

Cornell University, Ph,D., Vertebrate Zoology and Ecology, Ithaca, NY (1964-1968). (Dinner with Hans Betha, inventor of the hydrogen bomb; field work on Microtus; learned to fly.)

Robert College, Istanbul,Turkiye, Prof Vertebrate Zoology (1968-1972). (Became department chair, field work in Israel and Libya, learned cello, composed music, travelled around Turkiye.)

U. of Botswana, Lesotho and Swaziland, Lesotho, Africa, Prof Vertebrate Zoology (1972-1975). (Bred Basotho Ponies, rescued a baboon, learned bee keeping with this vicious species.)

U, of Uppsala, Sweden, Researcher (1975-1977). (Did research on the gentler European Honey bee as well as animal ag food processing, learned Swedish, ice skating, drank from royal horns.)

Created the Environmental Education Farm Foundation, Davis, CA (1977-2024). (Learned farming, farmers markets, raised ground-raised turkeys, chickens, and ducks, and aquaculture.)

Created the Quail Ridge Wilderness Conservancy, (Napa, CA), Davis, CA (1989-present). (Learned about Conservation Easements, fundraising, passed the legislation for the State Grass.)

Pictish Stone Art hand carved petroglyphs (1995-present). (Learned a completely new art form. did custom orders, learned even more Scottish and world history, gave lessons, exhibits.)

Conducted several outreach voyages to Scotland, one of my natal ancestral nations, to be with the people, and carve in situ and present stone petroglyphs to Parliament and to other organizations.

'Poems and Thoughts' poetry (2020-present) (Through new writing, I reviewed my history and world thinking; became more philosophical, viewing my past life; leaving a record for my children.)

Author's Page opus 713

After ten years abroad, he started the Environmental Education Farm Foundation, Davis, California, and ten years later, founded the Quail Ridge Wilderness Conservancy, a land trust, saving 2000 acres in Napa, California, and joined it to the University of California Natural Reserve System. He also spearheaded the preservation of two, 3000 acre parcels in Wyoming, giving shelter to wildlife and specifically the Greater Sage-Grouse. Frank wrote the legislation for the Official State California Native Grass. He went on to also pass the State Grass for Wyoming.

Maurer became a stone carver, because of his Pictish ancestry, using only a hand-held chisel, and donated stones to several countries, including Ireland and Scotland, as well as Cornwall and Wales, districts. His stones are in 37 state archives throughout the US, named the State Tartan Stone.

Frank created his 'Poems and Thoughts' in 2000 and to date has written over 700 prose-poem works, reflecting his varied life experiences. Maurer is now 84-years-old and has a sharp mind and uncanny memory. He is listed in Who's Who in America and in Who's Who in the World.

Frank lost his brilliant wife, Prof. Lenora A. Timm, in November 2016, after 31 years of a symbiotic, productive marriage, and has two surviving sons, (Christine's and his offspring), Pierre (52) (his wife, Julia) and Basil (46) and grandchildren, Jayden and Rowan. (Also in memory of Jayden's brother, Chance.)

To Hold on for Nine Years opus 714

Every holiday she strung lights throughout a room of our home.
Her last season for lights was November 2016.
She died soon thereafter--I left the lights on all that year.
Each year thereafter, the lights remained on in remembrance.
One November, almost to the day, nine years later, 
The lights dimmed to darkness.
The nights now are as deceased as the decorator herself. 

Christmas, 2025 opus 716

The Eve gently shifts to that Day.
I am awake changing my pads.
My body diurnally leaks--
It shall continue until I die.

My mind floats to the events and thoughts
Of just today--now yesterday:

A photo of us three children,
So long ago, tucked by the tree.

Elaine's text of her partner's cancer.

Waiting for even a quick call from grandson, Jayden.

Pleased to have conversed today with son, Pierre;
Pondering the section of my living room ceiling,
Which tumbled down during the last rain.

Wondering how my calf is doing in this storm.

Observing my Bettas, gulping air each three minutes.

Enjoying the Mozart Piano Concerto, K 502, now on.

Wondering when I will be tired, so to sleep.

So tormented about politics these days.

So sad about some relationships, not gone well.
Joyful in those that have, indeed, succeeded.

Listening to my furnace monitoring its temperature level.
I try to use as little propane as possible.

Sipping my water drink, touched with Anise.

Thinking of this 'Thought' I am composing.

Viewing the Libyan Desert Glass on my table,
Alongside the jar of New England Sea Glass.

Still wondering when I will be tired enough to sleep.

Oh, perhaps now--My thoughts transformed to Dreams.

Man of the Earth--New Year's Thoughts opus 726

I have lived as a Man of the Earth,
Sharing the elements 
Of the world around me:

Searching for wood for the fire,
Hunting with a bow in a tree,
Dressed my own game and fish,
Fishing, casting a net into the air,
Harvesting flowers for the market,
Tapping the maple for sweet sap,
Building dams for aquaculture,
Listening to the cackling of the Canada Goose,
Learning the ways of the African bee,
Collecting mushrooms in Turkish forests,
Shot Guineafowl for my African safari,
Hand carved stone from the Earth's plentiful supply,
Was tattooed to join my Pictish family,
Repaired nets to seine my ponds,
Sun-dried figs for a winter's supply,
Sauteed crickets to supplement my protein,
Produced wine from the wild dandelion,
Taught children the ways of Nature,
Bore the kilt with the pride of tenacity,
Conducted music and played bass and cello for pure joy,
Fenced with the foil next to a Russian Master,
Marvelled at my five digit hand,
Opposed warfare of all sorts,
Enjoy the morphology of my female counterparts,
Salvage nourishing corn cobs from a dust bin,
Bred my own rabbits, horses, and dogs,
Have attended school with great eagerness,
I shape my own bandages for my great wound,
Surround myself with Desert Glass and Neanderthal tools,
Labored long, preserving space for wild things,
Communing with fellow creatures--domestic and wild,
I have resisted death from TB and leukemia,
Founded an Educational Farm Foundation,
Created the Quail Ridge Wilderness Conservancy, 
My wives, Maggi, Christine, and Nora were well chosen,
I have fathered two great singular boys.

Such have been my doings as a Man of the Earth.

Encounter With a Rattlesnake on the North Fork of the Yuba River opus 730

Being restless one California weekend,
I took the family, with the two boys, Pierre and Basil, east,
Into the Foothills of the Sierras and the North Fork of the Yuba River
To pan for gold, anticipating use of our new gold pans. 
Driving through lovely wooded roads,
We made it together to the river's edge.
Gold panning was fun and we even found
A few small nuggets amongst the deep black sand grains.
After panning for two or three adventuresome hours,
We decided to explore along the wooded shoreline.
Suddenly, I spied a large rattlesnake in the grass.
I called the others to come and check it out with me.
We slowly followed it, as it agilely glided along.
Sensing our presence, I am sure, it headed for a tree,
With an opening in between two large roots.
As the snake was half way into the hole,
I compulsively announced I was going to hold its tail !
This was all done quietly as I explained,
That I was able to do this because the snake could not turn around.
As they watched, I explained how the snake felt--
Strong body muscles, cool to the touch, and very soft skin.
Concluding this bizarre exercise, I slowly released the tail,
And the snake quickly disappeared down into its shelter.
This act was perhaps foolish, but my knowing animals
Made it very safe, and we all, in our own way, will remember
Our interaction with this dangerous, but now 'controlled' creature--
A creature of mystery and stories, giving us each a memory
To last until the end of our lives!

Dinosaur Footprint Hunting opus 731

While teaching in Lesotho, Africa,
I had my first child, Pierre,
Who at two, 'followed' me around the countryside,
Collecting bees at night 
And finding dinosaur footprints in daylight.
This, all between my biology classes at the University.
One spectacular trip was to a large valley,
Where there were myriads of tumbled sandstone blocks,
Strewn randomly throughout the area.
I slowly walked amongst these boulders,
When suddenly I found my first prints.
A large, three-toed series of impressions,
Spread across the flat surface.
I carried with me plaster of paris, a water container,
Strips of cardboard and a clutch of paperclips.
I made a cardboard border around the print,
Tied together at the ends, with the necessary clips.
Water and plaster were mixed to a soft-solid consistency;
Then poured into the void, the print primed with vaseline.
Several prints were cast and then the waiting time.
Each was pulled up and removed, now in a solid state.
These prints were made in the seventies
And many remain today (2026) on my farm to our delight.
The five decades of preservation here on the farm,
Equals nothing to the 60 million years of waiting in the sandstone,
To be admired by humans today--
They, nowhere to be found during this creature's long past reign.

Surveying a Pond Base opus 733

After my dear mother died, I inherited her house on our farm.
It was smallish, but tidy with a few solar embellishments.
The four huge wooden house rafters extended eight feet outside,
Creating a rustic ambiance.
The roof (and ceiling!) and beams were absolutely horizontal.
As well, the tiny main porch was unimpressive with a concrete flooring.
This was all nice, until we had our first severe rains--
The badly sealed flat beams guided water inside to leak in the rooms.
The porch guided water back to the inner house wall,
Because some idiot had not checked the slope before pouring concrete!

Each time I cope with these 'flat' problems,
I am reminded of my fish pond constructions and surveying.
I created ponds from deserted quarry mining,
Shaping, molding and carefully building each pond, 1/2 to 2 acres.
Unlike the builders of my mother's house,
I carefully surveyed the floor of each pond,
Allowing not less than a three inch drop,
From the furthest end, to the opposite drain pipe area.
I built the ponds long before my house inheritance,
But now, with each rainy California winter, as the house has its minor floods,
I recall the diligence I mustered to slope my ponds just right,
And continually wonder why the builders of a house for humans,
Couldn't have been as careful as I, constructing a home for plain old fish!

Rationalizations opus 737

I was to have seen my grandson, Rowan, today,
But, his father, having a cold, thought it best to delay.
Disappointed, I began a series of rationalizations:
I was really too tired to cope with a five-year-old;
The predicted sunny day became cloudy and cold;
I needed to have time now to finish my writing;
I had no adequate snacks for the sharing;
He really wasn't ready for that scooter I had ready for him;
The house was disorganized and not ready for his explorations;
I was relieved not to catch his father's cold;
So many thoughts to make me feel better.
It was all for naught.  
I just plain missed him this planned-for day.

The Depression of an Elder opus 744

After a longer interval than usual, as we spoke together,
Marianne, my Swiss German speaker somehow came up with 'Trost'.
Her children were off to ski in Switzerland
And she was depressed not to be there with them.
At 83, she was basically unable to travel so far.
I attempted to comfort her as best I might.
"Your children--you have raised and nurtured them,
And now they are on their own, for better or worse."
"You were the bow and they, the arrows, 
And they are discovering their new goals and targets."
"The bow, by definition, remains at the starting place,"
So the word 'Trost' came up to her, 
But she could not remember its definition.
Together, we derived the meaning and found it most appropriate,
In that she longed for solace, comfort, or 'Trost'.
As we age, we are not able to follow so well.
We are slow and delay things.
Our limbs are weaker and less steady for holding upright.
We do not ask, but wish for 'Trost' from somewhere.
The young are full of themselves and do not understand.
The baby cries and wordlessly attempts to reach out.
The elder cries out, but the young ones continue,
Not hearing nor understanding the human directly beside them.

Rowan Amongst Our Flowers opus 747

My grandson, Rowan, is growing calmer
And for a five-year-old, focus is developing.
From the time he was two, he always brought me a flower,
When he came to our multifaceted farm.
He had a cow, tortoises, and emu to visit with,
But flowers and leaves seemed to take 
A large part of his focus and thought.
We have had early rain for a change this December,
Thus coaxing narcissus bulbs to burst forth.
After visiting me with his father over burritos,
He roamed into a mass of narcissus blooms.
These were planted over the years to 
Supply product for my farmers markets.
Now, they 'lie fallow', blooming outrageously,
But with no harvest.
They are there for the taking 
And Rowan revels in their scented glory.
Such pleasure he has in viewing and smelling,
And picking for me and his mother and Dad.
For me, it is sad I can no longer attend markets,
But it is so worth it, that Rowan thoroughly enjoys wandering
Through this plethora of blossoms, overwhelming his spirit.
Such joy to see and be a part of this with him.

Pierre's Pancake opus 748

Pierre, my son, was coming with his son, Rowan,
To visit our farm as occurs every month or so. 
As we planned the visit, they would leave to come,
Soon after he made a pancake breakfast for Rowan. 
I knew how delicious his pancakes were,
So I asked him if he would bring a couple for me as well.
This he did:  a beautiful evenly browned cake,
Tucked in a Ziplock bag to keep it moist.
There was only one because, as he explained, 
The rest were just gobbled up.
I drew it partly out of the bag to give it a test.
Even though it had been created a few hours previously,
The sweet, pancake aroma struck my nostrils.
The brown pattern was perfect, the thickness was even and delicate.
I sank my lips around it and utilized my incisores through it.
Oh, my, the moisture, the mellifluous taste, 
Just lifted my emotions almost to a state of imbibition!
Just a 'plain' pancake--no syrup nor butter,
Stood alone as a gourmet achievement par excellence!
My son, Pierre, has indeed perfected the 'art of the pancake'!

Five-Year-Old MN Child Used to Lure Parent opus 757

So the story goes and reports expound,
Federal immigration agents used a five-year-old boy 
Liam Conejo Ramos, as 'bait', to lure a family member
Out of their home during an arrest in Columbia Heights, Minnesota.
The ICE agents approached Liam and his father
In their driveway, upon returning from preschool.
By one account, the child was used to lure out his mother.
The father told the mother not to open the door.
The scared mother thus did not take custody and is blamed.
Both the child and the father were transported for detention in Texas.
This sad story contains several conflicting claims.

However, as a biologist, I am reminded of other such historical incidents.
During the whaling period of our country and the world,
Whalers would use a similar tactic on another mammal.
They would harpoon the calf and wait for the mother
To get within range to easily kill her as well.
Female and often male mammals defend their young,
And predators in the know will use this behavior,
Starting with a tidbit and ending up with a complete meal.
It appears that both humans and cetaceans react similarly,
Much to the potential detriment of both generations.
Such, as judged by humans, is one of the cruelties
In the struggle for survival and political advantage.