Literary Arts

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LETTER FROM SHANGHAI – NOVEMBER 1903

Diary response from his wife at home on the farm

I’m coming home in February, Ella.

   - You have been gone four months already, Joe.

I have heard some talk

   - Who is telling you this?

Do not go to town after dark.

   - I went to the theater to hear my sister sing.

“Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion.”

   - I once went to dances, parties and teas.

Your role is to care for the children at home.

   - What about me?

You are spending too much. I want an account.

   - Feeding and clothing five children costs money.

I have a piece of jewelry for you. It’s very expensive.

   - That is not enough.  I want more.

Your picture is next to my mantle.

   - That’s so you won’t forget me.

It does not do you justice.

   - You do not do me justice.

- Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

JUST LIKE YOUR GRANDMOTHER

Dearest great-granddaughter, Anne

Like your grandmother Jenny

You come from a line of women

With strong traits so many

Though I departed earth too soon

Your grandmother was raised

By a loving devoted family

I was so pleased and amazed

Jenny loved to garden

With flowers everywhere

Arranging fresh flowers like you

With an artistic, creative flare

A fabulous cook was she

Everything from scratch

Donuts, pies, fancy desserts

Whatever was in the veggie patch

One of the first B & B’s

Up to the country to relax

Card games, puzzles, shelling peas

And freshly made flapjacks.

A strong voice had she

In church and the community

She was a giver and a doer

At every opportunity

You have her creative flare

And love to compete

Knowing you both 

Would have been such a treat!

Anne Sarkisian, Sunapee NH

WHAT GREAT UNCLE JOHN SAID

 Words from an ancestor I never knew

My great aunts and uncles, 

who played contract bridge, 

and summered on Governor’s Island, 

knew how to make memories.

I can see them, still, acting out elaborate skits 

and rolling back the rug in the dining room 

to dance after dinner, wishing I were

grown up enough to join them.

As the first grandchild and great niece

my memories include Radio City, Central Park, 

and the Bronx Zoo; lunch at the Waldorf

and my first pair of patent leather high heels.

And while I never met my Great Uncle John, 

sometime in the 1920s, he came home 

to visit his mother (my great grandmother)

telling her that he must say goodbye, 

that he was about to do something he could 

not explain to her, that he loved her but 

they would never see each other again.

Family alliances being what they are

my great grandmother shared the story

with her granddaughter-in-law (my mother)

and that is all my mother knew when

she passed it to me, not long before she died. 

Did Great Uncle John become a spy, 

commit murder, move to another country, 

marry someone the family disapproved? 

Was he gay, terminally ill, suicidal?

And there it sits, for almost a century,

this mystery among the memories.

Pat Whitney, Sunapee NH

BUENA GERTRUDE TOLAR

Born March 1897- died 1944

As I leaf through the old family album

your photo caught my eye. 

Unlike other photos of family members

standing seriously straight, you are smiling 

and casually seated posing with fishing rod 

and dressed in white blouse and white pants.

I found no other photos of family women 

dressed in pants, unlike now when most women

wear pants more often than dresses.

You may have been an embarrassment to your 

family because you were different.

You wore different clothes and may have been

discriminated against because of your actions.

There were barriers that no longer exist today.

I read the many praises for your work in the appreciation letter from 

The Business and Professional Woman’s Club Of San Benito, Texas. 

I read,“making progress in the welfare of women workers 

whether their work was in a home, a shop or office”.

Thank you Aunt Buena, you were a good woman.

I wish I could talk with you now and let you know

How many things have changed for women.

Progress has been made because of women like you.

Loa Winter, Newbury NH 

She died of a brain tumor in 1944

The year I was born

MARTHA KNAPP LULL

Imagine! The year is 1778!

Picture yourself at age sixteen.

You are married with three babies.

Your home is in a rustic settlement in Upstate New York.

Martha, my 4th great-grandmother was this young woman.

The American Revolutionary War had raged for fifteen years.

It was a time of fierce and bloody conflicts,

One being the historic Cherry Valley Massacre.

With her husband, Joseph, father, and brother-in-law

Having been captured by the Oneidas, and her farm ablaze,

Martha chose to take her babies, one horse, and sister, Mary

On a 3-day, thirty-three mile journey to Cherry Valley. 

It would be treacherous, traveling through ominous wilderness.

Determined, Martha persevered as she had faith that her friends in

Cherry Valley would provide a safer place for her family.

Here, time and space do not allow for more narrative,

Although Martha’s complete story has been written.

A beautiful ancestor, Martha is a forever friend.

A true roll model for her sixteen children and their descendants.

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH

                       If in the twilight of memory we should

                      meet once more, we shall speak again

                      together and you shall sing to me a deeper song.

                                                                Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

I

I wish I could tell you, from the sepia colored photo at which you stare,

   my life with your grandfather was happy; 

      that I forgot the color of my skin; 

         that I forgot I was once his slave. 

I wish I could tell you I raised thirteen children to full adulthood, but I can't. 

   Your father, the sweetest, and the youngest of my four surviving children,   

      possessed my dense, green eyes, blazing with

         all the colors of my homeland, a land of a proud people.

But, I will speak to you, not of weakness, but of strength.

    In the country of my birth, the land you now call Ethiopia, 

      we believed a spirit only answers when called. 

         You have resurrected my soul. 

Your eyes have the shape and color of mine, 

   your children the curl of my hair. 

      Future grandchildren may one day wear my coffee colored skin, 

         longing for the warmth of a night air felt only in their dreams, 

            my spirit dancing in their veins. 

II

My homeland was warm and abundant; 

   we had not yet heard of famine. 

      My valley grew rich with the rains

          and our tables were always full. 

The desert stretched out before us, 

   an eternal mystery to our minds until theycame: 

       men, with skin lighter than ours, but baked by the sun, 

         thundered across the desert, one with their animals, 

            but of lesser heart. 

They stole many young girls that day.

    I was bound for servitude; 

      freedom now only in my brain; 

         my beloved land only in my heartl. 

Of my capture, there is little I remember; 

   the Gods give us strange, mysteriously needed gifts. 

      We traveled by land and by sea,

         by horseback and by camel. 

The air became thin and I held my breath, 

   hoping each one would be my last, 

      until I was handed to your grandfather. 

          His name was Ghaspar. 

In my land, the name, Ghaspar, was that of a wise old king. 

   Your grandfather: neither wise nor regal. 

      He had cruel thin lips and eyes that undressed me. 

         He possessed my body but never my spirit. 

III

We crossed the ocean to a new land called America

   and once again strange words surrounded me. 

      I learned this new language and soon had four young children. 

I began to tell my babies stories about my country, 

   longing for the land of my birth, 

      singing them my mother's lullabies 

         and searching your father's green eyes.

For there I saw my birth, my mother, my father, and my sisters: 

   my paradise. I began to know, in this life, I would find no peace. 

      I became indifferent to my surroundings. 

         I soon refused to speak. 

My silence enraged him. Then, he put me away. 

   Then, I ended my life. 

      My spirit now dances, wild and carefree. 

         I am everywhere now, my essence

            is in your very bones,

                                                alive

IV

You must allow me to tell you more: 

   it is the story of my life.

My mother, in the land of my youth,

  sang to me the poetry of Sam-enna warq, 

      the poetry of wax and gold. 

         Through these verses, myth and legend survived. 

The literal meaning we called "wax." 

   The deeper secret meanings we called "gold." 

      After a goldsmith had made a form of wax,

          he molded the clay around it. 

The clay hardened, the wax was melted, 

   and then liquid gold poured inside. 

      When the clay was cracked, 

         only the purity of the gold remained. 

The wax and the clay will return to earth, 

   but the gold will continue

      to be shaped and reshaped, 

         melted and reformed, rebirthed like our souls, 

            our bodies just clay vessels, good only for a certain voyage. 

V

You have come to the mid point in your life now, 

   the wax melted, the clay formed, and the gold poured. 

      There is nothing to fear when the clay support is 

         cracked and discarded. Your true essence remains. 

But for now, you are the keeper of the myths, the storyteller of the dreams, 

   the dreams of your ancestress across the seas. 

      Call me Azeb, the name my mother gave me,

         a name meaning brilliant and free. 

Call me often. I am always there, an unconscious answer to your prayers.

   You bestowed, upon me, the ultimate power to be

      a part of your life when you resurrected my soul.

THE BEST YOU CAN BE

I see in you a strong beautiful woman

Whose talents reveal your inherited backbone

A gift giving you the courage to be the best you can be

I see in your eyes the magic spirit in a wishbone

The spirit dreams are made of

What greater gifts are there?

You have met some unfortunate times

Though your strength has carried you 

You are a true survivor

Cherish each day as a precious offering

While in your gratitude

Let your backbone shine

Let your dreams be contagious

And never stop sharing your funny bone!

Florence Wiltshire Millett, New London NH

The Wishbone Football Offense Formation

They all had strong backbones those in the wishbone.

Quarterback, fullback and two tailbacks.

Take the snap from the center. Ball can be thrown

Or pitched to trailing speedsters for your attacks.

Or tuck the ball into the FB's gut

For a plunge into the line

And watch him cut

Downfield into the endzone - goalmine!

Darrell Royal Texas Longhorn,

Bud Wilkinson Oklahoma Sooner - the coaches. 

The 4-man backfield triple option was born

And electrified 1960's/70's fans with its exciting approaches.

Skip Hause, Sunapee NH

WHEN BACKBONE MET WISHBONE

At first, they ribbed each other

but soon they were at cross-bones,

for Backbone’e eyes bored holes in things,

while Wishbone’s eyes were never bored

and saw things holy everywhere.

And though the Fates conspired

to wall them off from one another,

Wishbone’s longing summoned gold

and from it, Backbone made 

a ladder, strong and tall,

forged from possibility and will.

Then Wishbone painted rainbows

on whatever clouds came into view.

Backbone molded clouds to bricks

and built their dream on bare-boned grit

and granite sparked with mica stars.

Their bone china bore the sweetest meat.

Their bone pile was always full

and they were blessed with funnybones.

Joan T. Doran, New London NH

RIDDING THE HARMFUL

Instead of breaking the wishbones of Thanksgiving,

I’ve kept them whole with wishes. I don’t want to hurt anything

especially that which once connected a Y to wings.

In the comfort of my own despair, I honor the backbone

I seldom knew was there. From the beginning of me, it seems

someone or a group of them has wanted to crumple me like a bag

of dirty laundry. “You have to grow a backbone” some said.

No, I say, I don’t; you create it for me day by day, disc by disc.

Those people would pull so greedily on a wishbone, 

the magic snuffs in the snap, because they are ignorant.

Instead of breaking the wishbones of Thanksgiving,

I’ve kept them whole with wishes. I don’t want to hurt anything,

especially that which once connected a Y to wings.

My vertebrae mean everything to me—no one can break me.

Amber Rose Crowtree, Grafton NH

BACKBONE VS WISHBONE

Backbone gives one stature

Wishbone gives one hope

One will raise you up

The other gives you scope

Solid foundation on one hand

A prospective on which to dream

Profound thoughts come to mind

Opportunities so it would seem

As we stroll down many paths

Life unfolds along the way

With our Backbones and Wishbones

We will certainly have something to say

W. D. Tighe, New London NH

THE APPLE PEELER

for Linda Whipple

Five bushels of apples she peeled 

and cored, doing most of the work

herself. My arthritic hands pared slowly,

blessing our friendship, praying and 

remembering the turkey wishbone

we snapped one Thanksgiving 

calling it a draw. Now I desire only

to take away her pain as she seeks

balance after losing her love to cancer.

The backbone, the core of our camaraderie,

lies in tragedies borne, joyous occasions 

celebrated and sharing stories of our kids

and grandkids. Today she’s apple saucy 

and smiley, peeling and organizing my pantry 

as our November days grow shorter, darker.

Now, with the backbones and wishbones

of our friendship, we harvest 

what we have nourished, awaiting 

the inevitability of winter’s hibernation.

Dianalee Velie, Newbury NH

A BONE OF CONTENTION

You are graciously invited to come for Thanksgiving

but, first you should know there are certain conditions.

Do not bring your dog, we have two cats,

when they feel threatened they are known to attack.

Conversation is encouraged, however, there are rules.

Climate and politics are okay to discuss,

as long as you watch the same news that I do.

Wishing you are healthy and if you are not,

keep the organ recital to a minute or two.

I will serve a bronzed bird with all the trimmings,

including stuffing, cranberry and mountains of mashed.

And, something green but not that bean casserole,

because my mother always said, “why gild the lily?”

For dessert I will serve my signature pie,

don’t bother to add yours, we’re trying to diet.

Can’t wait to see you and just so you know

we don’t eat marshmallows on top of sweet potatoes.

If you comply you are welcome back.

See you on Thursday, Happy Thanksgiving.

Mary Blohm, Newbury NH

WE OF HOARY HEAD

My heart yearns for what it cannot have

but gulps my privilege.

History has taught availability.

Old Age has refined choice,

has encouraged disorder, entropy, 

which is arrested by a backbone.

Dan H. Allen, new London NH