M-O-T-H-E-R

As I’ve mentioned before, my maternal grandmother, Grandma Neal, had an elephantine memory when it came to songs and poetry. It was not uncommon for her to interject some appropriate snippet of verse into a conversation to make a point.

On Mother’s Day, Grandma Neal enjoyed reciting the lyrics to the song M-O-T-H-E-R. Released in 1915, M-O-T-H-E-R (A Word That Means The World To Me) was a sentimental tribute that was the work of Theodore Morse, who wrote the music, and Howard Johnson, who penned the lyrics. Grandma Neal knew the song by heart. She liked the spelling chorus part the best and recited it with special emphasis. The lyrics are as follows:

I’ve been around the world, you bet,
But never went to school,
Hard knocks are all I seem to get,
Perhaps I’ve been a fool;
But still, some educated folks, supposed to be so swell,
Would fail, if they were called upon a simple word to spell.
Now if you’d like to put me to a test,
There’s one dear name that I can spell the best:

“M” is for the million things she gave me,
“O” means only that she’s growing old,
“T” is for the tears she shed to save me,
“H” is for her heart of purest gold;
“E” is for her eyes, with lovelight shining,
“R” means right, and right she’ll always be,
Put them all together, they spell “MOTHER,”
A word that means the world to me.

When I was but a baby, long before I learned to walk,
While lying in my cradle, I would try my best to talk;
It wasn’t long, before I spoke, and all the neighbors heard,
My folks were very proud of me for “Mother” was the word.
Although I’ll never lay a claim to fame,
I’m satisfied that I can spell this name:

“M” is for the mercy she possesses,
“O” means that I owe her all I own,
“T” is for her tender sweet caresses,
“H” is for her hands that made a home;
“E” means ev’rything she’s done to help me,
“R” means real and regular, you see,
Put them all together, they spell “MOTHER,”
A word that means the world to me.

Happy Mother’s Day to Grandma Neal, Grandma Webner, my mother, my lovely wife, my sisters, and all the mothers out there, old and new!

Tulip Time

We had some friends over for drinks last night, and Kish brought home these pink tulips to provide a pretty welcome for them. It’s always nice to have flowers in the house, and tulips are a special treat this time of year. On dreary March days, their beautiful colors and fresh scent remind us that, technically, the March equinox has passed and spring is here, and the real, blooming Midwestern spring is just around the corner.

Tulips also remind me of Grandma Neal, who had a taste for poetry and an astonishing ability to recall and recite poetry from memory. One of her favorites to recite when spring arrived was The Garden Year, by Sara Coleridge, which mentions tulips:

January brings the snow,
Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,
Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes, loud and shrill,
To stir the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,
Scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs
Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,
Fills the children’s hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,
Apricots, and gillyflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,
Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit;
Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant;
Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast;
Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

Memories By Maude

My maternal grandmother, Maude Neal, had a remarkable memory. Locked in her brain were hundreds, if not thousands, of poems, sayings, and song lyrics that she could summon and quote at will on any occasion. Her repertoire ranged from silly ditties she learned as a kid (“Kaiser Bill went up the hill to take a look at France. Kaiser Bill came down the hill with bullets in his pants.”) to sayings about hard work, fortitude, love, family, death, and just about any other topic.

Back in the ‘70s or early ‘80s Mom decided to sit down with Grandma, have her deliver some of her sayings, and make careful note of them. Mom then carefully typed the poems and sayings (with a few typos and strike-throughs) and assembled the pages in a handmade booklet, decorated with stick-on flowers and held together by yarn. All of us kids got a copy. We still have my copy, decades later, and keep it on a table in our upstairs study. It’s a cool piece of family memorabilia that reminds me of Grandma Neal and Mom whenever I see it.

And while I lack Grandma’s facility with remembering and quoting poems, I remember her reciting some of the poems in this little booklet. Like this one, which I first heard as a little kid when I came home and made some complaint about something trivial:

I do not ask to walk smooth paths

Or bear an easy load.

I pray for strength and fortitude

To climb the rock-strewn road.

Give me such courage and I can scale

The hardest peak alone.

And transform every stumbling block

Into a stepping stone.

Grandma’s poetic message was clear: suck it up, kid! It’s still good advice.

Cuomo’s Fall

New York Governor Andrew Cuomo has resigned, brought low by a New York Attorney General report that found that he had harassed multiple women. His resignation will take effect in 14 days, at which point he will be succeeded by New York’s lieutenant governor. He continues to be investigated by multiple legislative committee and district attorneys.

Only a year after Cuomo was lauded by the news media and social media, and mentioned as a potential presidential candidate as a result of his handling of the COVID-19 pandemic–a handling that later gave rise to its own set of questions about Cuomo’s truthfulness and transparency–the formerly defiant, powerful politician has been dethroned, done in by his own wretched excesses and improper conduct. He thought the rules didn’t apply to him, and now he has found that they do. He deserves his sorry fate, and one can only hope that his plummet from the heights to the ashes will serve as a cautionary tale and lesson for other politicians who believe, in their hubris, that they also are bulletproof. One can also hope that his story might cause other people to hesitate before giving unqualified and gushing praise to political figures who might turn out to have feet of clay.

Cuomo’s dizzying fall reminds me of the poignant poem Ozymandias, by Percy Bysshe Shelley:

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Another Hour Of 2020

I had a bad dream last night, cried out in my sleep, and woke Kish up. As I rolled over to try to go back to sleep, I looked at the clock and noticed it was precisely 2 a.m. It’s probably not a coincidence that 2 a.m. is the specific time that Daylight Savings Time ended, and the clocks were being set back an hour. My subconscious may have sensed that and cried out in horror at the thought of adding an hour to 2020. As I went around the house today, changing the clocks, I decided that the experience should be memorialized in bad verse:

Another Hour Of 2020

We’ve worked to stay strong,

And tried not to cower,

But we grimace at adding just one more hour.

It’s already too long,

We don’t want to extend,

No, we all just want 2020 to end.

The year has been cursed,

And unremittingly sour,

Why prolong the misery with one more hour?

We’ve been looking forward

To when this year is done.

And it’s time to celebrate that it’s 2021.

We don’t want another,

No, sir, we’ve had plenty!

We don’t need another hour of 2020!

“You’re On Mute”: A COVID Poem

We’ve probably used the word “mute” more times over the past 7 months than we have in the rest of human history, combined. Telling somebody that they need to unmute themselves is a standard feature of just about every Zoom or Teams call that has occurred since the coronavirus work-from-home process started. The constant references to being on mute moved me to write some bad COVID-19 verse:

“You’re On Mute”

A point was made, I disagreed, and started to refute

Folks shook their heads and sadly said

“I’m sorry, you’re on mute.”

You have a point to make; a comment that is cute

But no one else will hear your thoughts

If you forgot you’re “on mute.”

It should be easy to recall, this Teams call attribute

The microphone icon is there to see and click

And yet: “You’re on mute.”

The icon is needed, to be sure; there is no substitute

To avoid echoing, and barking dogs

We Zoomers all must “mute.”

Some people don’t use it at all, but I won’t go that route

At times you don’t want people to hear

You’re grateful you can “mute.”

In these days of “work from home,” we’ve got no commute

But new skills are replacing driving

Like remembering to “unmute.”

Sea Fever

I don’t get tired of looking at boats, and of all the boats I like the graceful sailboats the best.  Watching them glide by is a treat, and it reminded me of a nice bit of poetry about the lure of the sea and the “tall ship” boats: 

Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

 

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

 

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Same Old, Same Old (A Poem)

We’ve turned a page on the calendar, and the fact that the act of doing so is a source of excitement tells you something, doesn’t it?  The quarantine life is so unremarkable that it is . . . well, remarkable, and my remarks come in the form of some bad verse.

Same Old, Same Old

I bet I’ve said “same old, same old”

A million times before

But now, amidst this quarantine 

I’ve never meant it more.

As “endless April” now is done

And May spring lies ahead

Maybe they’ll let me leave my ‘hood

And go someplace new instead.

But while the shutdown lingers

We’ve cooked and kept on cooking

And looked at every TV show

That seems to be worth looking. 

We’ve walked, walked, and walked again,

Until our feet are sore

But since there’s nothing else to do

I guess we’ll walk some more.

We hope that it soon will end

This whole enforced staycation

And going out for a haircut

Will be cause for celebration.

Coronavirus taught me a lesson

I’ll remember now and then

When it’s all over I’ll never say

“Same old, same old” again!

A Heartfelt Coronavirus Verse

I’ve been waiting for a night just like tonight,

To enjoy a warm fire and its bright light.

In its dancing flames I yearn

To see the coronavirus and watch it burn!

Schiller, The Poet

I walk around Schiller Park every day.  I’ve gazed in appreciation at the heroic statue in the middle of the park, and know that Schiller was a poet who was so admired by the German immigrants who initially settled in the German Village section of Columbus that they chose to erect a statue to him in the park.

But that’s about the extent of my knowledge, regrettably.  And since I think we should always be interested in broadening our horizons and learning a bit more about the places where we live and work, I set out to learn a bit more about Herr Schiller.  And with the aid of Google, it wasn’t difficult.

Friedrich von Schiller, who lived from 1759 to 1805, was a poet, playwright and philosopher who was a major figure in the European Romantic movement.  He was immensely popular during his life and has been described by a biographer as a “pop star of his time.”  He was passionate, apparently personally unkempt, and had a tumultuous love life that saw him fall in love with two sisters.

But here’s the most impressive thing I learned about Schiller:  he actually inspired Ludwig von Beethoven.  One of Schiller’s most famous poems was Ode to Joy, which Beethoven set to music, in modified form, in the final, chorale movement of his Ninth Symphony.  That’s a pretty impressive testament.  No wonder our predecessor German Village residents erected a statue to this guy!

You can read the entire, translated Ode to Joy here.  Here’s the first verse:

Joy! A spark of fire from heaven,
Daughter from Elysium,
Drunk with fire we dare to enter,
Holy One, inside your shrine.
Your magic power binds together,
What we by custom wrench apart,
All men will emerge as brothers,
Where you rest your gentle wings.

Handwashing 101

This week small posters providing CDC guidance on techniques to combat the spread of the coronavirus have been popping up everywhere, including on the door to the men’s bathroom on my floor at the firm.  One of the topics addressed by the poster is the need to wash your hands for 20 seconds.  Looking at it moved me to compose some bad verse:

Handwashing 101

I learned it as a tiny tot, and it was kind of fun

But this week I’ve been enrolled in Handwashing 101.

I always wash up, for sure, but now from what I gather

The CDC says it’s quite key to work up a good lather.

Twenty seconds sure is long, much longer than my plans,

It’s tough indeed for those of us with short attention spans.

I rub away, in water warm, and feel my mind wander

“Is this how Pontius Pilate felt?” is one thing that I ponder.

The water’s getting hotter still, like flames from a lit torch

But if it helps to stop the spread, my fingers I will scorch.

At the end of my countdown, with digits squeaky clean

I feel that I have done my part to stop COVID-19.

My hands have been boiled red, redder than the setting sun

It’s how you get a passing grade in Handwashing 101.

 

Another Crease In The Head

The other day I was brushing my teeth when I noticed that yet another wrinkle had appeared on my forehead. Because there’s not much else to be done about it, I decided that writing bad verse was the only reasonable response to this monstrous act of facial cellular betrayal:

Another Crease In The Head

Alas! Will wonders never cease?

Today I found another crease.

A crease! A seam! A furrow deep!

Arrived while I was well asleep.

Behold!  A visage, once unmarred,

Is by another wrinkle scarred.

And a forehead that ere was proud,

Appears to have been freshly plowed.

What caused my skins cells to decide

To carve a groove into my hide?

Are age and toil just brought to bear,

Or is this the price for poor skin care?

So welcome, crease! Join the collection!

And taunt me in the mirror’s reflection.

And yet, I’m grateful to my skin

For not adding another chin.

Last Piece Of Pie Lament

It was a fine Thanksgiving holiday, marked by good food, good company, and another glorious win over That Team Up North.  But as the weekend drew to a close, one last piece of culinary temptation remained, to remind me of one of my weaknesses:  I’m helpless in the presence of pumpkin pie.

Last Piece Of Pie Lament

O get thee gone, last piece of pie!

I can’t resist you and I don’t know why!

I’ve gobbled taters, stuffing and turkey

So much the details seem quite murky.

Yet still with you temptation remains

And once more my willpower strains.

Is it the spice, or the moistened crust

That reduces my resolve to dust?

Or the sweet memory of pies gone by

That causes the impulse I can’t deny?

Whate’er it is, I know I’ll succumb

And have to finish every crumb.

You’ve won again, and your crusty ilk

So now I’ll eat you with a glass of milk. 

 

Ode To An Early Morning Flight

Richard said he liked my occasional verse on the blog. Every wannabe writer likes a compliment now and then, and it’s been a while since I’ve composed some doggerel, anyway. So below is my ode to an early morning flight.

Ode To An Early Morning Flight

Whene’er I fly there’s a choice for me

Do I fly at 6 or half past 3?

The pros all say the morn is right

To avoid delay and cancelled flight.

From that viewpoint, a.m. is best —

But what about my lack of rest?

If I book a flight that heads out early

I know my sleep will be all squirrelly.

I’ll worry that I’m oversleeping

And miss the plane and end up weeping.

I’ll toss and turn, and slumber poor

And wake up when the clock strikes four.

But later flights I must beware

For fear of storms around O’Hare,

That leaves the schedule all akimbo

And put me in a traveler’s limbo.

There’s no good answer, sad to say

So I’m at the gate to start the day.

Much Ado ‘Bout Betty Boo

Russell’s dog Betty has been staying with us for a few weeks while Russell gets some work done on his builling.  Betty — who is known to Kish and me as Betty Boop or, in abbreviated form, Betty Boo — is making herself at home, as dogs always do, and there couldn’t be more of a contrast between the youthful Betty and the aging Kasey, who likes nothing so much as good morning, afternoon, and evening naps.  Betty is pretty much the exact opposite, and the difference between the two moved me to write some bad verse:

Much Ado ‘Bout Betty Boo

Damp tennis balls found in the halls,

A tattered sock and battered shoe.

These all, we know, are telltale signs

of Betty, Betty Boo.

Kasey wants to sleep so deep.

But things to rip, or tear, or chew

Are the very favorite things

Of Betty, Betty Boo.

She’s still a pup, and not grown up

With more energy than me or you;

A whirlwind of devilish play

Is Betty, Betty Boo.

It’s time to walk, no time to talk,

Then we’ll play fetch anew.

But she’ll never tire, no matter what

Will Betty, Betty Boo.