tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33635290851078742152024-03-05T02:23:01.848-08:00So Cal YankeeA boy launched in New England, circling Venice, now lost in Lo Angeles, blogging as Frank Kearns.SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-7600197891448804742020-11-01T14:20:00.005-08:002020-11-01T14:20:40.659-08:00SoCalYankee.blogspot.com is Migrating<p> Dear Reader,</p><p>Thank you for following my blog on Blogspot. I am migrating my blog to a new website. If you have enjoyed my (sadly infrequent) posts on this site, you can find me at:</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://socalyankee.com/static-front-page/posts/">SoCalYankee.com</a><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;">I would love to have you follow me at that site! Send me a comment to let me know. I would love to hear from you!</p><p style="text-align: left;">All the best, <br />Frank Kearns</p>SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-52792596695450703262020-11-01T14:12:00.000-08:002020-11-01T14:12:17.057-08:00Lummox Number Nine: October 2020<p> <a href="https://socalyankee.files.wordpress.com/2020/11/lummox-9-scalled-to-feature-photo.jpg"><img alt="" class="wp-image-358" height="188" src="https://socalyankee.files.wordpress.com/2020/11/lummox-9-scalled-to-feature-photo.jpg?w=1024" width="404" /></a></p><!-- wp:image {"align":"left","id":358,"width":404,"height":188,"sizeSlug":"large","linkDestination":"media","className":"is-style-default"} -->
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<p class="has-text-color has-normal-font-size" style="color: #003fcc;">Received this year’s issue of the Lummox Anthology today: <em>Lummox Number Nine.</em> I have all nine of these anthologies, and they are powerful collections of poetry, short stories, interviews and art. In the past 26 years, Lummox Press has published over 200 titles. What a great contribution to the poetry world!</p>
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<p class="has-text-color has-normal-font-size" style="color: #003fcc;">I am honored to have these three poems in this year's Lummox. More than that, I am honored to have "Morning Ghazal for Poison Ivy" and "Again" chosen for Honorable Mention in the Angela Consolo Mankiewicz Poetry Prize contest.</p>
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<p><strong>Morning Ghazal for Poison Ivy</strong></p>
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<p>A chameleon glowing green to rusty red, that’s poison ivy<br />From early Spring to first snow-fall, many shades of threat, that poison ivy</p>
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<p>A snake that seeks the sun along a damp road waiting<br />as walkers pass their boots across the edge, that’s poison ivy</p>
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<p>Heat lamp like a desert sun burned the blisters dry as I,<br />a restless child, lay confined in bed by poison ivy</p>
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<p>My brother fell from the elm tree once—<br />of all the things he learned to dread, it wasn’t poison ivy</p>
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<p>At my mother’s funeral, regrets appear<br />on the edge of words, unsaid, like poison ivy</p>
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<p>Listen Francis Xavier, savor the light this morning<br />through dream-born half-flight, free of ghosts,<br />and that bastard poison ivy.</p>
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<p><strong>Again</strong><br /> <em> after Joy Harjo</em></p>
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<p>No matter what, we must cry to live<br />a family around a chrome-legged table<br />farmhouse groaning under winter wind<br />an empty chair, the sudden end of a world</p>
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<p>No matter what, we must eat to live<br />the world a scared pine table<br />two of us in a cramped kitchen<br />that was one beginning<br />one long ago world</p>
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<p>No matter what, we must shed our skin to live<br />at a maple table a few steps from the kitchen<br />morning light splashing<br />across the scratched wood floor<br />The world can begin here, at this table</p>
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<p>where we two can say what can only be said here<br />as a day, a year, a world long enough to be a life<br />folds into the beginnings and endings<br />that stretch beyond our comprehension<br />perhaps the world ends here<br />again, and again.</p>
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<p><strong>Coffee Cup Rosary</strong><br /> <em>after Juan Felipe Herrera</em></p>
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<p>Our Father who sat in silence<br />hallowed by thy thoughts,<br />thy troubled times,<br />they meditations,<br />that haunt those who go on without you.<br />Give us this day thy spirit,<br />as we face our doubts and transgressions,<br />filter them through thy coffee and smoke,<br />let us find the strength you found,<br />in the dark of the early morning,<br />Amen.</p>
<!-- /wp:paragraph -->SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-48520499135642046992019-06-24T22:27:00.001-07:002019-06-24T22:27:38.247-07:00Casting Deep ShadeThis posthumous book by the poet C.D. Wright defies all my expectations of what a book of poetry (or any genre, for that matter) should be. And yet I am entranced by it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQe1EgpL5dGs7iNiaH_DcTUvcrMfq13ZkM1yC5Y3_exZ2XHxXTFzQXv6XtV-jEhHF62FDachN8Qg-Vw61-kdpsA0OJJ_q4rr8A4z1EkEgccy15lSeDvhyVvAoViWa6eZNtMIjsWBczUEiV/s1600/Casting+...+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQe1EgpL5dGs7iNiaH_DcTUvcrMfq13ZkM1yC5Y3_exZ2XHxXTFzQXv6XtV-jEhHF62FDachN8Qg-Vw61-kdpsA0OJJ_q4rr8A4z1EkEgccy15lSeDvhyVvAoViWa6eZNtMIjsWBczUEiV/s320/Casting+...+Cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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When I pick up this book, it has the weight of a sculpture. And a haunting photo of a Beech tree, which is the starting point of the book.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEl0Cvy9melfLu_MHTaSs1K0iqQw71pWi77z9-uWQcKx1aXcb0b-AYPRuYQv_mLoj7fJJ4HZJeS18Aqa2pyKvK9S6lzE04oWne3KBB7HqV2MxyTLXdmvpz81LPVVAZbGnV1BKRJl50NRT/s1600/Casting+...+Inside+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWEl0Cvy9melfLu_MHTaSs1K0iqQw71pWi77z9-uWQcKx1aXcb0b-AYPRuYQv_mLoj7fJJ4HZJeS18Aqa2pyKvK9S6lzE04oWne3KBB7HqV2MxyTLXdmvpz81LPVVAZbGnV1BKRJl50NRT/s320/Casting+...+Inside+Cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The inside cover. C.D. Wright and another glorious Beech.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVwVd9kB3i9cU6gQkfjb0FUis2AM7-kT8ValPPCy_erBUNySoSpJntlRVRjSfQpmyEAUE1OYK03sTypWwZdECRkcxzSjE4ngJQYPhJgX3eMJ6-eBeF9xLADf5IS4EcthU-ORQn5UhTHuP/s1600/Casting+...+Unfolded.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCVwVd9kB3i9cU6gQkfjb0FUis2AM7-kT8ValPPCy_erBUNySoSpJntlRVRjSfQpmyEAUE1OYK03sTypWwZdECRkcxzSjE4ngJQYPhJgX3eMJ6-eBeF9xLADf5IS4EcthU-ORQn5UhTHuP/s320/Casting+...+Unfolded.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The inside covers unfolded. The pages of the book sit like a tablet on the inside covers. Every time I open this book it creaks like an old house in the wind.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTeAd6vD8pSmUIAZ9_ube1OI7-l3atKXamyV5HGInxELGY_n3Hn0sWD9LDiJiLpI6bvLHnqh6PK9cmQYBPxfy71Cih8HZKkBLkeL6CWmlURpaZd5JZ7RCHdGgINUVTprCxNU6KoOatGXy/s1600/Casting+...+Inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDTeAd6vD8pSmUIAZ9_ube1OI7-l3atKXamyV5HGInxELGY_n3Hn0sWD9LDiJiLpI6bvLHnqh6PK9cmQYBPxfy71Cih8HZKkBLkeL6CWmlURpaZd5JZ7RCHdGgINUVTprCxNU6KoOatGXy/s320/Casting+...+Inside.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The pages: words, and amazing photographs.</div>
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To be clear, these are not poems in the classic sense. And if you are looking for a 3-act narrative arch, take a pass on this.The book is a meditation on the Beech tree, and her life, and our place on the planet. Just beautiful.</div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-17642013538311484682018-08-05T16:35:00.000-07:002019-06-24T22:08:14.114-07:00Rock-Paper-Scissors on the Maine Coast<i>Disclaimer: The schooners are real. The persons and personal interactions depicted here are strictly works of fiction.</i><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05fKalCprZAMZwb29Be-cLgIayB_o0PfO-iRooS-2E9aUk8fn-_yF30p-5bMLIuRLQ0omY8Zup8rAiDH1cUBxFMADL5380JDYX5JVteI9jkUESA2mx1XLbl1_ZwU5uu-l0alY_yInAMjI/s1600/The+Grace+Bailey+up+close+SMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="850" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05fKalCprZAMZwb29Be-cLgIayB_o0PfO-iRooS-2E9aUk8fn-_yF30p-5bMLIuRLQ0omY8Zup8rAiDH1cUBxFMADL5380JDYX5JVteI9jkUESA2mx1XLbl1_ZwU5uu-l0alY_yInAMjI/s400/The+Grace+Bailey+up+close+SMALL.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Grace Bailey up close.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; text-indent: 0in;">The historic Grace Bailey, eighty feet
of white hull, high masts and bright wood cabin tops, glided through the
crowded little harbor of Camden, Maine. The two dozen newly-arrived passengers
clustered in the forward part of the ship and watched the captain thread the
ship through a maze of lobster boats and small sailing craft moored in the
channel. They approached another schooner tied to a dock with the exotic name
of Angelique, and as they did, the deck crew on the Grace Bailey paused at
their tasks to shout greetings to a young woman busy preparing the other
schooner for the next sail. Jason, the first mate on our boat, and the young
woman on the Angelique launched into a weird dance. They swung one arm up and
one arm down three times, then quickly struck poses. Then they would laugh and
start again.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We passengers already knew the girl. Her
name was Donna; she had helped our crew load our gear onto the Grace Bailey the
night before. Afterward, she and Jason had done the same weird dance on the
dock, which turned out to be a full-body version of the child’s game
rock-paper-scissors. After about ten minutes of that, they had collapsed in
laughter, then headed up the dock to the shops in the harbor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This morning, Jason showed up wearing a
hand-knit beret, the same one that Donna had on the night before, and now as
the boats passed each other they resumed their dance-game until the Angelique
was hidden among the boats in the crowded harbor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were outbound on a five-day sail
around Penobscot Bay, a large bay on the central Maine coast the includes
several groups of islands, with countless coves and inlets to explore. During
the days that followed, we crossed open water under strong winds. The bay
sparkled, low rocks and small trim lighthouses dotted the shores of the many
islands. Beyond the shoreline our eyes soaked in the deep green of solid pine
forests, and above it all the open sky. In the evenings we anchored next to
secluded beaches or small coastal hamlets, and sometimes at night we would
awake to find our little part of the world obscured by a blanket in fog.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_ACxf_eOLJHNRJwPw9WBXIpvERkaF8FWP7sHE61IIFYHAW66e4L9McXbBnwUrmy7HNi_jmzHRxCP_nmzcadnof8BUAnApiVGFZYTIgiq-t2ql9cXKH28xuZiJoP4porqIlHM2pRnERRQ/s1600/Grace+Bailye+at+Anchor+SMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1045" data-original-width="1600" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_ACxf_eOLJHNRJwPw9WBXIpvERkaF8FWP7sHE61IIFYHAW66e4L9McXbBnwUrmy7HNi_jmzHRxCP_nmzcadnof8BUAnApiVGFZYTIgiq-t2ql9cXKH28xuZiJoP4porqIlHM2pRnERRQ/s640/Grace+Bailye+at+Anchor+SMALL.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grace Bailey at anchor</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></span></div>
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<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 0in;">The Grace Bailey was a picture post-card of a Maine Schooner. From a distance the curve of her rail, the two wooden masts and long bow sprit, the cobweb of black standing rigging, woven brown lines, wooden blocks and other unidentifiable gear; all this was instantly recognizable as a boat from another time. The varnish of the low deck houses reflected the sun. Below decks, these provided head room for the various living spaces, but when up on deck they were ideal seats, and there was little above deck to stop the flow of wind or the wander of the eye.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A one hundred and thirty-year-old heavy
wooden working boat is far from luxurious no matter how shiny the woodwork on
the top of the deck houses. The accommodations had nothing in common with a
cruise ship. Each passenger “cabin” had a space perhaps three feet square to
stand, and various bed and bunk configurations tucked under deck areas that
often provided little head room. Small toilet compartments were exactly that,
toilets. No spacious sink or plugs for the hair dryer. And these were marine
toilets, with a pump pedal to pump water into the bowl, and an industrial-sized
handle on the side that when pushed back and forth sucked the contents out of
the bowl.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQq-8XNKzG6Olsz5NgW7DdkbbKqc-0MHiIvI3uOAPTYEzcLueUUKy89A6Z98IPQGSv8GnRJEUZPoaB8T87BexOfDOODZxBVC1OU45MigfgdmWEMWMwngiO7rxT5WN3L5-rBhUqCHiPfHh/s1600/Action+on+the+Foredeck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQq-8XNKzG6Olsz5NgW7DdkbbKqc-0MHiIvI3uOAPTYEzcLueUUKy89A6Z98IPQGSv8GnRJEUZPoaB8T87BexOfDOODZxBVC1OU45MigfgdmWEMWMwngiO7rxT5WN3L5-rBhUqCHiPfHh/s640/Action+on+the+Foredeck.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Action on the Foredeck</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; text-indent: 0in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif; text-indent: 0in;">There was work to be done. Raising and trimming
the heavy sails, bringing the four-hundred-pound anchor up to its resting place
on the rail, pulling and coiling numerous inch-thick hemp lines: all this was a
lot of work, and the help of the guests on board was encouraged and needed.
Many passengers often adopted the tasks they thought fit them most: there was
always an eager group to join in the above-deck dish-washing line, and several
passengers enjoyed taking turns at the bilge pump early in the morning.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was plenty of time to just watch the
water go by. With two dozen passengers and five crew on this eighty-foot boat,
life was up close and personal. There wasn’t much privacy, and with lot of time
on our hands, so it didn’t take long for folks to learn about each other’s
story. Jason talked openly about how much he loved this life—a young man’s
dream of sailing wooden ships in some of America’s most beautiful sailing
grounds. When the captain took a break and relinquished the wheel to Jason, his
face glowed with pride as he held the wheel easily as the big boat surged
across the bay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it was hard work. During the
six-month sailing season, Captain Christopher, Jason, and the rest of the crew
worked six-and-a-half days a week, with Sunday afternoon and evening the only
time off. Everything about sailing the boat was heavy. The cook and his helper
spent most of their days below decks in close quarters cooking on the large
cast-iron wood-burning stove, which was burning fourteen hours a day.
Passengers speculated on what the pay was for this work. The guess was that it
wasn’t very much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Becky and several of the other women
passengers quickly adopted Jason as their surrogate son for the voyage. He
shared his dream of finding his own house in Camden, maybe having his own boat
to captain one day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So, what’s up with Donna,” one of them
asked, playfully snatching the knit cap off Jason’s head. “Nothing,” Jason said
sheepishly, grabbing the hat back. “Right,” Becky replied, and everyone rolled
their eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5yBidG6aPsFxekBWnRPJJvKWPf8Q_YveZSFKYbJLCjj_Jn5ui5YWok8FUbjmR10RoB4Jdppccuwk1-iicTvoI11TjitmFbY9AGuSZH2GBwES_mcwmImjN_2X7G-W9l8ErqSD7SlezaWi/s1600/Schooners+off+Rockland+SMALL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="576" data-original-width="1024" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5yBidG6aPsFxekBWnRPJJvKWPf8Q_YveZSFKYbJLCjj_Jn5ui5YWok8FUbjmR10RoB4Jdppccuwk1-iicTvoI11TjitmFbY9AGuSZH2GBwES_mcwmImjN_2X7G-W9l8ErqSD7SlezaWi/s640/Schooners+off+Rockland+SMALL.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Schooners off the Rockland breakwater.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Great Schooner Race was on Friday,
the sixth of July, and so on Thursday over two dozen classic Maine schooners
headed for Gilkey Harbor, a deep inlet in the island of Islesborough in the
middle of the Penobscot Bay. This was a big event for the crew: the evening
festivities were to include dingy sailing and rowboat races. Throughout the
afternoon Captain Chris regaled the passengers with tails of shenanigans from
previous years’ gatherings. Jason “turned to” with a natty outfit right out of
the turn of the nineteenth century: brown wool trousers, vest, wool sport coat,
English driving cap and even a gold watch chain tucked in a vest
pocket—impressive costume attire for the rowing race.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Grace Bailey was one of the last
schooners to arrive at Gilkey Harbor, and by the time we dropped anchor, lowered
and secured the sails, and lowered the rowboat from its davits, the dingy
sailing race was well under way. Jason and Mike, one of the younger passengers,
jumped into the rowboat and headed across the anchorage to join in the action.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As sunset approached, Jason and Mike
returned. After hoisting the rowboat up on the davits, Jason quickly went below
and emerged in his daily sailing gear of cutoff t-shirt and well-worn jeans. As
the passengers sat around the forward deck-houses and sipped their drinks, Mike
told us about the dingy race. Apparently more than rowing was involved; several
boats had sacks of muffins on board that they hurled at opponents if they got
too close. He and Jason had done pretty well rowing the heavy wooden rowboat,
but had been beaten out by a four-person crew from the Victory Chimes. He
reported that after the race, he and Jason had gone aboard the Angelique and
been treated to cake that Donna had baked in the wood-burning stove. Afterward,
she had wanted to row over to the Grace Bailey to visit some more, but the
captain had gotten irritated and told her she couldn’t go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next day was a celebration of sale,
as two dozen wooden sailing ships made their way toward the start line of the
Great Schooner race at Minot Ledge buoy. Off our starboard bow was a beautiful
little private yacht, sparkling white hull above the water line, glistening
wood gunwales, and clean flat deck uncluttered by the deck houses and other
paraphernalia of the big working boats. To the East, the long narrow three-masted
Victory Chimes cruised up the channel. The Stephen Taber, small, trim, and the
oldest schooner in the Maine Windjammer fleet, was first over the line after
the starting gun. And there was the majestic Angelique: deep green hull, white
gunwales and deck railings; her light brick colored suit of sails, including
topsails in perfect trim as she pointed smartly up into the wind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All afternoon the schooners spread
across the bay as they plowed toward Rockland in a very stiff breeze. The Grace
Bailey churned up a good wake as she sometimes reached over eight knots. It was
glorious sailing, although the sailboat racers on board quietly noted that she
was in the middle of the field at best, hampered by somewhat tired sails and a
staysail that bulged like a bedsheet with a heavy bucket of water sitting in
the middle. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Becky and Jason had one last talk in the
lee of the Salon Cabin. He wanted to know how she and Mike had decided to get
married. He asked how one decides how to best construct a life. She said she
didn’t know a secret; you were presented with choices, and you had to make
decisions. Kind of like rock-paper-scissors—you had no assurance what the
result would be. You just had to take the path that you thought was best at the
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time the Grace Bailey anchored in
Rockland, the Victory Chimes was at anchor, having snuck over the starting line
early, much to the disgust of the racing aficionados. Several schooners were
taking advantage of the glorious wind, heeling way over as they tacked back and
forth outside the Rockland harbor breakwater. The Grace Bailey had passengers
to unload, so she came to anchor, stowed her sails, and the crew lowered the
motorized yawl boat to begin the task of ferrying the departing passengers to
shore. As Jason stood in the stern of the yawl boat and motored slowly around
to the ladder, he saw the Angelique way out by the breakwater, rounding the
light on her way Camden. He waved a big slow wave, but she was too far away for
us to tell if anyone waved back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://youtu.be/6Oef6LnkTjg"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="1600" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicwGq76TF4FlhxF9Jubt67B5oM_Ey38SVLZWPQ3be2ne4ZNzjVrHA6-tz3oLDiecZaKbfRpRk70kMP6mKKQAAOY1M6KFlKuBkZTm7wEaWCUV7cvS0f2CuzUlFsl-r-TXlKbVT7cugH8of-/s640/The+Schooner+Angelique+SMALL.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://youtu.be/6Oef6LnkTjg">The Schooner Angelique</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://youtu.be/6Oef6LnkTjg">Video: The Schooner Angelique</a></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="BookNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "palatino linotype" , serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-60365857152462567882018-05-03T11:54:00.001-07:002018-05-03T11:54:38.627-07:00On the Bike<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_62bPhTeBElh1cg1eBeiyii4arVYlgtitaAY1gKsEJj3BgNDU2z3ASG0zKVdhBYljvU7md5Tow6UZiRLDN_1e13a2kxsyzJ3DvlU3lK20goJMN3FPsJwJEeK2oFvH3K2aFu0PliwZSnS/s1600/Poem+Frank+on+the+bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu_62bPhTeBElh1cg1eBeiyii4arVYlgtitaAY1gKsEJj3BgNDU2z3ASG0zKVdhBYljvU7md5Tow6UZiRLDN_1e13a2kxsyzJ3DvlU3lK20goJMN3FPsJwJEeK2oFvH3K2aFu0PliwZSnS/s400/Poem+Frank+on+the+bike.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-7313261170482919532017-10-27T16:15:00.000-07:002017-11-01T07:48:17.000-07:00October is the Orange Month <div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaPwRSkbw-hcDhH507_WRecgz5MRmAf9aDNXEyDw7YPTCaVuUBq4hulKKcjJna_zwoEAzlblXRQxRGCJoHWhCTiTzgEQRwWmnow6C2-UyelmVixjKMkjyCQtkJw2sQe0DW__V167kOa6jn/s1600/October+Tree+Jere+Kearns.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="607" data-original-width="618" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaPwRSkbw-hcDhH507_WRecgz5MRmAf9aDNXEyDw7YPTCaVuUBq4hulKKcjJna_zwoEAzlblXRQxRGCJoHWhCTiTzgEQRwWmnow6C2-UyelmVixjKMkjyCQtkJw2sQe0DW__V167kOa6jn/s320/October+Tree+Jere+Kearns.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<h4>
<i style="font-weight: normal;">I was looking through my electronic pile for poems about Fall. I found this one, written a few years ago and lost in the mist of time.</i></h4>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>October is the Orange Month</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Across the back field to the woods<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
October is the orange month<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and when the low sun lights the leaves<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
after a long September rain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the glow is almost like a fire<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that fills the air with what one could<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
mistake for warmth, but no—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
more like the colored sunset<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that celebrates the leaving of<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the light, the heat, the life itself<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the bonfire of the long green day<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
***<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Come take the October foliage cruise<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
come see the spasms before sleep<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the end of photosynthesis<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for all that is deciduous<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
those of us that still remain<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
will shelter with the evergreen<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
whose bitter sap and needle points<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
stand head bent when the winter comes<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to scrub the landscape clean<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-58901859494361348192017-02-12T17:06:00.000-08:002017-02-12T17:39:13.423-08:00Grandfather Poem<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
One of a series of meditations on the arc of our lives.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fGnaUG7SL0D9zfRRRN2CTwjdkcvK3_2Kd9v0cWgsdvAokzYuYlIWIr6xHCq9u-juV7OIWUNvk2tf5V69NCY-U296EE88kxflS8s1O_fxaT9jIgzPG5pUCcGy-PCtU4HsuDEzm__lxps-/s1600/john+t+wrinkle+5+-+SMALLER.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1fGnaUG7SL0D9zfRRRN2CTwjdkcvK3_2Kd9v0cWgsdvAokzYuYlIWIr6xHCq9u-juV7OIWUNvk2tf5V69NCY-U296EE88kxflS8s1O_fxaT9jIgzPG5pUCcGy-PCtU4HsuDEzm__lxps-/s320/john+t+wrinkle+5+-+SMALLER.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">John T. Wrinkle (1883 - 1973). Born in Missouri. Contracted polio at 3 years old, orphaned at 8.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Won a scholarship to MIT, graduating in 1906 with a degree in architecture.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
If he thought at all<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
about social standing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
and what it meant to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
work at a desk<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
and wear clean suits<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
it was probably just<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
in the hazy way<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
that most of us stumble<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
through teen-age years<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
he wasn’t much for<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
horsing around<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
a teen-age boy <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
is a boy apart<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
when his body has<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
let him down<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
but he was bright<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
as bright could be<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
If he felt at all<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
out of place<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
in the Boulevards<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
of Copley Square<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
the halls of university<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
if he did he carried it<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
quietly<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
tweed wool suits<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
every picture a tie<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
a cane<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
always seated<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
pipe thin legs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
shielded by trouser creases<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
modeling peace<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
modeling slow and steady work<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
laid out before us to<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
take and hold or not<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
a quiet place to start the ride<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
into our own tumultuous age.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; text-align: center;">
<i>Welcome to SoCalYankee, writings by Frank Kearns. Thanks for reading!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
<br />SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-68887541792225802062017-02-05T15:00:00.000-08:002017-02-05T15:00:00.164-08:00Nineteen Forty-six<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
One of a series of meditations on the arc of our lives.</div>
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<br /></div>
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</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPVApuX6LzIdK8nPxQ1hX9vKCxDH00Tt_wC4lAjlhaC-_DKL0HXPdBlknjXonehFYweyyPkLoiYrz7Pqtbv1_RRNbkJm-PiyYfa8KAi1p6t8rtfEXIUyZuaRQGKQ_1vsIXavWGl0HP7ZA/s1600/Senior+Prom+AIC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjPVApuX6LzIdK8nPxQ1hX9vKCxDH00Tt_wC4lAjlhaC-_DKL0HXPdBlknjXonehFYweyyPkLoiYrz7Pqtbv1_RRNbkJm-PiyYfa8KAi1p6t8rtfEXIUyZuaRQGKQ_1vsIXavWGl0HP7ZA/s320/Senior+Prom+AIC.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ellen Wrinkle and Donald Kearns: Ellen's Senior Prom at American International College, Springfield, Massachusetts. 1946</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
She and he wrote letters</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
across miles of New England that—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
viewed from here<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
are always gray <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
and white and black<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
looming trees by every house<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
narrow streets with<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
sputtering Fords—<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
the trees were green<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
in forty-six<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
the railroad between<o:p></o:p></div>
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Springfield and New Bedford<o:p></o:p></div>
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was soot-silver and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
blue cloth seats<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
red signal lights<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
sun-lit hours<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
that stretched across<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
the Taunton Woods<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
past Providence and Boston<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
and roared toward infinite<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
days and months and<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
years and years ahead<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Welcome to SoCalYankee, writings by Frank Kearns. Thanks for reading!</i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-17336417384440397632016-12-24T22:21:00.003-08:002016-12-24T22:21:49.006-08:00Charles Dickens on Christmas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYO9DNFnslUhUoVeDy4EqAuZwxaYRAEgM_y7jYAM6h1a4WqhgIUBlkQKV-T9h3KZ4rQHXTw-2OSucwOlvcFIz_3W6jxYoHZSS87UUruc5SR6SDZFfqLzYlaoaOOBVnoUrOE1xedkY5x_4/s1600/Christmas+Dickens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYO9DNFnslUhUoVeDy4EqAuZwxaYRAEgM_y7jYAM6h1a4WqhgIUBlkQKV-T9h3KZ4rQHXTw-2OSucwOlvcFIz_3W6jxYoHZSS87UUruc5SR6SDZFfqLzYlaoaOOBVnoUrOE1xedkY5x_4/s320/Christmas+Dickens.jpg" width="246" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
There are many Christmas poems, and I'm always on the lookout for new ones. What I really like, though, are poems that reach out beyond the obvious Christian message to something more universal.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="color: red;">I would love to hear about your favorite Christmas Poems!</span></b><br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The popular Carol “I Heard the Bells On Christmas Day” comes
from a poem “Christmas Bells” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 – 1882).
Written in 1863 during the heart of the Civil War, it reflects world turmoil
similar to what we all might feel today. Omitting three dark stanzas about the
Civil war, it goes:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I heard the bells on
Christmas Day<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their old, familiar carols play,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And wild and sweet<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The words repeat<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And thought how, as the day had come,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The belfries of all Christendom<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Had rolled along<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The unbroken song<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in despair I bowed my head;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There is no peace on earth," I said;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“For hate is
strong,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And mocks the song<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Wrong shall
fail,<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Right prevail,<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
With peace on earth, good-will to men.”<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
This is still a little sappy for me, depending again on the mighty hand of God to make everything right again. My current favorite Christmas "poem" is actually a poetic section from a Charles Dickens essay, <i>What Christmas Is As We Grow Older.</i></div>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<i><br />
</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 110%;"> Welcome, everything!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 110%;"> Welcome, alike what has been,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 110%;"> and what never was,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 110%;"> and what we hope may be,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 110%;"> to your shelter underneath the holly,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 110%;"> to your places round the Christmas fire,<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 110%;">
<b><span style="color: red; line-height: 110%;"> where what is sits open-hearted! <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<br />
And here is a link to the complete essay. Enjoy!<br />
<br />
<a href="http://charlesdickenspage.com/what_christmas_is_as_we_grow_older.html">What Christmas Is as We Grow Older; Charles Dickens</a>SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-10485870135047906442016-12-18T17:02:00.000-08:002016-12-18T17:02:50.627-08:00Best Christmas Ever (in response to a writing prompt)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNUThIhi2RPRisyZ_nern5z6-57dj95phpF8FhlM6mOjOvyUNNj23YttgmThVcQTfqjWBDkArjHrRqI8-HBHFJKCiC0_iduN61d73geJCi8IUq4PekD9bYzDaxAzxSWEwg7Ojl4wZJNNSl/s1600/First+Christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNUThIhi2RPRisyZ_nern5z6-57dj95phpF8FhlM6mOjOvyUNNj23YttgmThVcQTfqjWBDkArjHrRqI8-HBHFJKCiC0_iduN61d73geJCi8IUq4PekD9bYzDaxAzxSWEwg7Ojl4wZJNNSl/s320/First+Christmas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div>
<b><br /></b></div>
<b>Best Christmas Ever </b><br /><div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Like
asking which of your children you love the most</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was the first Christmas<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
when I was the prince<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
unknowing head of the grand-kids brigade<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was Christmas in Maine<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
warm house a
turkey<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a small model train<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was grandparents Christmas<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
loving old man
silvery woman<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
polished wood floors
light in the windows<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was growing boys Christmas<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with pairs of real skis<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
endless days in the snow for my brother and I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were years of dark Christmas<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
not too many I guess<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sitting in quiet and counting the losses<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were Christmases
children<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
my wife’s loving tree<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
home-made decorations placed to cement<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
our hearts to our family<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to ancient ancestors <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to dim winter evenings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to bonding of campfires<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
after a low-passing<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
sun has gone down<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
now Christmas is lights<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
strung up on the houses<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ornaments carefully tended and hung<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and after all of the parties have passed<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
along with the crowded living room mornings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas comes as it will year after year<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
and rests on our shoulders a dusting of snow<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Frank Kearns 2016</span></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-73495961039665043792016-11-27T14:00:00.000-08:002016-11-27T14:00:15.921-08:00Overheard ...<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7X2uUel_zNw8uIth2FQnYBoxP4xSsxvp2Qq2MLIuUs7rQKSB6bQ5VSHKTFrOH3uRzo7dXbQRiaYU6C8WBYOZuH7g-Zeq-vLTSYAcLgTzmXvXkVzWpndxZaZfGArueMTc1KnHVeNAYiwMt/s1600/Overheard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7X2uUel_zNw8uIth2FQnYBoxP4xSsxvp2Qq2MLIuUs7rQKSB6bQ5VSHKTFrOH3uRzo7dXbQRiaYU6C8WBYOZuH7g-Zeq-vLTSYAcLgTzmXvXkVzWpndxZaZfGArueMTc1KnHVeNAYiwMt/s320/Overheard.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Gathering snippets of conversation or thought “overheard” …<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week’s subject … “Thanksgiving (The Holiday)”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here is my collection from one day … Contribute your "overheard," especially alternative views of this interesting holiday.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 style="line-height: 115%; margin-left: .5in;">
Thanksgiving Sampler 2016<br />
<i> Voices from Thanksgiving week</i></h3>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Is your wife cooking for Thanksgiving?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- I bought an eleven-pound turkey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Sometimes we have barbeque—one time pulled pork.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Are you going anywhere?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- He always buys his Thanksgiving meal at Boston Market.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- We would eat twice—once at her parents, once at mine<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Look on your phone for how to thaw out a turkey<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Tamales—Thanksgiving AND Christmas<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Any plans for Black Friday?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- How not to fight at family gatherings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- She’ll be flying down from Portland this morning<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Macy’s is opening at five PM today<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- It was the first day we knew for sure that he was gone<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- I’m going over to Emmy’s house this afternoon<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- We are eating early—her fiancé has to work in the afternoon<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- I was so frazzled about the apple pie<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- He’s driving up from Boston—should be here by one<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- I messed up the first batch of deviled eggs—I had to start all over<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- My attempt at gluten-free banana bread came out like bricks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- The turkey got done too early<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Want a beer? Some wine?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- This cranberry sauce is really good<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- She and a friend are going to Cocos for lunch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Pass the mashed potatoes please<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- After we eat, we’ll walk around the lake<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- My mother would make gravy out of the drippings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- Want to take some of the mashed potatoes home?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 175%;">
- This evening we’ll have another piece of that pie<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
Links to interesting <i>Overheard</i> sites:<br />
<a href="http://cargocollective.com/laurajdavies/Overheard-Poetry">http://cargocollective.com/laurajdavies/Overheard-Poetry</a><br />
<a href="http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/11/18/overheard-haiku/">http://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2014/11/18/overheard-haiku/</a><br />
<a href="http://laist.com/2016/10/23/overheard_in_la_my_soulmate_does_no.php">http://laist.com/2016/10/23/overheard_in_la_my_soulmate_does_no.php</a><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 10.6667px;">©2016 Frank Kearns</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-52633495192098486102016-03-23T12:38:00.000-07:002016-03-23T12:38:53.416-07:00Water Play 1949<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabBbXdwVnivZVHC0y4ps_MSRh8FGSZF3njHqFCbIua7OeTtn78yY-6U5RzMbXYzC903CXUY21dMOzypbsD7Po3usoKigRfRiC_m-VxQgoLqRVfQOw9wwMhW9SRh85KO14ANQ4W2ci0roB/s1600/water+play+frank+with+mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabBbXdwVnivZVHC0y4ps_MSRh8FGSZF3njHqFCbIua7OeTtn78yY-6U5RzMbXYzC903CXUY21dMOzypbsD7Po3usoKigRfRiC_m-VxQgoLqRVfQOw9wwMhW9SRh85KO14ANQ4W2ci0roB/s320/water+play+frank+with+mom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">My mother sits in grass and sun<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">an enamel pan beside her<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">she holds a metal pitcher <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">tilted water spilling out<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">as I balance on my chubby legs<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I am bent over just enough to see<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">how sun glints off aluminum<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">to feel cold water splash on ankles <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">dribble down to feet and toes<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I try to reach and guide her hand<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Her left arm holds the metal pitcher<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">muscles clear and well defined<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">veins just visible down to where<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">her wrist turns in around the handle<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">my little fingers grasp her there<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I hold her but am focused on<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the way the battered pitcher turns<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">to spill the first time in my life<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">to see clear water roll around a pan<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">everything I know of water<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the pooling on the shower tile<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">the flowing round the rocks in Eastern coves<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">started then the water<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">reflecting back on mother’s face<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">everything I know of water<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">passed in this moment to this stubby boy<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">intent on turning the pitcher down<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">lower just a little lower<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;">to see what happens next</span><br />
<span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 150%;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 8.0pt; line-height: 107%;">©2016 Frank
Kearns<o:p></o:p></span></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-38133584467748377762016-02-15T14:35:00.000-08:002016-02-15T14:35:06.474-08:00On Visiting the Dayton Aviation Heritage National Historical Park<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>On Visiting the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Dayton</st1:city></st1:place> Aviation Heritage National
Historical Park<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in;">
<i>Paul Laurence Dunbar 1872 - 1906<b><o:p></o:p></b></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXh_8pnqQLvt339hP_SFHJwubB2lSzkjCWXPdBqnfp6vbCUpAFTJUp0Elk-WPBArM2fkJ1pLMnDj9uk6SsI11d3HFcXqDWWMZ5SBM2UTcd1FGxkxUSh417dJhJrYkAZBpvrPO58vf-_Oh/s1600/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYXh_8pnqQLvt339hP_SFHJwubB2lSzkjCWXPdBqnfp6vbCUpAFTJUp0Elk-WPBArM2fkJ1pLMnDj9uk6SsI11d3HFcXqDWWMZ5SBM2UTcd1FGxkxUSh417dJhJrYkAZBpvrPO58vf-_Oh/s320/Paul_Laurence_Dunbar.jpg" width="252" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The citizens of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Dayton</st1:city>
<st1:state w:st="on">Ohio</st1:state></st1:place><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in conjunction with the national parks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
have established a place to nurture the memory<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of the Wright Brothers and Paul Dunbar<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“We wear the mask that
grins and lies,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>It hides our cheeks
and shades our eyes,—“<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only black in his high school year<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul was elected class president<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
was the teen-age editor of the <i>Dayton Tattler</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
friend Orville Wright his publisher<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And mouth with myriad
subtleties.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Crowds flock to the Wilber and Orville stuff<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but here at the park interpretive center<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the ranger (a woman
of color herself)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
seems surprised when asked for the <st1:place w:st="on">Dunbar</st1:place>
film<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“I know why the caged
bird beats his wing<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; “<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And how the words poured out of him<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from this young son of southern slaves<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
into a country not yet ready<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for him and his brothers and sisters<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i> “ And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>And they pulse again
with a keener sting—“<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the world was ready for man to fly<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<st1:city w:st="on">Dayton</st1:city>
is left with an air force base<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a hundred years later<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
we
are cleaved by the fate<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of Paul Dunbar’s brothers and sisters<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Frank Kearns<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with selections from <i>We
Wear the Mask</i> and <i>Sympathy<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
PAUL LAURENCE <st1:place w:st="on">DUNBAR</st1:place> 1872 -
1906<o:p></o:p></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-23604768370687496252015-12-20T15:00:00.000-08:002015-12-20T15:00:09.202-08:00Christmas: Orono 1956<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sometimes poems keep changing and changing. Here is an update to a poem a started a long time ago ...</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtdD5ftD3AVF50fDVXKOjmBWmdiMFu43JRkkSlcCwXWo3dtyjNM5wcTlppE23EP-J53JSzk_xpnS7uJ5CKD4Xk7yu4xa2Qz734FnsOy83D9_YkK90tIgiXAqLQ1ZpewKXgRlhiSiJHkEUg/s1600/Christmas+1956.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJK6y5JGEeai1v3v7LYzhnRX9CcZSNn1pYSXiPvoJOtDFcAKv5kJqxEpLQtqh8SK11z1YDGmhmKLChoFv0AVxXkIpdFWwHLQ2MHSsi5LvrG3Lp8CqiuJvAA-flohx9p6aFSnqVPWvfyUBA/s1600/Christmas+1956+A.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJK6y5JGEeai1v3v7LYzhnRX9CcZSNn1pYSXiPvoJOtDFcAKv5kJqxEpLQtqh8SK11z1YDGmhmKLChoFv0AVxXkIpdFWwHLQ2MHSsi5LvrG3Lp8CqiuJvAA-flohx9p6aFSnqVPWvfyUBA/s320/Christmas+1956+A.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_Toc426376936"></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: red;"><b>Christmas: Orono 1956</b></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We would sit on the bank and feel the tremble<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of the southbound passenger train<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as it rolled across the Pine Street grade<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
trailing a lone red signal light<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that beckoned us south to Bangor Maine<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
down to New York and way out West<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but for now we were grade school boys<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Christmas pajamas and a model train<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
stopped on a flimsy oval of rails<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
all waiting on the vagaries<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of electric circuits in a little house<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
taxed to the limit by the chill <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of winter air against the cracks<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
fuses blowing at the demands <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of Christmas lights and electric oven</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
glowing just above the tracks</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 120%;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">© 2015 Frank Kearns</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-17993778768110319202015-11-25T21:03:00.000-08:002015-11-25T21:03:21.085-08:00Yearlings<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
we were running in the evening air<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
the top of the hill our finish line<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
both of us panting at the end<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
she so near to me I tingled<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
as a mist of breath caressed my
cheek<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
this morning boys jog in the park<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
a tall girl swings on a low tree
branch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
yearlings faces not yet marked <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
they feel the sunlight on their
face<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
dampness of the still-wet grass<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
later we were together close<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
in the deepest corner of the empty house<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
the scents of hair and skin and
earth<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
all the many colors <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
of
the end<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
and
the beginning<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.createspace.com/5566440"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhDUA9dDQKAi0kTDRxtC9Wp_TrDjue883NbLHWsQ_s-TtduaDjVcfzWqFY4gjk2fxcL26r4zjviuPc80LbVzQy58k-1cCURGdmrF8VvpUgHF78rSueQ8t_R5ho12N1XVLQ1KLgRiiyRiK7/s320/Front+Cover.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
<br /></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-50450434646070846202015-10-31T20:42:00.002-07:002015-10-31T20:44:13.944-07:00Donald and Ellen Kearns – 1958<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRevd6gPVobzbQvTesv1qcOE5bSUhbGnSkNWTduBwHpyNYA2NoFR0XIFfb_FzAuqa6ywsmh1Lxg9-53zTzkgPWSZ7jGw5uHDYdTxeK0IhotX6QWSz5kEvNkxqHo04YTRLl9C9Jw4w4ba6-/s1600/Kearns+Family+SMALLER+and+Grandparents+1958.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRevd6gPVobzbQvTesv1qcOE5bSUhbGnSkNWTduBwHpyNYA2NoFR0XIFfb_FzAuqa6ywsmh1Lxg9-53zTzkgPWSZ7jGw5uHDYdTxeK0IhotX6QWSz5kEvNkxqHo04YTRLl9C9Jw4w4ba6-/s400/Kearns+Family+SMALLER+and+Grandparents+1958.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A photograph of a family, 1958. In the front, four young children. A boy cuddles a large puppy, unconcerned with the camera. Two girls giggle and tease each other. And that’s me, sitting dead center, eyes straight ahead.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px; text-indent: 0.5in;">
In the back, the proud grandparents. The grandfather, tall, dapper slacks and collared shirt. The grandmother, a full smile, still a breath of youth across her face. And in the middle, their son, Donald Allen Kearns, plain white t-shirt, black glasses, a hint of a smile, a hint of satisfaction. And who is behind the camera? That would be Ellen, the mother of these four children, proud to capture this moment, her husband’s parents come to visit her family and their new home.<o:p></o:p></div>
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They are gathered stage front, like actors after a play, their rolls and lines finished for now, their relaxed personas released. And as much as we children have studied this photograph in later years, as much as I, the one sitting in middle front, have tried to stare through the surface of the picture, this play was not about us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It is World War II. A young man, snatched from his study of mathematics, spends years wandering through South-East Asia, much of it on foot in the jungles of Burma. “Vinegar Joe” Stillwell leads a huge Allied Chinese Army, and Donald is part of a small squad of American radio men attached to this foreign force. He crosses rivers sitting in a dugout canoe poled by near-naked Burmese mountain men, 40 lbs of radio gear in his lap. He wakes in the night to the footsteps of Merrill’s marauders slipping out of camp with a squad of Kachin Scouts, armed only with long knives, headed for the enemy lines. He is crossing the Mekong River, bound for Hanoi, when he learns that the war is over. And after a long sea voyage on a ship crammed with 3000 other young servicemen, he returns to a country changed forever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The heroine has not yet dashed on stage to take her bow. She spends the war years at American International College in Springfield Massachusetts. She studies chemistry, earns her degree, and begins to teach.<a href="file:///C:/Users/Frank/Desktop/Franks%20Workspace%202015_01_04/Stories%20and%20Memoir%20Class/Donald%20and%20Ellen%20Kearns%201958.doc#_edn1" name="_ednref1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;">[1]</span></span></span></a> She is in the Science Club, the German Club. What does she think? What does she want out of life? Perhaps in a moment she will come on stage.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Young men come home from war to a country that has been without them for 4 years. Donald returns to the small fishing town of <st1:city w:st="on">Fairhaven</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:state>. His friend Walter knows a girl up in Springfield, Ellen Wrinkle. He tells Donald, “Let’s take the train up there and go on a double date!” Well, Walter and Ellen don’t hit it off like they thought they would. Walter likes Donald’s date. And Donald and Ellen? They get along just fine. I’s 117 miles by road or train from Fairhaven to Springfield, which doesn’t seem very far when two people are in love.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The courtship. Donald and Ellen wear out the train routes and roads between Springfield and Fairhaven. And letters. Maybe a hundred letters. Ellen saves each letter, folding each one and carefully stashing it in a box in her closet. Donald, being a guy, is not so careful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Offstage, a Greek chorus reads the one-way conversation preserved by Ellen. “Darling, May I call you that? Your pictures came today: golly, I love you!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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An inch-high pile of letters in much the same vein.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And then several multipage letters. “I’ve been trying to think about this faith you have asked me to pray for, Darling.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Here is revealed a troubling problem. Ellen is a Roman Catholic, forbidden to marry outside the Faith. Donald? Well Donald didn’t really have a defined faith. As a boy he attended the Unitarian Church. He spent 2 years traveling through the heart of Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism and Taoism. He traveled with a foreign Army torn by infighting between the Chang Kai-Shek’s Nationalist Chinese and the Communist Party of China led by Mao-Zedong. His mind is awash with peoples and cultures.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Ellen prays to Saint Francis Xavier. Donald reads St. Augustine and wrestles with logic and science and faith. And in the end, love wins out, miracles happen. They marry in 1947.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Donald and Ellen share an apartment in Providence, Rhode Island, with another couple. They share a kitchen, and hang sheets on a string down the middle of the living room to give each other privacy. Donald works on finish his masters at Brown. Ellen is pregnant. Donald learns he has been accepted into Phi Betta Kappa, a prestigious scholarly society, but Ellen can barely function as her child grows to term. On a freezing day, when the roads are barely passable with ice, it is time to take her to the hospital. They name their first born son Francis Xavier Kearns.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Donald gets his first solid teaching position at a start-up Catholic college called Merrimack. Classes are held in an old gym. Two boys at home, four years in the rented ground floor of a house perched in a busy intersection in Middleton, Massachusetts. Ellen makes a good friend who teaches her some lessons from the depression. The ropes of running a family on a budget. Where to find the bargains. The secrets of powdered milk and day-old bread.<o:p></o:p></div>
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A move to Orono, Maine, another teaching position for Donald at the University and a place to finish his PhD. Ellen’s first small house. Paint. Yardwork. Two darling girls. A bit of a community.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then a big opportunity. An important promotion. A return to Merrimack College, to a window office in a fresh brick building in a barren field, to chair the newly created Math department. They buy an old farmhouse in the rural outskirts of Andover, a place where a growing family can really thrive. For they have plans for more: “Cheaper by the Dozen” is Ellen’s text book, “The Sound of Music” her muse. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And here they are in the photograph. Donald’s parents have driven up to visit. He stands proud and confident between them, his house in the background. Ellen arranges the children in front, and snaps a picture. Donald and Ellen are 35 years old, and I remember the feeling. Having become someone. Proud to show my parents our new home. Finally adults, with a whole lifetime still ahead.</div>
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<a href="file:///C:/Users/Frank/Desktop/Franks%20Workspace%202015_01_04/Stories%20and%20Memoir%20Class/Donald%20and%20Ellen%20Kearns%201958.doc#_ednref1" name="_edn1" title=""><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><!--[if !supportFootnotes]--><span class="MsoEndnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 10.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">[1]</span></span><!--[endif]--></span></a> Ellen
Wrinkle, Science Club, Taper Yearbook 1945<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.e-yearbook.com/sp/eybb?school=60744&year=1945&startpage=68&hilight=1">http://www.e-yearbook.com/sp/eybb?school=60744&year=1945&startpage=68&hilight=1</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-61409608468008509092015-09-13T20:55:00.001-07:002015-09-13T20:55:33.146-07:00Fixing the Spring on the DeSoto<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 24px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90XrFd9Foywfe9sP75ZJMHxI00esa6W1Yqkxt8fKG0vSLHecTfesqP8Fkqu-3kmlI6ulxzehKoX1AEYpJG9zSQmS1Y09qI1lwTL6ZHIy8wdOOyWDhOj2YNvu8gggeJN9nn_K1W5MU06w/s1600/desoto.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90XrFd9Foywfe9sP75ZJMHxI00esa6W1Yqkxt8fKG0vSLHecTfesqP8Fkqu-3kmlI6ulxzehKoX1AEYpJG9zSQmS1Y09qI1lwTL6ZHIy8wdOOyWDhOj2YNvu8gggeJN9nn_K1W5MU06w/s320/desoto.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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In the arrogance of memory, I had come to think of my Dad as not being able to do things, to fix physical things. My father was an intellectual, a Mathematics professor, a reader of Thomas Aquinas. He was a photographer, and a pretty fair piano player. For recreation he played chess, and hardly watched TV except for the news or other special occasions.</div>
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My memory was shaped by the end game in the old house on <st1:street w:st="on">Pleasant Street</st1:street>: the panel missing in the ceiling of the downstairs living room, the poorly constructed second floor joists exposed, and the drain pipes that ran flat and uneven below the second floor bathroom and dripped whenever a bathtub full of water was released. Toward the end my parents kept a large pan in the living room, and the pan, placed just in front of one of the worn couches, would catch the drip.</div>
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1958. Our family moved back to <st1:state w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:state>, to my father’s new job at <st1:placename w:st="on">Merrimack</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">College</st1:placetype>, and the massive rambling farm house on <st1:street w:st="on">Pleasant Street</st1:street> in <st1:place w:st="on">West Andover</st1:place>. Farming in <st1:place w:st="on">West Andover</st1:place> was ending. The last family to live in this house was the <st1:place w:st="on">Dixon</st1:place>’s, who retired from farming, left the house in a state of disrepair, and built a new modern house around the corner. So maintenance was an uphill battle from the start. My parents were 35.</div>
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The first work on the <st1:street w:st="on">Pleasant Street</st1:street> house was repair of the L-shaped two story shed attached to the back of the main house. With the help of friends, my father replaced the large beam at the base of the wall. Our family had little extra money, so a full restoration of the interior remained a dream, The ground floor remained a storage shed for successions of bicycles and other tools, and the two dusty rooms in the top floor were stages for numerous children’s projects and fantasies.</div>
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The main part of the <st1:street w:st="on">Pleasant Street</st1:street> house sat on a fieldstone foundation, the top of which was a couple of feet above the ground level. The house was two stories, each ceiling somewhat higher than modern construction. Above that was a full attic, with a steeply pitched roof at the top. The roof leaked, so early on my father, with the help of friends, re-shingled the roof. The tall, skinny ladders seemed dwarfed against the side of the house. Standing close to the walls, craning my head back to see the sharp edge of the roof cutting across the sky, the ladders seemed to ascend forever. Working from those ladders, they fastened brackets on the roof, much like the metal shelf brackets that you would fasten to a wall to make book shelves. Long boards were hauled up the ladders and rested across the brackets. These boards kept the men from sliding off as they worked their way along the length of the roof and up toward the peak with row after row of new shingle.</div>
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Another summer. I was fourteen. The grass grew unkempt on the edge of the gravel driveway. The left rear spring of the black hand-me-down DeSoto had begun to sag dangerously. It was morning: the light slanted across the front yard and the dew sparkled on the grass. My father and I got out the bumper jack and jacked up the left rear really high. We blocked up the frame and rear axle with cinder blocks and an old beam from the barn. Our shirts were damp with sweat, and gravel and grass ground into our jeans as we wrestled the rusty nuts, shackles and U-bolts with breaker bars, hack saws, and a bit of cursing under our breath.</div>
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When the long, multi-layered leaf spring was finally free, we headed for <st1:city w:st="on">Lawrence</st1:city> in the rusted out <st1:place w:st="on">Plymouth</st1:place>. We waited through the afternoon at the spring shop, a dark barn of glowing ovens, dirt floors, light sifting through a haze of rust that floated up from wire buffers and grinding wheels. Men in grimy coveralls and damp gray skin disassembled our spring. Then they heated each leaf orange in a glowing oven, bent it back across a vice just so by eyeball and instinct, and quenched it in a tub of oil and water to harden in its new curve.</div>
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By the next afternoon we had the DeSoto back together again. The left rear sat a little higher than the right, but good enough for a couple more years. I learned to drive in this car, up and down the driveway, kicking up gravel from a spinning rear tire and stomping on the brakes to cause a small but satisfactory skid. And I learned from my father the feeling of physical work, the satisfaction of changing things. I feel like a fool for forgetting all this. The lesson my father couldn’t teach me, for there are some things that a person can’t learn from their parents, is that after a while we all get a little tired. I am having to learn that lesson on my own.</div>
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SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-42701354220788630412015-07-31T10:32:00.000-07:002015-07-31T10:36:44.424-07:00The Ghost of Norman Rockwell <div class="MsoNormal">
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There was art hanging on the walls of the houses that I knew as a boy: my parents’ house and the houses of my grandparents. My family was not <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state> intellectual: there were no abstract expressionists, no prints of the energetic squiggles of Jackson Pollack, no copies of the brown squares of Mark Rothko. My fathers’ family was from the fishing towns around <st1:city w:st="on">New Bedford</st1:city>, and so nautical themes dominated. There were journeyman depictions of clipper ships under full sail, and simple paintings of little <st1:place w:st="on">Grand Banks</st1:place> fishing trailers tied up two or three abreast at the local docks - names like Mary Jane or Sarah Ann painted prominently on the bows. In my father’s study was a piece of high art: a print of a Winslow Homer painting, an image of a menacing sea (complete with sharks,) a dark stormy sky with a waterspout in the distance, and a lone man in a small sailboat, helpless against the elements, the mast carried away by the storm.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My mother looked for a different vision in her art. She loved the prints of Norman Rockwell, whose beautifully detailed pictures of American life graced the covers of the Saturday Evening Post during the decades of my parents’ young adult life. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My family had a bit of a connection to Norman Rockwell. In their later years, my mother’s parents lived in a part of rural <st1:place w:st="on">Western Massachusetts</st1:place> called the Berkshires. There, small towns, villages really, looked exactly like what a dream of rural <st1:place w:st="on">New England</st1:place> would be. Whenever we would travel to my grandmother’s house, we would pull off the <st1:state w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:state> turnpike in Lee, then head down a narrow road to Stockbridge, <st1:state w:st="on">Massachusetts</st1:state>. Norman Rockwell’s long-time home was in Stockbridge. There in the middle of Stockbridge was the Red Lion Inn, a long white four story wooden building dating from the 1890’s. A covered porch extended the entire length of the front of the inn, full of rocking chairs and white wicker furniture. We children would stare out the window as we passed the row of shops that made up Main Street in Stockbridge, then marvel at the flock of people lounging on the front porch as we turned left in front of the inn, headed down to my grandparent’s little hamlet of Mill River. A print of his painting of this <st1:street w:st="on">Main Street</st1:street>, with the Red Lion Inn at the corner, hung in my offices throughout my working career, and his studio was right behind the storefronts that you see in the painting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So Norman Rockwell was the painter of my childhood. His depictions of the idealized joys of family and the simple pleasures and pains of <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region> seemed to embody the optimistic vision of a middle class post war world that I felt as a pre-teen white boy in the fifties.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My childhood was a small bubble of a world, and I was soon sucked out into the chaotic whirlpool of teenage hormones and struggle for identity, fed at the same time by the cruelty of the Vietnam War, the bloody history of <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region> played out again in the assassinations, bombings, riots and turmoil of the sixties. I no longer had much use for my childhood Norman Rockwell.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This summer I went back to the Berkshires. I stayed for three nights in the Red Lion Inn, an experience beyond the wildest dreams of the boy staring out the side windows of my parents’ old car. I also know a lot more about Norman Rockwell now. I have come to enjoy the love and connection he felt for world that he saw. I realized that his world extended beyond idealized sentiment into the hard realities of <st1:country-region w:st="on">America</st1:country-region>. I have come to appreciate him again. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Leaving Stockbridge, we stopped at a rest stop on the Mass Pike. I watched a mother walking away from us on the sidewalk. She held the hand of her six year old son, who held the hand of his younger brother. They were both wearing matching yellow tee-shirts in the afternoon heat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I heard a diesel truck start up behind us. The semi rolled slowly through the rest stop, and came up to us as it was gathering speed to head back out onto the Pike. The two boys turned and waved, and, as the truck passed, the driver sounded two quick blasts of the deep, sweet air horn. The boys held their hands in the air, the mother waved too, and the ghost of Norman Rockwell snapped a quick picture on his cell phone, an image soon to be featured on the next cover of the Saturday Evening Post.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">© Frank Kearns 2015</span></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-58033604247837999992015-06-23T14:59:00.000-07:002015-06-23T14:59:00.292-07:00Noon on the Rio Hondo<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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out on the wide spread of the West<o:p></o:p></div>
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here in the Rio Hondo wash<o:p></o:p></div>
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from the hot bottom of the concrete channel<o:p></o:p></div>
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while under the <st1:city w:st="on">Montebello</st1:city> bluffs<o:p></o:p></div>
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to pass the empty middle of the day<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
what to say about these men<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
who have no work to call them back <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from the quick breath of a forty minute lunch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
flap meat and onions sizzle<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on a little grill <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
lunch preparations but other than that<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
they meditate beneath their tree<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
on an airplane headed to LAX<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the march of sun down to the coast<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
while on a distant overpass<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
trucks and cars slow then stop then start again<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
radios play and air conditioners hum <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and on this warm day when a beer will feel good<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
their friend approaches on a bike a cool case of Modelo <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
balanced on his handlebars<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">© Frank Kearns 2015</span></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-57368354380346211332015-06-02T14:55:00.000-07:002015-06-02T15:02:42.579-07:00Another Failed Career<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ4lU6d0FJ8g_iAWjyVYBhDqyf2mUB7cKgoP-CckMqjjvYSuLVYXHjy4dLFexC5OJFgBbqS9-P9h5kvvvA9CD8Y0GxNKhyphenhyphenjz9Xho1rNwGBTcKDpyNHUABx3yJdYVZlVmJUkcf744DR-wsS/s1600/cement_truck_small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ4lU6d0FJ8g_iAWjyVYBhDqyf2mUB7cKgoP-CckMqjjvYSuLVYXHjy4dLFexC5OJFgBbqS9-P9h5kvvvA9CD8Y0GxNKhyphenhyphenjz9Xho1rNwGBTcKDpyNHUABx3yJdYVZlVmJUkcf744DR-wsS/s320/cement_truck_small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; mso-prop-change: Frank 20150527T1656;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Now that I am
retired, I can look back with fondness … or amusement … or embarrassment at
some of the jobs that I have had. Some have been interesting, but I have had my
share of spectacular failures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The summer after
my sophomore year in college, I scored a great summer job as a concrete inspector. A
twenty year old kid, pretty wet behind the ears, I would drive sometimes 60
miles to a construction site to perform a simple test, called a “slump test,”
on the concrete from each truck before it was poured. I would get a pail of
concrete from the truck, and fill a slightly cone-shaped foot-high tin cylinder.
Then I would slowly lift the cylinder, leaving the pile of concrete unsupported.
If the pile saged three inches, the concrete was good to go. If it didn’t sag
enough, the driver would add more water into the truck, then I would test it
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
A brief discussion
of concrete and water: water is essential to a good concrete mix. Too little
water, and some of the cement is not dissolved, leaving dry cement powder and
weak spots. Too much water, and the cement paste becomes runny. The sand and
gravel start to separate from the paste and settle out. When the cement truck
is initially loaded at the plant, the right amount of water is added. But as
the concrete is turned in the big round tub on the back of the truck, water is
lost due to the heat of the sun and chemical reactions in the cement. So the
driver often needs to add more water at the job site. Also, the concrete workers
much prefer wet concrete that will flow easily into the forms. So there is a constant
tension between the need for water so that the concrete flows well, and the
need to keep excessive water out so that the concrete is stiff and strong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
So I would perform
my test. If the concrete was dry, more water was added. If, however, the
concrete sagged too much, the concrete in the truck is too wet, and there is no
way to dry it out. I got to tell the driver, the foreman, and anyone else who
cared, that the truckload is rejected and has to be sent back. Picture a cement
truck driver. Picture a construction site foreman. You can imagine how well
that goes over.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
One hot summer day
I was sent out to a construction site, an addition to the library in Lynn
Massachusetts. Nine foot high plywood forms for a new wall were baking in the
sun, waiting for the concrete. I tested the first truck that pulled up. The
slump test passed: good stiff concrete. They maneuvered the chute over the
forms and started pouring.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
Almost immediately
the foreman stopped the pour. “We’re going to have to add more water.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Can’t,” I
replied. “the concrete is perfect right now.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
The foreman paused
for a minute. “The forms are so hot,” he said. “The moisture will evaporate as
soon as it hits the walls. We’re going to get bubbles unless we add more
water.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I had been a “concrete
inspector” for all of two months. Judgment calls were out of the question. I
had done my test, and that was that. “Can’t add any more water,” I repeated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“Ooooh Kaaay,” the
foreman said slowly. “Let’s pour it,” he hollered up to the truck driver. The
big drum turned, and the concrete poured out into the tall forms.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
A week later when
I called in for my daily assignment, my boss at the testing lab told me to meet
him the next morning at the library. As I parked across the street I could see
the wall. They had pulled the forms off the day before, and even from a
distance I could see that the surface of the wall was covered with bubbles and
pockets, some of them as big as a fist. There standing in front of the wall was
my boss and the same foreman from the week before.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
“What happened?”
my boss asked. I explained that the concrete had tested perfect. Something told
me that it was also important to explain that the foreman had predicted
problems if they didn’t add more water, and that I had refused to allow it. My
boss just nodded his head a bit as I spoke. “Well,” he said finally, “better
get on to the next job,” and he gave me the address. As I turned to go, the
foreman said “It’s OK, kid. You did what you had to do.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
I walked to the
car, feeling like a failure, but also feeling like I had passed some other test
that I couldn’t quite explain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 3.0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 3.0in;">
Frank Kearns<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-left: 3.0in;">
May 2015<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-indent: .5in;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-80941132124675838612015-03-31T16:21:00.000-07:002015-03-31T16:21:04.938-07:00Common Things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQWDXz0ZFSD5QCd8rzLqJ5cx60GbMzuYaWuffEYRVW1JtFDcZl9x1E7qB575nYeZ5yZpcAY72j2m7N0-EAfKuWGwOdJRj0IVFExr1THui9AH1NpGuHtgXsJjO8NKz0RjE7XEDGkpzl6ay/s1600/Porch_Final.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidQWDXz0ZFSD5QCd8rzLqJ5cx60GbMzuYaWuffEYRVW1JtFDcZl9x1E7qB575nYeZ5yZpcAY72j2m7N0-EAfKuWGwOdJRj0IVFExr1THui9AH1NpGuHtgXsJjO8NKz0RjE7XEDGkpzl6ay/s1600/Porch_Final.jpg" height="263" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On our first morning in the house<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
our new home not yet cold<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from its last abandonment <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
we tiptoed on our thin young legs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
down to the cool cellar <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
heavy with the scent of stone and earth<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
we found a workbench with a few hand saws<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
tinged with rust in this electric age<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and on the floor a 12 pound sledge<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
useless with a splintered handle<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that could have easily been replaced<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
if anyone had cared<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
half way down the basement was<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a heavy timbered room<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
about ten feet on either side<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
whose door barely responded<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to the pull of a ten<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and an eight year old<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but when it did and when we groped<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to find the switch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a single hanging bulb lit up<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to reveal a large square chest<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a room within a room<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a poultry incubator six feet tall<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
varnished oak with frame and panel doors<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
drawer after drawer of wire mesh<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
brass hinges and latches with long thick handles<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
handles that pulled easily<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
handles cast without a care<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for a bit of extra metal<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
handles as long as a young boy’s arm<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with graceful curves to welcome the hand<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and a thickening at the end<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to signify nothing but the maker’s sense</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
of how such a simple metal piece<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
should look to the eye and feel to the touch<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
good for nothing now except<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
to fasten closed a wooden door<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
if there was something left to seal inside<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
good for nothing but to teach<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
a little boy the feel of common things<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and help him understand what beauty is</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">© 2015 Frank Kearns</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-92395918123846022015-03-11T20:31:00.000-07:002015-03-11T20:46:29.238-07:00Basement Photographs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXIj0Ua6nWY1uWEnoowxQl9WZY93taKYrMxTG0QwF55rgmV2d05k3H7RZkbDb6Z-txy8zzWLlUb3lg_q6Psdi0ZuDqv4Giep-e5U6jlJNFhZfPVvKS-Q-K6qd9f3Kl8JQ8W8PTNE1afJT/s1600/frank+john+slot+car+track+project.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXIj0Ua6nWY1uWEnoowxQl9WZY93taKYrMxTG0QwF55rgmV2d05k3H7RZkbDb6Z-txy8zzWLlUb3lg_q6Psdi0ZuDqv4Giep-e5U6jlJNFhZfPVvKS-Q-K6qd9f3Kl8JQ8W8PTNE1afJT/s1600/frank+john+slot+car+track+project.jpg" height="243" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the cellar<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
you and I your older brother<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
construct another project<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the trains of childhood<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
replaced with a model race car track<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
built by us from wood and foil<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in the picture you and I<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
heads bowed in concentration<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
don’t seem to feel the need to talk<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but as we planned <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the roadway slope<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the spacing of the track<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
we must have talked<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and though I never was a dreamer<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
we must have talked of dreams<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the photographs<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
are black and white<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
like shadows like my memories<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and I have spent a lifetime<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
searching them<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for fragments of your voice<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
©2015 Frank Kearns</div>
SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-84303143207273213772015-02-24T15:33:00.001-08:002015-02-24T15:36:53.334-08:00Matilda Jane Dunbar 1845-1934<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpfyba6gL3XnFuW5s9JoqJYiQeb85oJtU2t4tEZZnnoWJnRGL6Lf8Y-SgwAR-ZyVBQo3Bme142FWvcjMuwF0BIOIiSKOQU__7axHWGxHug7OGScamI8fyAgl7f9-BTAUojVfyeyi8poF4/s1600/Dunbar+mother+and+son+-+Edited.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmpfyba6gL3XnFuW5s9JoqJYiQeb85oJtU2t4tEZZnnoWJnRGL6Lf8Y-SgwAR-ZyVBQo3Bme142FWvcjMuwF0BIOIiSKOQU__7axHWGxHug7OGScamI8fyAgl7f9-BTAUojVfyeyi8poF4/s1600/Dunbar+mother+and+son+-+Edited.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s a mother to do<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
with a son as precocious as this<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what’s a freed slave woman to do<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but smile at a son who poured out words<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
in stories on paper in print<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what’s a mother to do<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but swell with a bit of maternal pride<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
her son a leader of literary men<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what’s a mother to think<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
her son out traveling the world<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
introduced to presidents and kings<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
while Jim Crow churns old hatreds<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what’s a mother to do but hope<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
that after the searing civil war<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
her country will come to embrace her Paul<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and all of his brothers and sisters<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
what’s an old black woman to do<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
but wake in the night terrified<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
as footsteps and fires still hammer and cleave<o:p></o:p></div>
the fate of his brothers and sisters<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
----------------------------------------<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Matilda Jane Dunbar was the mother of Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872–1906).<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Born in Dayton, Ohio, and schoolmate and friend of Orville and Wilbur Wright, Paul Laurence Dunbar was one the first influential black poets in American literature.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<a href="http://www.nps.gov/daav/historyculture/paullaurencedunbarslifestory.htm" target="_blank">National Park Service: Paul Laurence Dunbar's life story</a><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/paul-laurence-dunbar" target="_blank">The Poetry Foundation: Paul Lawrence Dunbar</a><br />
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
-----------------------------------------</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">© Frank Kearns 2015</span>SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-53567081364550772862015-02-10T15:30:00.000-08:002015-02-10T15:30:00.764-08:00Mortality and Canned Peas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjELdADbx6Z2WexI9v4BmBN2LIv8RIYPsA49_D90zBBZtXh44m85d5UiOsLZVXciO-TXaRxGdYGZ2IzhZlLzE-8lwQni-TW7BKdhWTKu71LIo93TdhNr7QXpTVnz89TCi6clsy7UdyYUpJ/s1600/Mortality+and+Canned+Peas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjELdADbx6Z2WexI9v4BmBN2LIv8RIYPsA49_D90zBBZtXh44m85d5UiOsLZVXciO-TXaRxGdYGZ2IzhZlLzE-8lwQni-TW7BKdhWTKu71LIo93TdhNr7QXpTVnz89TCi6clsy7UdyYUpJ/s1600/Mortality+and+Canned+Peas.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a></div>
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<b>Mortality and Canned Peas<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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It may sound heartless when I say</div>
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that my first memory of death</div>
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is tied to the taste and texture</div>
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of green peas from a can</div>
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When I first recalled all this </div>
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I was sure that these disparate thoughts</div>
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had accidentally bumped together</div>
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in pre-dawn mind meander time</div>
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so I circled back</div>
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around my first remembered home</div>
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first memory of mother sitting </div>
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on the low back stoop in summertime</div>
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then on to <st1:place w:st="on">Maine</st1:place> and my first schools</div>
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box after box of feelings to sort through</div>
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or more like stacks of wrinkled paper</div>
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to be examined each in turn</div>
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and here it was the classmate </div>
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disappeared from school one day</div>
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my parents told me </div>
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as supper sat untouched on plates</div>
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told me heaven makes this all OK</div>
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and so began digestion of</div>
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life and tuna casserole</div>
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and soggy tasting green peas from a can</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">© Frank Kearns 2015</span></div>
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SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3363529085107874215.post-47848142650512971682015-02-03T17:11:00.000-08:002015-02-03T17:11:15.637-08:00My Father’s House<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zNKcObrRJPjPKuHbOPmI0S3MD9U5yfYD85yGGsERE9X7WZXb7jkCGxGG-mtXP-AVqiXaa7tGVDtHFcfmhn77CkGY6OyBTdL0Gfd6_g1GEOEUMhu7dqyZzi9wygHwxzXKPZzv1vZsBcZO/s1600/My+Fathers+House.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6zNKcObrRJPjPKuHbOPmI0S3MD9U5yfYD85yGGsERE9X7WZXb7jkCGxGG-mtXP-AVqiXaa7tGVDtHFcfmhn77CkGY6OyBTdL0Gfd6_g1GEOEUMhu7dqyZzi9wygHwxzXKPZzv1vZsBcZO/s1600/My+Fathers+House.jpg" height="216" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b>My Father’s House<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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The house of my memory</div>
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is a semi-rural farm house</div>
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with musty smells of </div>
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old wall paper and indoor plants.</div>
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You retired</div>
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sitting at the dining room table</div>
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in pajamas and bathrobe</div>
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cigarettes and coffee</div>
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AM talk radio</div>
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KFWB <st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></div>
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daily pleasure </div>
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at the agonies of the traffic report.</div>
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The house of my dream</div>
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is a different house</div>
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on a narrow fishing-town street</div>
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before great grandmother’s knick-knacks became</div>
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a part of frozen memory.</div>
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You are a boy</div>
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entering the magic door</div>
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winding up the attic staircase</div>
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the wood a lighter brown with hints of red</div>
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the steps twisting and so narrow.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The photograph is yellowed.</div>
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You are so delicate in your uniform</div>
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your China Burma India Theater patch</div>
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jumping out from small shoulders.</div>
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Your eyes are feeling something,</div>
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seeing something beyond you and me.</div>
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In the attic</div>
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rubber band model planes</div>
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delicate balsa stringers</div>
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with tissue paper skin</div>
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light as the still air.</div>
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And a homemade short wave radio set.</div>
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You hear the news</div>
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open that high peak window</div>
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lean out</div>
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and shout to the neighborhood</div>
<st1:place w:st="on"><i>Pearl Harbor</i></st1:place><i> has been attacked!</i>SoCal Yankeehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11921948627905490302noreply@blogger.com3