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InciDentally

by Marshall Jamison

Just down the long block from storied Harvard Square
In a tired old building, up a well worn stair
Practiced a dentist my trusting mother thought was great
But at eight, I withheld even skeptical approval until
perhaps a later date.
He pointed out to my mother and me, pridefully, that
right across the street
Stood the Widener Library, pride of Harvard’s true elite.

The overwhelming edifice seemed to almost reach the sky.
Brick, cement and mortar filled my wide and staring eye
When I sat shivering in his ancient patient’s chair.
Nervous, suspicious, alarmed and hating to be there.

So for a dozen years or so this fumbling, well-meaning chap
tried to improve our relationship
As he drilled, filled and cemented in my mouth with
only an occasional slip.

Then came the day when he greeted me with a sly, dry
but excited grin
And reported the startling news to me, Your wisdom
teeth have at last grown in!
He continued with these excited shouts, You know,
my boy, you’ll have to have those extremely long fangs out!

That’s when I should have recalled my early boyhood’s
doubt!

Instead, six months of unending pain, a very, hurtful
bout
Until that lout finally pulled and pulled and got those molars out!

I wondered when I got his total, final charge for the
very rough and tough extraction
Why it had taken so long for me to remember my (very)
first gut reaction!

So now no more ancient dentist chair, no more
the Widener view!

Even my mother now agrees those things we will
eschew!

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Doughnuts!

by Marshall Jamison

Missus Eaton made doughnuts for breakfast
For Oren and me. I loved her doughnuts
And so did he.
Oren was a big man, a sailing man,
Just home from the sea,
And I was a tad who climbed on his knee.
Between us two, who ate the most?
Well, after a dozen or more —
He had French Toast!

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One Day in Harvard Yard

by Marshall Jamison

At about ten years of age or so, I heard Robert Frost
recite his poetry aloud
for what, it seemed to me to be a most attentive
and respectful crowd
in Harvard Yard, a meeting place of those who
search for knowledge,
the brick-lined mecca that surrounds much of
Harvard College.
He read quickly without emphasis that might
have been revealing
and his words belied emotion which I thought
he must be feeling.

Continue reading → One Day in Harvard Yard

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Remembering Sally Benson

by Marshall Jamison

I got lost on the Boston Post Road
It’s a lonely coast road —
But it led me home.

My old friend, Sally Benson wrote that fragment of verse, and as a New Englander born, I have held it in my memory for over forty years. Brilliant, star crossed, tragic, but oddly magnificent, she hurled her challenge to the world:

If you can, come on and knock me down

and it could and did!

As one of her last courageous and rewarding efforts she adapted an F. Scott Fitzgerald story entitled “Josephine” for Broadway, retitled there, “The Young and Beautiful.” When reviewed by the distinguished Herald Tribune critic Walter Kerr, he described it “a perfect production.”

###

Now overcoming my fear and trembling, which if you had known Sally you’d understand, I’m presuming to preface those three remembered New England lines with three of my own.

Tall pines lined the empty highway that stretches along
the rock bound shore.
My little grey mare whinnied shrilly when she heard
the rough surf roar.
As the evening dusk quickly darkened into moonlit night
I got lost on the Boston Post Road
And it’s a lonely coast road
But it led me home.

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A Matter of Pride in Nebraska

by Marshall Jamison

Longfellow and Lowell and Stephen Vincent Benet
Penned many a stirring roundelay
Of the glorious days of our nation’s rise
And leaders they chose to aggrandize.
Down misty corridors of time
Our poet, John Neihardt, celebrates in rhyme
Heroic men who dare to share a dream
Giants in the earth answer to his theme.
Those gallant, resourceful mountain men
Whose like we’ll rarely see again
Jedidiah Smith and brave Hugh Glass
Who found real splendor in the grass
Were two whom he wrote of with deep respect
When you read his poems you recollect
That he followed travelers on these great plains, high
Where far horizons meet the sky and he sang
Of warriors and wanderers through this vale of tears
Who met with, fought and overcame their fears
Of lonliness, failure and bitter strife
As they worked to fashion a better life
Who saw the world as they’d have it be
Where every man is strong and free
And believes in his heart that he can do
Something to make that dream come true.

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Don's Heritage

by Marshall Jamison

Editor’s Note: Don’s Heritage was written for sportscaster and pledge drive host Don Gill’s retirement from the Nebraska Educational Television Network in December of 1996.

Boy, will we ever miss his magical happy touch!
His never failing gift with words, enriching us so much!
For I’ve seen it happen every time Don Gill gets up
to speak.
You listen, we listen to his words, well chosen and
unique,
with a thoughtful touch of humor that always makes
us smile.

Yes, this master Storyteller spins a magic to beguile
and his simple, selling spiel always seems to appeal
to reluctant viewers who often are hedging at
pledging.

Like Frank Gifford, Red Barber or Mel Allen, he seems
to heighten the attraction
when describing graphically the action of football,
baseball, basketball
for you all!

With a flare that he’s demonstrated for all of
his life
that may even have helped to attract his wonderful
wife!
Don, you’ve lifted our hearts with your cues for
laughter!

We’ll take a breath, pause, and wish you and Donna
a happy ever after!

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On Climbing the Stairs

by Marshall Jamison

Listening for the sound of a well remembered
rhyme,
my father always whispered aloud as he paused
before the climb
up the stairs to the attic, to wish me soft
good night
and say the prayer he taught me by the candle’s
flickering light.
I recall well it promised joy and sweet
relief of pain
and it answered all my doubt as I heard it
again and again.

For I knew if he believed it surely must be so
and for sixty years its message has shown
me how to go —
Up the attic stairs to the memories
of my youth
to give my little grandson my father’s
living truth.