Contributor's Corner . . .

    . . . Items from other sources . . .

      Love can be likened to the wind - it can be felt but not seen.
                                                (Anon)

  On searching for one's roots . . .

    Over and continued exposure of plant roots can cause it to die. Perhaps we should be careful how deeply we seek our own roots - lest we be saddened by things discovered . . .
                                                (Ironfrog)

  The Forest

    The forest does not cry when a leaf falls - it is the natural order of things - and a prelude to the future.
                                                (Anon)

The following poem was furnished by a caring person from High School days. Class reunions can be really nice, can't they?      (Reunion - see The Fifty Years )

An Old Lady's Poem

        What do you see, nurses, what do you see?
        What are you thinking when you're looking at me?

        A crabby old woman, not very wise,
        Uncertain of habit, with faraway eyes?

        Who dribbles her food and makes no reply
        When you say so loudly, "I wish you'd but try!"

        Who seems not to notice the things that you do,
        And forever is losing a stocking or shoe.....

        Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
        With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill....?

        Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
        Then open your eyes, you're not looking at me.

        I'll say who I am as I sit here so still,
        As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will . . .

            I'm a small child of ten... with a father and mother,
            Brothers and sisters, who love one another.

            A girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
            A bride soon at twenty -- my heart gives a leap,

            At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
            Who need me to guide them and make a good home.

            A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,
            Bound to each other with ties that should last.

            At forty, my young sons have grown and are gone,
            But my man is beside me to see I don't mourn.

            At fifty, once more babies play ‘round my knee,
            Again we know children, my loved one and me.

            Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead;
            I look at the future, I shudder with dread.

            For my young are all rearing young of their own,
            And I think of the years and the love that I've known.

            I'm now an old woman... and nature is cruel;
            'Tis jest to make Old Age look like a fool.

            The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
            There is now a stone where I once had a heart.

            But within this old carcass a young girl still dwells,
            And now and again my battered heart swells.

            I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
            And I'm loving and living life over again.

            I think of the years.... all too few, gone too fast,
            And accept the stark fact that nothing can last . . .

        So open your eyes, nurses, open and see,
        Not a crabby old woman, look closer... see ME!!

Anonymous

    When an elderly lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland, it was felt that she had nothing left of any value.

    Later, when the nurses were going through her meager possessions, they found the above poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland.

    The elderly lady's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem.

    And this little old Scottish lady, who may have felt she had nothing to give to the world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem. Goes to show that we all leave "SOME footprints in the sands of time".

    Perhaps we should all remember this poem when we meet an elderly person, one whom we might be tempted to brush aside without looking at the young soul within, and remember that we, too, shall be there... one day! (If not already!).

        SHARE THIS POEM........., and the thoughts therein
        Let it be spread, amongst all and your kin
        It’s something that we should strive to remember
        As the days of our lives reach toward our December.        ironfrog

Have a Great Day!!!

    Thank you, Barbara J., for sharing this special writing.

                    Why the drama masks?

To signify the tears and joy, the laughter and pain, the good and bad times that life visits upon us all, a fact recognized by the Old Lady in the poem above, and who had the wisdom to appreciate the good, and the courage to face, the bad.

Thank you all for reading the poem.       ironfrog

  Changes

    "I have changed my system for labeling homemade freezer meals. On the
    freezer containers, I used to carefully note in large clear letters:
            "Meatloaf"   or
            "Pot Roast"   or
            "Steak and Vegetables"   or
            "Chicken and Dumplings" or
            "Beef Pot Pie," etc.

    However, It was frustrating when I would ask my husband what he
    wanted for dinner because he never asked for any of those things. So,
    I decided to stock the freezer with what he really likes.

    Now, If you look in my freezer, the containers have a whole new set of labels,
    and you'll find dinners with neat little tags that say:
            "Whatever,"
             "Anything,"
             "I Don't Know,"
             "I Don't Care,"
            "Something Good,"   or
            "Food."

    My frustration is now reduced because no matter what my husband replies
    when I ask him what he wants for dinner, I know that it is there waiting."

Maybe so!!

        Thanks, Barbara J., for an enlightening look into the freezer!

Governor's Letter

Received in response to a letter and copy of my poem which were recently sent to Governor Warner.
(See Where The Towers Stood )

Mayor's Letter

Received in response to a letter and copy of my poem which were recently sent to Mayor Bloomberg.
(See Where The Towers Stood )

Whatever Happened To Yankee Doodle?

Yankee Doodle? Most of us remember Yankee Doodle, don’t we?

He was that lanky feller we used to see around town, more likely on a Saturday

afternoon, who wore a blue jacket with stars all over it. Seemed like there were

fifty or more stars on it.

He used to go into a long explanation telling how each star meant something special. And those red and white striped britches that were a might too short, and

wore a white, pointy beard. Seems like he grew up like a weed. But when he dressed

out in that outfit, Boy! How he’d strut!

Sometimes you might even see him with that funny straw hat on, especially

on a hot sunny day. I remember one time he even stuck a feather in it. He was a toot! Compared to what some others wore, with their greens, or browns, with red and blue

X’es or other designs, he might have looked too colorful to be taken seriously, but some folks learned that although he laughed a lot, he had a serious side. He was always willing

to listen to or tell a funny story, especially in the barber shop.

Say, whatever became of barber shops, anyway? You’d be well advised not to

kid him too much about what he wore, or how he combed his hair, and for sure, never make any off-color remark about his momma or his girl or even his poppa or his grandpap.

If you did, you’d soon find yourself lying on your back with a split lip or worse, just the same as if you’d taken a punch at a hornets’ nest or upset a swarm of wasps. When it came to stuff like that, he was nothing short of intrepid. He was downright enterprising. He’d be on you like a chicken on a June bug until you hollered “Uncle!”

Yep! He could be handy with his dukes. He’d laugh along with most anything, but when you got him mad, Oh, how he’d come out swinging! Some fellers learned that the hard way. Some fellers thought he was just too kind hearted and maybe even a little

simple-minded to ever fight, but they were wrong. You see, he dearly loved his freedom to come and go as he pleased. Loved it as much as life itself, some said. He wouldn’t step on your shoes as long as you didn’t step on his or his friends.

He’d most always dress up on Sunday, or the Sabbath,or whatever you might want to call it, and likely as not you’d see him walking down the road, going to his place of worship, hands in his pockets, and whistling all the way. Some say he could even play a fife. You don’t hear much about fifes anymore, but he could really wrap his tongue around

a few tunes like “The Blue-tailed Fly”, or “Jimmy Cracked Corn”. He liked music, that’s for certain!

He’s that feller who’d walk two miles or better to see his girl, again whistling all the way. Seems like he whistled a lot. He didn’t particularly enjoy the walk home after an evening of courting, because it meant taking the short cut that went by the graveyard. Again, he’d just pucker up and whistle on by. But, by damn, he was gonna see his girl anyway!

Folks were never clear on how much schooling he had. But somehow, he always seemed to find work. And when you could get him into a serious discussion, he could come out with some pretty impressive stuff. Like how everybody ought to pitch in and help when the crops came ready to harvest. Or when the neighbor’s barn burned down. And how nobody was owed a free lunch. Stuff like that. He didn’t like free-loaders. All you had to do was try to find a job. And even if you couldn’t find one, he’d most always give you some pocket change if you really needed it.

Yep. That was Yankee Doodle. He was a good ole boy. I wonder what ever happened to him. I hope he didn’t die - what with all the Pearl Harbors, the Koreas, the Vietnams, the Somalias, the Granadas, that thing in the Middle East deserts, and in Afghanistan - all just within our lifetime.

If you ever get word about him, please let me know. I really liked that feller!

Frank DuPriest, July 3, 2002

Contributed by Frank, a long-time acquaintance. Thanks, Frank

Jackalope Maker

Article from Field & Stream Magazine, May 2003

A Special "Jackalope" . . .

    . . . And the last train robber in the Old West . . .

    The article above from the Field & Stream of May, 2003 concerning the death of the man who originated the "Jackalope" brought to mind my first encounter with the Jackalope "myth" as well as a brief story about the last train robber in the old west.

    Back in the summer of 1968 while on vacation, I and my wife and children stopped at a motel in Laramie, Wyoming. While talking with the desk clerk, we happened to see our first mounted jackalope in the motel office. The desk clerk, a more elderly person than we, related the following story.

    The motel had been the property of one Mr. William L. Carlisle (Bill Carlisle), the infamous 'last train robber' who robbed many Union Pacific Rail Road trains in his days in Wyoming. He usually managed to    escape. Finally, a posse caught Bill and he eventually went to prison for 20 years.

    After his release from prison, Bill somehow drifted into the motel business (although exactly how has, to date, gone undiscovered). It was said that Bill was an avid poker player and played a lot with his cronies and acquaintances. A report has it that one player had won Bill's motel several times at poker but would not take it - always letting Bill have it back - out of respect and friendship.

    Somewhere along the line, Bill acquired one of the Jackalopes made by Douglas Herrick, see article above. It was kept on the wall in the motel office and was highly protected. When we stayed there, the motel, was in the process of being sold. We tried, unsuccessfully, to buy the Jackalope but were repeatedly told it was not available.

    Apparently, bill wrote his own autobiography in a book entitled "Bill Carlisle, Lone Bandit: An Autobiography. 1946"

    Somehow, I have always felt honored to have seen, and touched, an actual Douglas Herrick mounted jackalope - even though it was not for sale.

NOTE: More about Bill Carlisle can be read by visiting: www.geocities.com/Heartland/Pines/5005/
     and clicking on "Gunsights".

ironfrog