Guest Author, Jim Terry . . .

Jim Terry’s post is the last of the Guest Author posts for a while. The Guest Author series was reader, Rick Smith’s, idea—giving Mary & me a break to concentrate on my recovery from Hodgkin Lymphoma. Thank you, Rick! And, thank you to Guest Authors: Rick Smith “Yosemite,”  Marsha Larsen “Native Country,” Anne Raftery “Poems,” Bill Smith “Papau New Guinea . . . Trekking Into History,” Laura Isham “Story of Your Favorite Meal,” Suz Robinson “One Minute Blessings,” and Jim Terry “The Small Box From Japan.” 

What We Don’t Know

It’s amazing how little we know,

About friends that we love so.

It’s for us to just ask,

Our love is our task,

As we listen to what we don’t know.

© Forrest W. Heaton 13 September 2021

I have recently reconnected with my friend, Bill Wetherall, from 54 years ago. He has resided in Tokyo, Japan, for most of that time. We were both in the army during the Vietnam War, assigned to a large hospital laboratory in Yokohama, Japan. This internet reunion has stimulated my mind to recall experiences in the laboratory at the 106th General Hospital and consider the impact those few months had on my entire life. The following came to mind.

The Small Box from Japan

By Jim Terry
September 2021

In 1966, during the Vietnam War, while at the microbiology laboratory of the 106th General Hospital, Kishine Barracks, Yokohama, Japan, I received a memorandum/alert from the Army Medical Command, Ft. Sam Houston, Texas, regarding the bacteria now known as Burkholderia pseudomallei, and the disease Melioidosis in patients from S.E. Asia. In the following 6 months we isolated this organism from five patients. The 406th Army Medical Laboratory at Camp Zama, Japan, confirmed the identifications.

In early 1967, at the time I was due to return to the U.S. and process out of the army, I was applying to graduate school in Microbiology. I thought I might pursue some study of this rare organism. The 406th laboratory agreed to lyophilize (freeze dry) the five isolates. When I packed up my belongings for return to the U.S., most of my possessions were shipped by the army. But in my checked baggage for a long flight to Travis Air Force Base in California, I included a well-sealed small cardboard box. In it were a total of twenty-five flame sealed glass ampules containing what looked like a fine white powder. Luckily, no one inspected my luggage. Bill Wetherall, who had worked at the laboratory at Kishine Barracks, came down from his home in Grass Valley to meet me and gave me a grand tour of San Francisco with the Haight-Ashbury scene of 1967. I visited with his family in Grass Valley and then proceeded to the airport to fly east. I have fond memories of that visit. I gave little thought to the contents of my luggage at the time, but looking back now, perhaps I was a little cavalier.

I did pursue a study of B. pseudomallei at Emory University in Atlanta in 1967-1969. I was able to demonstrate the morphological variations which led to the bacillus losing its cell wall and subsequent reversal to the parent form. CDC was helpful with electron micrographs to confirm the lack of a cell wall. It is now known that this organism can live intracellularly in macrophages for extended time and then years later cause a recurrence of melioidosis. It has been referred to as The Vietnam Timebomb. As of 2020, B. pseudomallei was classified as a Category B potential biological warfare agent and a CDC Tier 1 Security agent.  B. pseudomallei has been identified as the cause of an outbreak of melioidosis in patients in four states in 2021. It was found in aromatherapy spray bottles manufactured in India. Two of the four patients died. *

Needless to say, although I was always very careful, my laboratory at Emory was definitely not sufficient for study of this organism. Sometimes I did wonder why people walking down the hall would carefully pass as far from my door as possible!

After completing my degree at Emory, I went to Miami, where I was the Director of a Microbiology laboratory for many years. Upon retirement in March 2000, as I was cleaning out my desk, I found that small box from Japan. Many ampules had been used in my research but there remained about ten resting in that cotton and gauze lined box. In a final celebration, the contents were sent through the autoclave and then to the incinerator to prevent any survivors from setting up residence in the Florida Everglades.

Burkholderia pseudomallei

Thanksgiving...

Mary and I occasionally utilize our Blog to remind readers that life is ten-percent what happens to us and ninety-percent how we react to it. Granted, there are a fair number of items that appear to be coming all at once over the past two years, most out of our control and some of considerable consequence—coronavirus, health, finances, climate change, political polarization, etc. Each needs its own response. But we can choose our attitude and response to each. And, with care on each, we can be part of the solution vs. part of the problem. 

So, what might all of this have to do with Thanksgiving? Mary’s and my reply is . . . “Everything!” The fourth Thursday of each November offers us an annual choice: Are we thankful? And, if so, for what? And, do circumstances permit sharing that thankfulness with family and friends? For most, this Thanksgiving (as it may have been last year) is markedly different from previous Thanksgivings due to the inability to be close with family and/or friends. For some, this Thanksgiving will not include a family member or friend who has succumbed to Covid 19. These times can be trying for all. Yet, these times offer each of us the opportunity to identify the items for which we are thankful and how we wish to celebrate each.

You readers may have written about this at some point in the past. This may be a good time to dust that writing off and share it with others. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote a piece on this that we’ve dusted off and wish to share with you here:

The Harvest Moon

It is the Harvest Moon! On guilded vanes

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

And their aerial neighborhood of nests

Deserted, on the curtained-window panes

Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes

And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests

With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!

All things are symbols: the external shows

Of Nature have their image in the mind,

As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

The song-birds leave us at the summer’s close,

Only the empty nests are left behind,

And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow circa 1876

Our life is how we live it. The occasion is what we make it. Our wish for you is a Very Thankful Thanksgiving! 

Love, Mary & Forrest

Guest Author, Suz Robinson. . .

The Atlantic recently published an excellent article on the varying qualities of friendships, some deeper, some less so. In a subsequent discussion about the article with friends, one of our friends, Suz Robinson, advised the discussion precipitated her thinking through and then writing this piece. She shared it with Mary & me as a potential Guest Author Blog post. We immediately said “Thank You and Yes!"

Suz’s love of nature is evident in her writing. And, from the photos she included, her love of animals of all stripes comes through as well. When we asked her about her writing, Suz advised: “I have a strong belief that we’re all one as sentient beings.” So, thanks, Suz, for offering these thoughts for the enjoyment of our readers!

ONE MINUTE BLESSINGS

Several years ago I was speaking with my elderly aunt, who resided in a quaint village located just outside of Ithaca, NY.  She mesmerized me that day as she spoke about the one minute vacation she had just taken.  My uncle had frustrated her so she had walked outside to hang up some clothes as a brief respite.  On her way to the clothesline she encountered a red-winged dragonfly that stopped her in her tracks.  

“You know, Suzi, as I watched that dragonfly, time stood still.  I thought to myself, ‘Oh beautiful gift, I have never seen anything like you before!’  I watched in amazement as it hovered above our sunflowers, first visiting one; then another and finally resting upon a third.  Before I realized it half an hour had passed and I realized I had been one with that dragonfly.  I was no longer angry with your Uncle Don.  No, instead, I loved everything and everyone.  Have you ever experienced these one minute vacations?”

As I recalled this conversation, tears of gratitude flowed from my eyes.  I have learned the lesson of loving myself by delving deeply within my depths, visiting my inner demons, releasing them, and forgiving myself.  As I have risen anew, I have discovered an inner light within me that acknowledges multiple one minute vacations, which I call one minute blessings.   

For example, earlier this week I met a neighbor for a morning walk. He could hardly wait to show me the hickory nut he had just discovered. The two of us stood in silence as we viewed the shell.  I immediately thought to myself, “Wow! This looks just like the bottom of a turtle shell. Turtle symbolism … walk in peace with fortitude and serenity.  How wise that squirrel was to realize the rest of the shell had no nut and offered it to us instead.”

And then this morning while walking another neighbor’s dog, I came across a spider web highlighted with the rising sun as its light filtered through the tree leaves.  This spider’s message was a reminder that I am an infinite being, as is she. Each of us continually weaves unique patterns as we journey through life.  How refreshing it was to know that love such as this surrounds me whenever I walk quietly enough to view nature’s miracles.

Finally I return home.  Here the warm embrace of my  four–legged companions awaits me.  A joy, peace and serenity that cannot be expressed in words embraces me.  Carli, my golden retriever pup, and her best friend, Esprit, fill my soul.

It is at these times I sit with the words of Lao Tzu, 

“She who is centered in the Tao can go
where she wishes without danger.  She
perceives the universal harmony, even amid
great pain, because she has found peace in her heart.”

And so I awaken each morning ever more grateful for being alive in this moment in time, with the teachings from Aunt Betty enmeshed within my heart.

Blog Guest Author, Laura Isham…

When I was young I didn’t know the benefits of having a niece.

Then my sister had Laura and all of that changed into dance, and joy, and peace.

© Forrest W. Heaton 14Jul21

At eighty-three, I’m still learning how much fun having a niece can be. Including surprises. When Laura learned of the Blog Guest Author opportunity, she immediately volunteered and Mary & I immediately said “Yes.” Laura has been writing her first book over the past year. It is now published and she has offered an overview for our readers. Those of you who chose to read it will come away with fresh learning re foods and agriculture and, perhaps, fresh appreciations in eating. Thank you, Laura!

SOIL

“Where does your food come from? Is it coming from soil that has life growing in it? If you cannot confidently answer this question, you might want to ask yourself why you do not believe you are worthy. Because you are worthy. . . . You are worth food and nourishment that is raised on soil with life giving force.”

—Niti Bali; Farm to Fork Riot founder, author

I have a black thumb. It is unfortunate because I love watching plants grow. “Moderate moist with indirect light” does not seem that difficult, right? I just don’t have the knack, or really, the practice. Luckily, others do. I’d love to grow my own food.

Speaking of, have you watched the documentary, The Biggest Little Farm? I believe it is one of the most important stories. Ever. It is the story of soil. And I imagine it represents the experience of many new farmers: buying or taking over dead dry rocky dirt and transforming it into healthy, viable soil to support hundreds of species. Wendell Berry, author and environmental activist, stated in his collection of essays Bringing it to the Table, “most people nowadays lack even a superficial knowledge of agriculture, and most who do know something about it are paying little or no attention to what is happening under the surface.” Therefore, watching the documentary opened my eyes to what is required to build a farm one microbe at a time, and now I know what is happening under the surface.

Source: BrightVibes.com 1

 Righteous Regenerative Agriculture 

I am biased toward regenerative agriculture, but I believe in eating fruits and vegetables, period. And so, I don’t want you to feel like I’m ganging up on big agriculture. I believe when nature is manipulated too much, things backfire.

What I know to be important and to prevent another Dust Bowl is what many farmers are adopting these days: regenerative agricultural practices that focus on crop rotation like nature intended. Some farmers have been doing this from the beginning. This is “beyond organic.” This includes rotational cash crops with cover crops and holistic grazing to ensure healthy soil and to preserve what’s “under the surface.”

The farmers who have moved away from what we presently think of as “conventional”—focusing solely on yield, free use of chemicals, no focus on crop rotation or cover crops—to regenerative agriculture admit the upfront expenses including nutrient management and composting. Eventually, they demonstrate higher yields because each cycle creates healthier and healthier soil. These practices protect the groundwater with improved infiltration, decreased run-off and erosion that results in reduced overall water needs, and lowered overhead costs. In general, unfortunately, people believe that this way of farming is not sustainable enough to feed the world because of the amount of seed and resources required for each successful harvest. But cover crops benefiting the cash crops and feeding the soil with carbon is not an arbitrary outcome measure. The more carbon in the soil, the healthier the environment and the less amount of excess carbon dioxide emitted as a greenhouse gas.

It seems so easy.

The above brief review states my view on an important and growing problem/opportunity.

For those of you who might consider reading my book, you have two options. For a signed paperback, please send me a check in the amount of $20 and include the name to whom you wish the book inscribed, and your mailing address. I also have Venmo, handle @laura-isham; please include in the comments section the name to whom you wish the book inscribed, and your mailing address.

For those of you who wish to read or order the book online, you can order here.

I want to thank you, the readers of Uncle Wally’s & Aunt Mary’s Blog, for your interest in my work and send my best wishes!

Laura Isham

509 Sertoma Way

Buellton, CA 93427

Lbisham79@gmail.com

Guest Author, Bill Smith

Writing an introductory paragraph is made more difficult when the writer/writing you’re introducing are exceptional. Such is the case in this instance. Bill Smith is the younger brother of my college roommate and first Guest Author, Rick Smith. Bill & I have known each other via this relationship over all these years. When Rick posted his National Park Service stories of Yosemite, Bill was quick to offer being a Guest Author as well and Mary & I were quick to say “Yes.” We believe you dear readers will find this piece inspiring, an instance of being “touched by the joy and peace we shared with (isolated) villagers.” Each day offers each of us the opportunity to meet and get to know new people that enhance our lives. Thanks, Bill, for the reminder!

Papau New Guinea . . . Trekking Into History

I grew up in the 50s and became a full-fledged summer camp rat. My love of camps stemmed largely from my father, who grew up as a camper, counselor and eventual camp director. Camping for me meant swimming, canoeing, hiking, campfires and sleeping bags. The seeds of adventure were planted early and often in my childhood.

As a school administrator, I spent my summer vacations exploring national parks. My older brother Rick was a park ranger, and he became my key to extreme adventure. Soon I was rock climbing, river rafting, spelunking and backpacking with Rick in spectacular parks like Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Canyon and Carlsbad Caverns.

These park adventures prompted me to venture into faraway lands. While on leave of absence, I explored Hawaii, New Zealand and Australia. A fourth South Pacific locale intrigued me, and I signed up for trekking and river rafting in New Guinea.

Due north of Australia, New Guinea is the world’s second largest island. World War II hero General Douglas MacArthur described New Guinea as an uncompromising jungle. “Bugs were everywhere; biting ants, fleas, chiggers, poisonous spiders and brilliantly colored insects that would land on a sleeping man, and like vampires, suck his body fluids. This was the setting of the green war: the green of slime and vegetation, the green of gangrene and dysentery, and the green clad enemy.”

These same dense jungles gained even more notoriety in 1961 when Michael Rockefeller disappeared in New Guinea, the suspected victim of cannibals. It is probably one of the least visited regions on earth and home to over 800 different dialects. What would compel anyone, let alone me, to embark on a month-long expedition into New Guinea’s interior?

I dismissed these concerns as my flight approached Port Moresby, capital city of Papua New Guinea, on the island’s eastern half. The lush green terrain looked as mysterious as its reputation, and I shuddered excitedly at the thought of trekking the gorges and jungles below. One of my goals was to hike the notorious Kokoda Trail. It was time for me to reach for unparalleled adventure.

A favorite quote by Wilfred Noyce served as my inspiration, “And if adventure has a final and all-embracing motive, it is surely this: We reach out because it is in our nature to reach out, to climb mountains, to sail the seas, and fly to the planets.”

Five people signed up for the Kokoda trek but four had backed out because of its difficulty and a recent report of escalating tribal warfare in the highlands. Upon landing, I learned the trek had thus been canceled by my travel company. Refunds were offered but I stood firm. I’d been training for five months and I was determined to hike the Kokodo Trail. I would meet up with the five again for white water rafting on the Watut River. Adding to the peril of New Guinea, three would contract malaria during our 30-day stay. I took my malaria pills religiously and was fortunate to escape the disease.

The company hired a river guide named Tim as my hiking partner, though he also had never seen the trail. In its travel brochure, the company promised porters and guides for this trek. However, Tim and I would have to brave the Kokoda Trail together and carry our own gear. We were given a simple, hand-drawn map of the trail. No cell phones, GPS or glossy maps back then and that proved nearly disastrous.

My first steps on the faint, narrow track were filled with apprehension. I wondered if I could conquer 60 miles of trail in six days, gaining and losing 20,000 feet of altitude. Our backpacks were heavy and our pace tediously slow as the pathway tunneled through tangled vegetation, crisscrossed streams, and carved its way to higher elevation.

The Kododa Trail had been a brutal World War II battlefield when Japanese troops started to traverse it in an attack on General MacArthur’s headquarters in Port Moresby. Battle artifacts are still unearthed along the desolate footpath. Allied resistance and the jungle itself finally forced the Japanese to retreat just short of Moresby. 

Seven hours of rigorous hiking carried us to the lip of Imita Ridge, scene of the last-ditch defense of Port Moresby. On this spiny outcrop of earth, Japan suffered its first land defeat of the war. Australia was preserved but the merciless fighting cost MacArthur 8,546 soldiers, his bloodiest toll of victory ever.

The trail had resisted our every step, then unveiled its beauty when a brilliant rainbow arched across Imita Ridge. A coincidence, no doubt, but the rainbow represented a sobering memorial to the terrible death and destruction of war.

Darkness closed in. We rigged a tent and braced for our first night in Kokoda wilderness. Two tree kangaroos hopped into view. Miniature replicas of their Australian counterparts, tree kangaroos are rarely sighted and stand about 18 inches in height.

Soon the jungle canopy sealed out the sky. I wondered how many eyes were watching us. Cannibals came to mind, but snakes were also an obvious concern. I recalled a recent news article about a python in New Guinea that had yielded the remains of four human bodies.

Tired muscles protested but day two began at sunrise. It would become the most physically demanding day of my life. Relentless climbs tore at aching legs, but descents became more treacherous. Falls were inevitable on the slippery track. We struggled ahead, hoping to reach a village by nightfall. After 10 taxing hours, I fully appreciated my travel pamphlet’s warning: “The rigors of the Kokoda Trail cannot be exaggerated.”

Ahead we heard faint sounds of children playing and cautiously moved to a ridge overlooking a village. Unsure of our welcome, we slowly moved closer and reached the edge of a clearing. A village child spotted us, flashed a smile and yelled out gleefully. Suddenly children were everywhere, smiling and reaching out for our hands. Using Pidgin English, we introduced ourselves. A villager offered us fresh pineapple. The chieftain readied a guest hut, and we thankfully slept that night on the raised floor of a thatched shelter.

Cheerful voices awakened us at sunrise. Somewhat renewed, Tim and I geared up for another day. As I hoisted my pack over tender shoulders, I felt a tickle on my neck. I brushed at the spot, then froze in my tracks. An ominous spider scurried away. Had it been poisonous and bitten me, I knew medical evacuation was impossible.

Day three of hiking would prove no easier. We struggled upward and reached a village where another friendly welcome awaited us. A villager offered us papayas that refreshed our parched thirst. We returned the kindness with cookies, a popular treat for villagers. An elder warned that there was no water until the next village, hours away, so we filled up at a nearby stream. We purified all of our water with iodine and were accustomed to the slightly medicinal taste.

As we departed in the morning, another elder gave us directions to the next village that contradicted our hand-drawn map. About noon we reached the disputed fork in the trail. After much discussion, we trusted the villager’s advice and branched left. By late afternoon our feelings began to sink. We were overdue in the next village by an hour and the trail had disappeared. I repressed a tinge of panic. Of all places to become lost, New Guinea was my absolute last choice.

We bushwhacked our way to a ridge. Far below we saw thatched roofs. We descended a muddy, near-vertical gully and finally reached a village of eight huts. Its quietness warned of something peculiar. An elder timidly approached and held out bananas. They were a special treat, but our elation soon soured. In Pidgin English, we asked if this village was called Efogi, our intended destination. The elder answered, “Efogi not nem belong dis ples.” We were stunned and realized we were completely lost. 

We had no hope of finding the Kokoda Trail again. Luckily, we had discovered this village. When we explained, as best we could, that we were lost, an elder offered to guide us back to the Kokoda Trail. After hours of exhaustive hiking, we again reached that fateful fork in the trail. Our guide would not take money, so we gave him a large bag of GORP. Judging from the smile on his weathered face, he loved the tasty mix and a fair trade had been exacted.

All of our contacts with villagers had been pleasant to date, but as we reflected back, we felt one elder may have deliberately misguided us. He had cost us a day, but our current guide had helped us avert disaster. We pressed on to the real Efogi. We were now four days into the six-day trek and had yet to reach the halfway point. Unthinkable at first, we began to doubt our chances of completing the Kokoda adventure. Our map showed a grass landing strip at Kagi, the next village on the trail.

As exhausted as we were, our spirits soared when we reached Kagi and learned a plane was due the next day. We had a mini-celebration to honor the many kindnesses of villagers along the trail. We emptied our packs of most remaining food and prepared a meal for the chieftain and chosen guests. Coffee was the biggest attraction and many cupfuls were passed around the cooking fire. The chieftain had rescued downed Allied pilots during the war and was excited to learn we were Americans. The setting would be etched in my mind forever. Four villagers and two strangers from a different land straining with a language barrier but communicating in the deepest sense.

A stunning sunrise promised good weather and a plane from Port Moresby. An inspection of the grass landing strip nearly convinced us to start hiking again. It was about 400 feet long and perched on a ridge that sloped dangerously downhill. The village maintained the strip and took great pride in a gasoline-powered lawnmower. The 20th century was catching up with Papua New Guinea and I wondered how long its wilderness and culture would remain substantially unchanged.

As the Australian bush pilot accelerated downhill, we felt great relief as the plane angled skyward. I was a licensed student pilot, but I had never seen, done or dreamed of anything like that.

Neither Tim nor I viewed our decision to fly out as a defeat. Not finishing the trail was disappointing in some respects, but we had just explored a mysterious land that so few others would ever experience. We had hiked on a trail that helped alter the course of world history. Most importantly, we were touched by the joy and peace we shared with villagers isolated by jungle, time and distance. New Guinea and its peoples would remain a part of us forever.

Guest Author, Anne Raftery

As audiences are to performers, so too are readers to writers, often providing recommendations which lead to the writer’s improvement. Such has been the case with Anne Raftery. In addition to becoming a good friend and an essential visit on trips North (Connecticut), Anne has provided to us her poetry over some years, a glimpse of which Anne provides to you as one of our Guest Authors. Inspiring! Many thanks, Anne!

I felt a bit like the Karate Kid/“wax on, wax off” as I contemplated the prospect of being a guest blogger for Mary and Forrest’s online publication.  Forrest has been “Mr. Miyagi to my Daniel” for the past 20+ years. Mary has been my guru as to how one lives a giving and caring life. To put an image to our relationship, she has been the “Dorothy to my Tin Man”.  So with that in mind, I ventured with great trepidation into this opportunity but with an even greater feeling of privilege and honor that Forrest and Mary opened the door.  

I could go back to the beginning and talk about how our friendship started and grew into what it is today, but I am led instead to the inscription written in my treasured copy of “The Sixty-Minute Poet” by Forrest W. Heaton:  

Dear Anne 

Fun with this is our wish for you - 

Fun writing poetry your whole life through! 

Love, Mary & Forrest

May, 2013

With those 17 words, I pivoted from my vision of writing the next great American novel or memoir and discovered the glory and gratification of poetry.  I am not sure how family and friends feel about what the Heaton’s unleashed in me when they received my “work”, but it was a true gift to me to not only be inspired, but empowered to write.

I went through my catalog and picked out a few.  Random in topic and when I wrote them, I went with my gut and here we go.  

--------------

Forrest gave me an assignment in 2015 and this was the result.  Felt like a good place to start.  He asked me, “Why do you write poetry?”

I write a poem…

When I need to turn fireworks into one shining star.

When I need to turn a thundering waterfall into one raindrop falling onto a calm lake.

When I need to turn overwhelming sadness or grief into the sensation of peace and faith.

When I need to pray.

2/2015

This one spoke to how important it is to share what is in your heart with the people who are in your heart.

I heard there was a rainbow

I heard there was a rainbow

It brought joy to all around

But did you know where the rainbow ends?

My home, my heart, my soul

All because you let me know you saw a rainbow

9/2015

This came to me when I felt solutions to climate change, political strife, and general world discord were slipping through my fingers.  

We said we would remember

We said we would remember

But then the sun came out

The ocean drew us back

The rolling hills called our name

We can’t leave this beautiful place

We can’t change the way we work

We can’t change the way we play

What we do can’t really hurt that much

When we head to the beach

When we are mesmerized by the mountain view

When we contemplate what’s next

We must remember

The good news – we are resilient

The bad news – we are resilient

We must look beyond ourselves

Our world is suffering 

We said we would remember

We said we would learn from our mistakes

We said we would take more care

We said we would remember

9/2018

This was my first poem writing attempt after I got Forrest’s book, close in time to when my mother died.

She goes there

She goes there

When sleep overcomes her, she goes there

When life overwhelms her she goes there

When she needs a quiet place, she goes there

She prays that the next time, she will go there

Is there such a thing as without her?

There was alone, then there was with her

There was a flurry of children and he missed her when he remembered to

There was quiet, then, he was back with her

There is now deathly quiet, he is without her

Next

Is there a thought behind giving up?

Is there a dream behind moving forward?

Is there time to think?

Is there space to dream?

6/2013

Anne and Mary at Abbott’s Lobster in the Rough, Noank, Connecticut, 4 June 2015

Guest Author, Marsha Larsen

Mary & I moved from our home in Fearrington Village just a quarter mile to our apartment at Galloway Ridge in 2018. Approximately 550 residents live at Galloway, no small challenge to get to know them and remember their names. Two of those residents are Marsha & Cliff Larsen. We met them soon after our arrival and have come to know them as good friends. Amongst other talents, Marsha is an established writer, having five books (four for children and one non-fiction) published in the last eight years. When she heard about our recently announced Blog Guest Author program, she immediately volunteered “Yes” and we immediately replied “Yes.” As you know, our Blog focuses on Parks, Poetry and Planet. Reading Marsha’s article below will help you focus both on the loveliness of her story and the diversity of our planet. Thank you, Marsha!  

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Hands down, the most interesting folks I’ve ever met have been on the trail.  Or nearby, as in this essay.  Ordinary people, not famous at all, but each a vivid example of the range of us humans. I’ve revived this piece, written 20 years ago, to show we’re all part of Earth’s life and therefore a part of each other.  It’s time to remember…and connect.

Native Country

It was the first week in October, and Cliff and I were driving back to New Mexico from southeastern Utah where we’d been hiking for a few days.  Cliff detoured just before the crossing into New Mexico.  We decided to drive the 6 or so miles to Four Corners Monument, the only place in the United States contiguous to four states: Utah, Colorado, Arizona, New Mexico.  It’s  rather desolate, not at all like the picture I had in my head every time I looked at the Four Corners on a map—a cozy little pinpoint that belies the real-life vastness of that basin between the Chuska Mountains of Arizona and New Mexico, the distant La Sals of Utah and, of course, Colorado’s Rockies.  As I stood right on the magic spot, facing northeast, my ten toes in Utah and Colorado, and one heel each in Arizona and New Mexico, I breathed in the magnificent freshness and listened to cloth whip in the wind, the four state flags, the Navajo flag, the Ute flag.  We were in Indian nations too.

Back on U. S. 64, we headed almost due east to Shiprock, a major Navajo town in the eastern area of the gigantic “rez.”  The landmark rock, after which the town is named, looked like a sailing ship to early white travelers.  Landlocked Navajos understandably named it differently: “Tse Bitai,” meaning “winged rock.”  They know eagles, not oceans.

I don’t know how to pronounce Navajo.  I’ve been to poetry readings by Navajo poets where they spoke in their native tongue.  But I still have no clue to the mouth-feel of that complex and lovely language.  What is the role of the tongue and the lips in Navajo?  There was a town we’d been seeing on signposts, “Teec Nos Pos,” and in my head I’d been saying “Tee-eck No Po,” combining German dipthongs with French dropped consonants, the little I remembered from high school language classes. 

We’d just passed Teec Nos Pos, and I was still practicing variations silently as we drove along.  We saw an old Navajo woman up ahead, standing beside the road with her packages and holding up a dollar bill.  Obviously she was trying to hitch a ride.  Cliff looked over and asked, “Should we pick her up?”  I said, “Sure.” 

I got out of the car to help her—it’s quite a step up into our 4Runner.  It was immediately apparent upon greeting her that she spoke no English.  But she knew we were giving her a ride, so she let me hold her packages for her as she ably hoisted herself into the back seat.  After woman and cargo were settled, I jumped in and we took off for Shiprock, her only possible destination, about 25 miles away.  She handed forth her dollar bill.  I pushed it back, saying ridiculously, like an actor from a 1950s’ cowboys-and-Indians movie, “You keep.”

I knew from the Pueblo Indians of New Mexico that they allow some moments of quiet upon meeting a new person—they like to “feel” who you are before you speak.  I was hoping that our Navajo passenger could feel who we were and that she could feel safe with us.  I was acutely aware of her presence in the back, as was Cliff.  I started to turn off the Eric Clapton tape we were playing but decided against it.  I began to notice her smell, just a little-old-lady smell, homey and rather acrid but not unpleasant.  She was being quiet too.

Then a paper bag began to rustle.  And in addition to her smell now, there was the green fragrance of peppers.  And more rustling.  I didn’t want to look back for fear of embarrassing her.  So I fantasized about what she might be doing—perhaps eating a snack or a breakfast sandwich of some sort. (I had felt the shape of round bread in one of her packages.)  Or perhaps sorting through produce she intended to sell in Shiprock.   In a low voice I started to sing along with Eric, “Tears in Heaven.”

Suddenly her brown hand appeared between the bucket seats.  A large hand of great character and integrity—a hand of hard work and experience.  There was a small white piece of paper too, an old-fashioned receipt.  She was handing it to me, backside up.  I looked back and smiled at her, then took it.  “Thank you,” said the preprinted message in faded red.  Cliff glanced over.  “Turn it over, maybe her name is on it.” 

“Bessie Hayes,” I read out loud, then looked back at her and asked, “Are you Bessie Hayes?”  

“Bessie Hayes, Bessie Hayes,” she nodded enthusiastically.  I reached back and shook her hand, introducing myself as well as Cliff.  She took my hand firmly in both of hers and shook back, then reached forward to Cliff, who also shook her hand.  The whole time she was smiling in what can only be called a shy and childlike manner, and when she released my hand at last, she giggled delightedly, evidently pleased that we’d received her communication.  How clever of her to search among her things for the receipt with her name on it!  I took pad and pencil from my purse, wrote “Marsha and Cliff” on it and handed it to her while saying each name and pointing to myself, then Cliff.  She tucked us away in her paper bag and we rode on to Shiprock, Bessie and Cliff and Eric and me.  And the smell of ourselves and green bell peppers.

As we drove into Shiprock, Bessie said in her heavy accent, “City Market!”  It was the grocery store at the intersection of U. S. 64 and U. S. 666, where we were to turn to go on to Farmington.  Cliff turned in and pulled over to curb in front of the market.  I got out and opened the back door to help Bessie.  As she was gathering her things, she began to speak in Navajo, making motions at her eyes over and over again.  “Eyes?” I guessed out loud.  Then, “Sunglasses?”  I was not getting what she was trying to communicate.  Finally she stopped speaking and slowly got out.   As I held her packages for her and watched to see that she did not fall, I particularly noticed her shoes—old white high-topped sneakers which she’d laced only half-way up.  All in all, she just looked poor and old, but we also knew she was a woman of intelligence, strength and good humor.  

After we’d left her, I told Cliff about her pantomime and wondered out loud what she’d been saying.  A few more miles down the road and it dawned on me.  Bessie had wanted me to take off my sunglasses.  She’d wanted to see my eyes, and I was sorry that to her we had not really “seen” one another.

Since then I’ve wondered what she will do with that scrap of paper with our names on it.  She could not read, but she knew what the writing was.  And of course she knew the significance of people giving their names; she’d given us hers. “I begin with my name, I give you who I am.”

I’ve since learned that “Teec Nos Pos” means “trees in a circle” in Navajo.  I like to think of them with their branches touching.

Guest Author, Rick Smith

Recently, my college roommate and long-time friend, Rick Smith, phoned to propose an idea. Smith is a reader of our Blog and aware of our recent post advising a “break” while I concentrate on achieving remission or cure from my Apr21 diagnosis of Hodgkin Lymphoma. Smith proposed we invite a “Guest Author” to write a Blog post, perhaps one author a month, for the next few months so that readers don’t fall off due to the lack of posts. We wholeheartedly agreed.

Attached is Rick’s Guest Author post. Rick is a retired thirty-one year employee of the U.S. National Park Service. His career was exemplary, including being a Park Ranger, Assistant Superintendent, and Superintendent in a number of Parks and Regions. Rick reminds readers that, as they begin to emerge after perhaps a year-long lockdown due to Covid-19, should they be considering going to one or more national parks, they be aware: 1) dogs (should they have them with them) are not allowed on any national park trail and must be cared for, and 2) the parks and employees are still limited by Covid-19. You will need a reservation at most parks to get in. Rick reminds all that the great outdoors is a wonderful place to heal and national parks fit that bill to a tee!

It’s an honor to write a guest blog for my old college roommate, Wally Heaton, or, as  most of you know him, Forrest, and his lovely wife, Mary.  They always begin their blog with a poem so I will also.

I’m not a poet

And I know it.

Instead, I will begin with a famous quote from Stephen T. Mather, the first Director of the US National Park Service in 1916:: "If a trail is to be blazed, send a ranger; if an animal is floundering in the snow, send a ranger; if a bear is in a hotel, send a ranger; if a fire threatens a forest, send a ranger; and if someone needs to be helped, send a ranger.”

I spent 6 years of my 31 years as an employee of the National Park Service (NPS) in Yosemite.  Since few of you have ever had the opportunity, I thought I’d try to give you a feel of what it’s like to be an NPS ranger.  I spent the first couple of my years between Badger Pass, Yosemite’s ski area, and Tuolumne Meadows, Yosemite’s high-country camping and climbing area.  I can’t imagine a better assignment.  At Badger, I managed a 5-person professional ski patrol plus whatever volunteer National ski patrol showed up.  Badger is a small area, perfect for families who wanted their kids to learn to ski.  As  EMTs, we dealt with injuries both minor and gruesome.  The latter we stabilized and sent them to the hospital in Yosemite Valley.  Since I was responsible for lift safety, I had to ski a bit every day.  I will always be thankful for the American taxpayers who gave me the opportunity to ski 140 days a year.

During the summer, it was off to the high country.  Tuolumne had a huge campground, 500 same sites.  With that many ice chests, it was a perfect place for Yosemite’s black bear population.  I estimate that I spent at least 3 nights of every week darting or trapping bears.  We would haul them off to some isolated spot in the park.  I swear some of them made it back before we could drive back.  

Alas, all good things come to an end and in my final year, I was assigned to be the night shift supervisor in Yosemite Valley.  Every night at 5:00 pm, my crew spread out over the Valley to keep the peace.  Part of the crew was assigned to campgrounds where disputes often arose between those who wanted to hike a 6 am the next morning and those who wanted to party all night.  And then there were the bears.  Let me tell you one story of Rick and the bears.  

We had been on the lookout for this particular bear as it often broke into cars to get to the food inside.  One night, my patrol person radioed in, “He’s here in Lower Pines Campground.  Since we had been after this bear for some time,I already had a dart preloaded with the proper amount of the drug.  When I got to the site, my heart sank.   There was no moon, and it was darker than the inside of a cow.  But it was too good a chance to pass up.  I asked two people to shine their flashlight on the bear.  Since this bear had been a bit aggressive, I wanted something between the bear and me.  Luckily, there was a motorcycle at the site.  I set up behind that and fired.  I saw the dart hit the bear.  As always, the bear ran away.  They usually drop within a minute.  Not this one.  He kept running, never to be seen again.  I was mystified.  

I finished my shift at 2 am, and while asleep, my phone rang.  It was the Chief Ranger’s secretary.  She said, “Can you come to the office right away?”

I pleaded, “Edna, can’t this wait?  I only got to bed a few hours ago.” 

She said no, “Jack wants to see you right now,”

When I arrived at the office, the Chief asked me, “Did you shoot out someone’s windshield last night?”

I replied that no I hadn’t.  One of the guys in the office held up one of those clear plastic windshields that you often see on motorcycles.  There was a round hole in it.  In the dark, I didn’t see it.  Now I knew why the bear didn’t go to sleep.  There were dribbles of the dried up drug on the windshield.  The way the dart work is that as soon as it hits something solid, a plunger pumps the drug out.  The windshield had served that purpose.

I offered to buy him a new one.  He replied, “Are you kidding, man?  When I get back to to the Bay area, this windshield is going to be famous.  It posed as a bear.”

After the summer, I accepted a promotion to the Albright Training Center where Forrest and his family visited me.  But, I will never forget Yosemite.  It is truly one of the jewels of our National Park System.

Smith & Heaton running the Yampa, a wild, westward flowing river, flowing through Dinosaur National Monument Colorado to the Green, May 1997.

Taking a break?

Greeting readers! My name is Izzie Myers. I have assisted Mary and Forrest in the writing/graphics of our now five-year old Blog. So glad you are reading!

I am writing today to share with you all that we are going to take a break in writing the blog. We ask you to please stick with us and we look forward to being back with you soon.

Thank you!

Happy Spring!

Deb Haaland?

Mother Earth

Stopping burning coal and oil that release greenhouse gases

for some will prove difficult to do.

But wind and solar will soon take over and transform all but a few.

If there were a time to turn federal land management over to caregivers of Mother Earth,

The time is now, and it is happening now, 500,000 acres in re-birth!

Deb Haaland, U.S. Representative, 1st Congressional District, New Mexico,

Native American, confirmed Secretary of the Interior, her stand:

“I’ll be fierce for all of us, our planet, and all of our protected land.”

© Forrest Heaton March 2021 

For at least a year, we’ve been following Deb Haaland, Democratic Congresswoman from New Mexico, Native American, tribal citizen of the Laguna Pueblo. The Biden-Harris administration nominated Haaland to be Secretary of the Interior, the first Native American Cabinet Secretary. Today Haaland was confirmed by the Senate to be just that.

As the Washington Post reported 25Feb21, “Alexander Stuart, the third interior secretary, once declared that the United States’ mission was to ‘civilize or exterminate’ native people. The Interior Department has done much to carry out that terrible mission, with the seizure of tribal lands, forced assimilation of Native American children and much more.” The nomination and confirmation of Deb Haaland to encourage her 70,000 plus employees to begin to right these wrongs and protect these lands is huge.

Re-becoming?

A Nation of Healing and Hope

From a Moment of Silence,

To a Nation of Hope;

A Re-dedication of purpose,

Healing, world scope.

© Forrest Heaton 22 February 2021

Knowing where our minds are now and trying to intuit where at least a few of our reader’s minds may be, we write this blog. It has been a year since COVID-19 has turned most of our world’s lives upside down. Prior to coronavirus and prior to the previous administration, the United States was esteemed to be the leader in democratic values of the free world. Assisted by the ineptitude of the prior administration, our worldwide leadership began to morph into insular failure. Regarding coronavirus, the United States is now listed as dead last of all the nations in Covid-19 response. President Biden, tonight, 22 February, spoke to the nation from a flag half-staffed White House candlelight ceremony honoring the 500,071 U. S. citizens who have died of Covid-19 in the past year. This has been a difficult time for all of us. We write this blog post to join President Biden in honoring those who have gone before, but, at the same time, join President Biden and Vice President Harris in re-dedication, climbing back from profound loss to profound achievement, defining a new purpose, re-becoming a nation of HOPE.

Happy Valentine's Day

Classic love poems as read by Forrest Heaton….

When we tried to post our blog Tuesday, the website on which we post would not accept any photos nor revisions. We let it go, poorly presented because we hoped our readers would at least appreciate the heads up to make sure they saw Gorman’s inaugural poem presentation (some did and let us know). We believe the website’s issues are resolved and thus are presenting the poem and photos as Part I (19Jan21) and Part II (20Jan21.)

Part I - day before Biden-Harris U.S. Inauguration 19 January 2021

Unity & Hope

Recommend you get to know this gal

You’ll see her tomorrow on stage

First U.S. Youth Poet Laureate

Amanda Gorman, age twenty-two, poet-sage.

Five poets have read their works

Frost, Angelou, Williams the first three

Alexander, Blanco, tomorrow Amanda Gorman

“The Hill We Climb” . . . Unity & Hope.

Part II Inauguration Day 20 January 2021

Did you see her read today?

From darkness she brought light.

And have you read her poem she read?

Great poetry this gal can write!

In afternoon and evening coverage,

With the president she equally shared quotes.

Like the day-closing fireworks her work illuminating

Our path to America’s Unity and Hope!

Forrest W. Heaton 20 January 2021

Hope & Unity

Hope & Unity

Recommend you get to know this gal

You’ll see her tomorrow on stage

First U.S. Youth Poet Laureate

Amanda Gorman, age twenty-two, poet sage.

Five poets have read their works

Frost, Angelou, Williams the first three

Alexander, Blanco, Gorman’s “The Hill We Climb”

Her message . . . Hope & Unity.

Forrest W. Heaton 19 January 2021

Auld Lang Syne

It is the time of year again for us to reprise our prior year’s blog post giving readers/singers a bit of history about the poem/song Auld Lang Syne (and a bit of help with the lyrics). 

Do y’ know what y’ll be singin’ tonight night at midnight? 

Aye, if y’ like most, it’ll be Auld Lang Syne.  But, ask aroun’: few will know it’s a poem by a fellow named Robert Burns.  An’ fewer still will know what all the words mean.  Read this brief post and impress y’ friends!

Robert Burns (1759-1796) is recognized as Scotland’s greatest poet and greatest son (most recognized, most revered).  In addition to writing original poetry and songs, he was also a superb collector of earlier Scottish poetry and songs.  Scholars feel Auld Lang Syne is based on earlier Scottish poems/songs but is mostly Burn’s poetry.  Having written the poem in 1788, he then put the poem to a widely recognized Scottish folk song and published it in 1792.  Not only did it become instantly popular in Scotland (where their New Year’s Eve celebration is called Hogmanay), but it quickly spread around the world as revelers sang out the old year and in the new.  Different resources offer varying lyrics; those we’ve presented here are (we feel) close to Burns’ original intent as well as close to what you hear sung today.  (We’ve put in parentheses in a few spots a brief description in English what his Scottish brogue was saying.)

AULD LANG SYNE (Old long since, long long ago, days gone by, old times)

 [1]           

SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT, (Should old acquaintances/old times be forgotten,)

AND NEV-ER BROT TO MIN? (And never brought to mind?)

SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT,

AND DAYS OF AULD LANG SYNE?

[Chorus]

FOR AULD LANG SYNE, MY DEAR, (For the sake of old times, my dear/my friend/my friends,)

FOR AULD LANG SYNE,

WE’LL TAK’ A CUP O’ KIND-NESS YET, (We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,)

FOR AULD LANG SYNE.

[2]

WE TWO HAE RUN ABOUT THE BRAES, (We two have run about the slopes,)

AND PU’D THE GOWANS FINE; (And picked the daisies fine;)

BUT WE’VE WANDER’D MONY A WEARY FOOT (But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,)

SIN’ AULD LANG SYNE. (For/since auld lang syne.)

[3]

WE TWO HAE PAIDL’T I’ THE BURN, (We two have paddled in the stream,)

FROM MORNIN’ SUN TILL DINE;

BUT SEAS BETWEEN US BRAID HAE ROAR’D, (But seas between us broad have roared,)

SIN’ AULD LANG SYNE.        

[4]

AND SURELY YE’LL BE YOUR PINT-STOUP, (And surely you’ll buy your pint cup,)

AND SURELY I’LL BE MINE; (And surely I’ll buy mine;)

AND WE’LL TAK’ A CUP O’ KIND-NESS YET

SIN’ AULD LANG SYNE.

[5]

AND HERE’S A HAND, MY TRUST-Y FRIEN’, (And here’s a hand my trusty friend,)

AND GIE’S A HAND O’ THINE; (And give me a hand of thine;)

WE’LL TAK’ A CUP O’ KIND-NESS YET,

SIN’ AULD LANG SYNE.

[Chorus]

Help reduce the Coronavirus Blues?

Help Reduce the Coronavirus Blues

There are three December walks we recommend you try,

All three under brilliant December night sky:

Three spectacular events for you to choose,

To help reduce the Coronavirus Blues!

© Forrest W. Heaton December 2020

Although the recent news is good regarding coming vaccines, we’ve suffered through almost a year of worldwide illnesses, deaths, and medical and economic upheaval. All of us need to find ways to mitigate the negative aspects of this. Our recommendation: walks to deeply inhale the fresh air, take our minds off of these events, at least temporarily think about, even celebrate, events we rarely see or learn about: 

- The Geminids Meteor Shower 4-17Dec 

- The Conjunction of Jupiter & Saturn 1-21Dec 

- The Winter Solstice 21Dec

Although internet searches can provide helpful and more detailed information, a 3 ½ minute NASA Jet Propulsion Labs video is a good beginning introduction to these three events.

Making purple?

Now to Rebuild Our Nation

It’s a few days past Election Day, November, two thousand twenty,

Rarely has a nation suffered so much when its coffers are so filled with plenty.

Crises: Health, economy, racial justice, climate, ideological polarization.

But the election is mercifully, thankfully over. Now to rebuild our nation.

Amidst red and blue blending, re-building, making purple . . . coming together at last,

Drawing on our strengths, through inspired leadership, putting each crisis in our past.

A ton of new thinking is required of us as we write this new chapter and page,

And, success by success, hopefully re-achieve . . . leadership on the world stage.

© Forrest W. Heaton, Chapel Hill, NC, 8 November 2020

We wrote the above poem Sunday 8 November, five days following the election, feeling better that more Americans voted for a new administration than voted for the current one. Still, we realized the number who voted for the current administration presented an extraordinary challenge for the incoming President-elect/Vice President-elect/& team and for our democracy. 

We’re writing these paragraphs seventeen days following the election, the current White House occupant refusing to concede, attempting to overturn the election, federal/state/local government enablers, for the most part, remaining silent as our democracy is threatened and world position is trashed. Nevertheless, we stand by the poem, pledge our continued full support to the Biden/Harris team, and pray. 

Many disturbing items were covered (and are still being covered) on television following the election. We did find, however, one we thoroughly enjoyed. It was created two months pre-election and aired post-election by the Biden campaign in hopes of easing a divided nation. The approach utilizes placing people inside frames, a concept originally developed by artist Lorraine O’Grady in 1983, the campaign correctly asking permission to utilize her concept and O’Grady giving her blessing. We hope that at least a few of the current administration supporters find in this two-minute video some reason to rethink at least a portion of their position. For the rest of us: enjoy!

Hello Darkness

This, dear friends, is a good news story when most of us are much in need of a good news story. It turns out that a well-known entrepreneur, inventor, investor and philanthropist, Sanford “Sandy” Greenberg, Chairman of the Board of Governors of the Johns Hopkins University’s Wilmer Eye Institute, published in July 2020 his memoir entitled “Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: How Daring Dreams and Unyielding Friendship Turned One Man’s Blindness into an Extraordinary Vision for Life.” We knew none of this story . . . and wouldn’t be surprised if at least a few of you were unfamiliar with this story as well. But the story weaves through a poem which we believe almost all of you will know. First, the poem: 

“Hello darkness, my old friend . . .”

The Sound of Silence

Hello darkness, my old friend, I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping, left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain . . . still remains
Within the sound of silence.

In restless dreams I walked alone, narrow streets of cobblestone,
'Neath the halo of a street lamp, I turned my collar to the cold and damp,
When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light . . . that split the night
And touched the sound of silence.

And in the naked light I saw . . . ten thousand people, maybe more,
People talking without speaking, people hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share . . . and no one dare
Disturb the sound of silence.

"Fools!" said I, "You do not know . . . Silence like a cancer grows.”
“Hear my words that I might teach you … take my arms that I might reach you.
”But my words like silent raindrops fell . . .
And echoed . . . in the wells of silence.

And the people bowed and prayed . . . to the neon god they made.
And the sign flashed its warning. In the words that it was forming.
And the signs said “the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls . . .
And tenement halls”
And whispered . . . in the sounds . . . of silence.

Paul Simon, 1963 &1964 

With the collaboration of Art Garfunkle (covered later)

We believe this to be one of the most poignant poems written in English in the twentieth century. Credit goes to author, Paul Simon, with credit also to Art Garfunkle, although that part of the story will unfold below. Having turned the poem into a song, they recorded the song with Columbia Records, releasing it in October 1964 in their debut album titled “Wednesday Morning, 3AM.” The recording was a commercial failure. They disbanded, Simon returning to England, and Garfunkle returning to Columbia University where he was a student. A few months following, a Columbia Records engineer/producer (without Simon’s or Garfunkle’s knowledge) overdubbed the track (which originally was acoustic [unamplified] only) with electric instruments and drums and released the remixed version as a single in September 1965. Within three months, the song was Billboard Number One. They hastily reunited, recorded their second album entitled “Sounds of Silence” with this as the lead song. My Albion College roommate, Rick Smith, learning I didn’t know who Simon & Garfunkle were, was in town for a visit and had taken me to the local record store in Washington DC to buy the album for me in September 1966. I still have the album. And, Smith & I still have each other in our lives, sharing calls a couple times each week. 

Adding another twist to this story, it was Rick’s wife, Kathy, who advised us just recently of Greenberg’s July 2020 memoir and the unfolding story of the poem’s/song’s lyrics. Mary & I purchased and read Greenberg’s memoir. To say his memoir is an inspiration is a gross understatement. Further, having spent my lifetime playing guitar and singing the songs of the times with friends at parties, as well as a lifetime of writing poems and song lyrics myself, this story is right up our alley. It is a stunning story. 

As to Art Garfunkle’s collaboration with Paul Simon on the poem and song, Greenberg and Garfunkle were roommates at Columbia University, having met in their first week at Columbia in 1958. They developed a strong friendship which included having made a pledge to each other to always be there in case the other was in need. In 1960, Greenberg’s eyesight began to fail. He became blind, became deeply depressed, and left Columbia not intending on returning. With no notice, Garfunkle flew to Buffalo, talked Greenberg into returning to Columbia, and guided Greenberg out of depression and back into life. Garfunkle referred to himself as “Darkness”: “Sandy, Darkness has come to read to you again.” “Sandy, Darkness has come to help you get to class again.” Greenberg graduated Phi Beta Kappa, and, following a Marshall Scholarship at Oxford, received his M.A. and Ph.D. at Harvard and M.B.A. at Columbia, married his high school sweetheart, has three kids, has had an unbelievable career, and has written an extraordinary memoir. 

Garfunkle took all these stories about his times with Greenberg to his high school friend, Paul Simon. The United States is blessed with an amazing number of extraordinary poets; they are called singer-songwriters. Paul Simon is among the very top. Simon used the stories as inspiration as he wrote the poem and then the song. Folks, it doesn’t get any better than this for me! What a grand story! There’s not enough space here to relate more but we encourage your own internet research and perhaps reading Greenberg’s memoir. “Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again . . . .”

Can dreaming help?

For the most part self-distanced in our apartment since February and seeing fewer family and friends, one could get a bit depressed. Having come across a poem I wrote on a trip Mary & I took to Paris ten years ago, we found ourselves thinking about the time when we will be able to travel again. In the meantime, perhaps dreaming about that travel can help. We invite you to dream your way through this poem with us.

Paris . . . Time Slips By

When coming to Paris, myriad choices dare us,

One must narrow them down to a few.

With not many days, consider the ways,

Your interests to joyfully do

With each other,

Each trip focus just on a few.

With guidebook in hand, we took in Rodin,

A sculptor of bronze and of stone.

His collection now housed where he lived and espoused

His great talents amidst a great home:

Hotel Biron,

Where his gifts to the world are now shown.

The Burghers of Calais, they gave their lives,

They gave their lives a-way.

Auguste Rodin, he re-turned their lives,

He re-turned them to life in clay

And bronze,

To live a-nother day.

Camille Claudel, she loved Rodin,

He forty-four, she just past nine-teen.

She sculpted the loss she had seen

And lived,

She sculpted what might have been.

Thus, all too soon, it is after noon,

To the Seine, les bateaux passing by.

Autumn leaves falling down, sparkling yellow and brown;

Another interest we will try,

Time slips by,

Long shadows from autumn Paris sky.

© Forrest W. Heaton October, 2010

The Mature Age, 1913 bronze casting at the Musée Rodin.

Your spirits lifted by a tree?

Spirits Lifted By A Tree

Crises of health, economy, climate, justice

Weigh heavily on our minds

One keeps on the lookout for

Helpful mental finds

Ken Burns in his series on “National Parks”

Presents mental find for all to see

Chiura Obata’s life-long lifting of spirits

From a thirty-seven-hundred-year-old tree

© Forrest W. Heaton 12 August 2020

Chiura Obata (1885-1975) was a well-known Japanese-American painter whose story caught the eye of Ken Burns and Dayton Duncan as they developed their acclaimed book and film “The National Parks: America’s Best Idea.” Obata emigrated from Japan to the U.S. in 1903, going on to become a renowned artist, primarily of nature in the Sierra Nevada. From 1932 to 1954, Obata was a faculty member of the University of California at Berkley and, during World War II, was interred at Topaz Japanese-American Internment Camp, Utah, for a year. This became a period of struggle, conflict and inspiration for Obata. 

We believe if you were to use this brief write-up as encouragement to learn more about Obata’s life, you would find inspiration from his work and words as well. Speaking about his work, his granddaughter, Kim Kodani Hill, had this to say about her grandfather in the Burns film: “One subject that he loved to paint again and again was the sequoias. For him they were the great vertical line that connected heaven and earth. And for him he saw the life of a person in these trees. And no matter the storms and trials of life, these trees survive with great dignity and great strength.”

“Glorious Struggle” 

Chiura Obata, Glorious Struggle, 1965, sumi on silk, 36 x 22 inches, Smithsonian American Art Museum. 

(Dayton Dalton in Burns film) “Years later, in remembrance of his struggle, Obata would paint “Glorious Struggle,” the image of a tree in Yosemite’s High Sierra whose own struggle to survive seemed to give him strength and hope in his darkest hour.”

(Smithsonian American Art Museum) “In Glorious Struggle a sequoia forest endures a violent storm, an image of fortitude and perseverance Obata hoped would inspire younger generations of Japanese Americans. He described the picture’s symbolism in a 1965 lecture:

“Since I came to the United States in 1903, I saw, faced and heard many struggles among our Japanese Issei [first-generation immigrants.] The sudden burst of Pearl Harbor was as if the mother earth on which we stood was swept by the terrific force of a big wave of resentment of the American people. Our dignity and our hopes were crushed. In such times I heard the gentle but strong whisper of the Sequoia gigantean: ‘Hear me, you poor man. I’ve stood here more than three thousand and seven-hundred years in rain, snow, storm and even mountain fire, still keeping my thankful attitude strongly with nature – do not cry, do not spend your time and energy worrying. You have children following. Keep up your unity; come with me.’”