Love songs to family members
OUR ISABEL
We named her Isabel Damaris
For genial Grandma Belle Morgan
And one of the Mayflower daughters
Because she arrived on Thanksgiving,
But Izzy was never called Belle.
She played the French horn and soccer,
Built furniture, threw Raku pots,
Brought up a son with wife Beth,
Computed systems analyses,
And took to the woods in a tent.
She went on to home-groom pets
And cheer-lead her aging mother,
Who gives thanks every year
For Izzy’s affection and zest.
Our Last Adventure
We took the icebreaker out of St. John
With her Russian crew and Canadian chefs
To explore the rocky coast of Labrador
And mingle with the friendly Inuits.
In Just spring on the tundra in late July
The alpine meadows were in full flower.
Polar bears were easy to spy
And black bears lolling on grassy shores.
We bounced on kodiaks into the shallows.
Our guides carried rifles and went ahead.
This far north there were no more roads:
Villagers kayaked by sea instead.
Mission churches, schools, meeting houses,
Doctor Grenfell’s famous clinic,
Hopes for renewable tidal power,
Gemstones and carvings in the markets,
You with your daughter, still able to hike,
Relishing views from the sea-sprayed deck:
I cherish these pictures in my mind
Years after our Inuit plane flew us back.
THE SNOWS OF CHILDHOOD
When the northeast wind drops a snowy
Sail and drapes it over our backyard,
And the halos of angel choristers glow
All over the ebony bowl of heaven,
I pull on my wooley snowpants
And plant my boots in my father’s tracks
To help shovel out our garage.
Above a furry muffler and below
A knitted cap, my cheeks are slapped
Red as my Yorkshire cousins’, who once
Dug paths to the barn. With a small spade
I cut cakes as square as ice cubes
And fling them onto ramparts over my head.
My father and I sing Jingle Bells.
BRINGING IN THE TREE
Evergreens are prickly about being cut
And carted into houses. Like cat’s fur
They give off sparks that set off
Tempers. Brothers deride
Sisters’ choice of shape and height.
Fathers curse at bulbs
That flicker out. Mothers fuss
At bark and needles on the rug.
But when the final icicle shimmers
Into place and rainbow-colored
Fireflies ignite in darkening branches,
Satisfaction warms the air.
A RECOLLECTION
My father taught me how to fish
Casting his lure to the pickerel weeds
Where slender shadows would be seen
That could make a savory breakfast dish
When fried well coated with cornmeal.
At other times we trolled for bass
While I rowed and he trailed his line
Baited to make a small mouth decide
It could not let that target pass,
A treat too tempting to decline.
I learned to hold the quarry close,
Slide my hand gently down the fins,
Wait for the tail to cease to swing,
Then softly work the barbed hook loose
So that it could be baited again.
At night the horn pout were our choice
With bulbous heads and smooth black coats
And sweet pink flesh we’d come to know.
Their tentacles we tried to avoid.
Our lantern brought them to our boat.
My father and I were often at odds.
I wasn’t the boy scout he might have preferred.
I did not always heed his words.
But I can cherish this memory now
Of me at the oars and him in the stern.
MOUNTAIN TOP EXPERIENCE
We have clickity clacked to the misty summit
Of New England’s tallest weather-wracked peak,
Cog after cog dropping into their sockets,
I accompanied by my kids and their kids
(Hoping we won’t slide back to our doom).
At the age of ten I first ascended the trail
That ran from the railroad base to the Lake
Of the Clouds to the tip-top and down the Jewel,
My mother in sneakers and black print dress
(The last ascent my parents tried).
But I got to know Mt. Washington well:
Repairing cairns in the Alpine Meadows,
Boulder-hopping down Huntington Ravine,
Traversing to Madison Hut and back,
And watching skiers bolt down Tuckermann’s.
I have grown fond of the ancient rock pile.
It was good to re-visit an old friend.
PACING
On the first day of August I taste
My first ear of garden-fresh corn.
Not a single sweet kernel is wasted
And soon the whole earful is gone.
But with tears in my eyes I recall
A man who, perceptive and slow,
Savored each delicate morsel
As he nibbled his corn row by row.
He split measured logs for our stove,
Swung his ax in unhurried arcs
And moved our canoe with sure strokes
To reach our next campsite by dark.
Now as I hasten my days,
Willing the hours to pass,
I long for his deliberate pace
And the will not to live life so fast.
BABY-SITTING JENNY
We stroll the park, popping snowberries with our fingers
As I did when a child along the shady drive
Of my best friend’s house. We’re pleased to find
Ripe Concord grapes hiding under leaves
That vine the walls she loves to walk on. In the canvas
Swing her small bottom fits my hands
Like a teacup as I lift and send her soaring.
She is old enough to pump herself once
She gets going. We rescue a daring toddler
Who crawled up the slide as a kitten climbs a tree,
Unable to back down. Faster than she expects
Jenny rides the slick steel to a sandy
Landing. She tries it again. We follow pigeons
To the soda stand, and seagulls lead us to the beach
Speckled at low tide with perambulating periwinkles.
They single foot among the Irish moss and sea lettuce
Where clusters of mussels congregate like Portuguese families.
Seven geese drift by in a low-flying convoy
Nattering about the scarcity of minnows. Jenny splashes
Ashore to dump her bucket on a sand patty.
The day is opalescent and fragile as fine crystal
Or the beauties she blows on her soap bubble ring.
OUR DAN
I imagine him out in the pasture blowing snow
To make a space for four shelter goats
And one wool coated sheep to move and browse
Outside their shed and for impatient hens,
Too long cooped in, to strut and hunt and peck.
His Kathy may be knitting that sheep’s wool
Or weaving a shawl on one of her many looms.
And when the spring produces brightly green
Asparagus shoots on all his roadside banks
Dan will be canning them for winter soups.
He must have inherited Grandma Lillie’s genes.
They have no use for lawns. Flowering shrubs,
Rock gardens, raised beds and berry bushes
Fill up their yard. They gather eggs. Sometimes
An aging rooster transforms into a stew.
This distinguished Cisco software engineer
Has retired early to learn to play guitar
And sing his songs at friendly open mics.
When he was young Dan had an attic room
In our three-story, part-Victorian home,
And in the space next to his bedroom he hosted
Cages and cages of guinea pigs, gerbils and hamsters.
He is true to his Tappan family Yorkshire heritage
As shepherds and farmers, good stewards of the planet.
OUR JON
Our first born son was tolerant of
His sister, born just fifteen months
His junior, but he teased his younger
Brother, who followed two years later.
And yet, he helped Dan land his first
Big bass, jaws locked on the lure
Of a toy fishing rod, and he took
The punishment for an annoying noise
That Dan, not he, had made. Jon set
A high standard for high school grades
And he got handy with Tandy in time to manage
Data banks before computer classes were taught.
Jon’s first puppy love was Sprite, his beagle,
And later he loved three winsome collies
And Becky, their owner, as well as his tall
Dark-haired daughter, who shares his love
Of all things and customs Japanese:
He critiques animes, practices Shin Buddha
Meditation, savors sakes, sleeps well
On futons, kneels gracefully at tea tables
And wields his chopsticks with skillful ease.
OUR CHRISTMAS CAROL
We named you for the season but we did not
Know what elfin influence your name would bestow,
For as we came to learn in later years
You were the mischief maker in the family
Who dared your younger brother to walk buck
Naked in the snow to the wall and back,
Enticed your younger sister to taste a little
Temptingly sweet-smelling acrid vanilla
And your baby sister to try a bite of dog fare.
Treasure hunts in the mossy clearing were your
Work and forced marches down our gravel drive.
Big sister led her siblings a merry chase
For which she has long since been forgiven because
She also led them to Bye Bye Miss American Pie.
OUR SARAH
On the night you were born the snow had fallen all day,
Drifting, walling us into our house on the hill,
And since we knew that you were on your way
We waited and prayed for the plow which did not come.
As dark approached we thought to ride the toboggan
To meet with a cab on the road at the foot of the Heights.
Of course the plow did finally come in time
But that is how I think of your arrival:
A flight straight into our hearts over whispering white.
And that is why I think you were the child
To try a skateboard, parachute out of a plane,
Ride on your Yamaha into the White Mountains,
Run your half-marathons and keep up
With your fast-peddling husband on mountain bikes
And hundred mile road races, and why
You still keep moving, living life on the fly.