I’m saying good-bye to Nebraska –
some years after I left it physically.
It has been my custom to salute
staff members of the Nebraska Educational Network,
with whom I served for almost twenty years,
with a few lines of poetry,
when they left the Network.
(Some critics might deem the efforts doggerel.)
One summer day
about seventy years ago or more
my younger brother, Jim and I
fished for flounders in the bay
under a cloudy mackerel sky.
With the tide rising,
our mother,
good sport that she was,
sat in the stern of Fred Beck’s
small white skiff
and cracked clams for our bait.
Now we boys were not very good
fisherman at that age,
about six and seven or eight.
But within about two hours time
we had hooked and successfully caught
a pail full of flounders of all sizes,
the largest almost big enough
to be deemed halibut.
Our catch included a dozen or so
ugly sculpins
which Mother unhooked with dispatch
by whacking them mightily
on the side of the boat.
We tried our luck in the harbor again recently
but somehow without our bait expert
cracking clams in the stern
our catch was sadly limited
to two tiny sculpins.
After an hour or so
we left them for the seagulls.
My father was the smartest man I knew.
All my life.
But he couldn’t hit a curve ball.
Or teach me, his eldest son,
how to hit a curve ball, either.
When I was eight years old,
my brother six,
we moved within walking distance
of old Boston Braves Field
in Alston, Massachusetts.
There, where ancient “Rabbit ” Maranville
played shortstop exhibiting
various unique skills
to which he was well known
in the National League.
The most appreciated by us loyal
Braves fans was the
Vest Pocket Catch
when the grizzled veteran
caught an infield fly in an imaginary
vest pocket.
Rabbit’s partner, Moran, played
second base.
He shared my shortcoming —
he couldn’t hit a curve ball, either.
Wally Berger patrolled center field
and he could hit a curve ball a mile.
So could Sid Gordon
who played third base.
The Braves
who had just traded away
Babe Ruth
to New York
for a mess of potage
(my Dad’s description)
staggered through the season
in spite of our
unqualified support.
I never learned to hit a curve ball.
On a corner in the Village
where MacDougal Street
meets Minetta Lane
still stands the ancient bar
where Manny, the smiling bartender,
poured and smiled and listened.
Over half a century ago
and more
Manny listened
to ancient scene designer,
Cleon Throckmorton
and to his black-clad wife, Julie,
listened to Monte,
the reporter from The Daily Mirror,
to his pal,
the Moose,
and to Phil Cazazza,
the fat wine merchant
of Bleeker Street.
Listened to Chelsea,
the Italian tenor,
and to Red,
the musical plumber,
and to an uncounted number of fledgling actors
who at one time or another
haunted the old Provincetown Playhouse
just up the street.
So Manny poured
and Manny listened
in interested silence,
his attention real,
never phony or false.
He listened
because he cared about you,
his fellow Man,
and you knew it.
Too bad you never met him.
But, they say,
the real old timers,
that if you step into
The Minetta Tavern to this day,
you can still catch a little of Manny’s spirit
if you listen quietly to what’s going on.
This Christmas,
the eightieth of my sojourn on
this blessed earth
a miracle,
albeit a small one,
occurred.
Through the rapidly shortening days of
November and into December
we watched our Florida garden
as an ancient pink azalea,
shaded from the sun by a tall orange tree,
struggled to produce
the blossoms which always came in January.
This year,
in the garden,
as I read about St. Luke’s words
describing the Christ child’s
birth in Bethlehem,
the pink azalea bloomed
and blossomed on Christmas Eve.
After over fifty years, he is recalled by this observer
As a man of infinite charm and quiet thoughtful grace,
Gentle in manner, unique for one of such a powerful
and muscular physique,
Soft spoken, a deep voice that rumbled in his chest.
Considerate and kind, a handsome, tortured
thoughtful face,
Never serene when contemplating the past history
of his troubled, struggling race.
But as he threw his head back and began
To sing of the future his rich voice held, for all,
The hopeful promise of a far better place.
[Author’s Note: This poem was written in honor of Lee Rockwell’s retirement from the Nebraska ETV Network.]
This network place has been conceived
and built with grace, love
and care
And the hopeful expectation that he’ll always be there
To meet the challenge when an assignment commands
Tact and logic, follow through, quiet excellence
in administration of the project’s demands.
One might even call it a careful and expert
laying on of hands!
Whom do we eulogize with such a tribute anyway?
Lee Rockwell’s his name and we deeply regret
That alas, today, he’s taking leave of us and going
away.
And as we remember his dedication to the
cause of education
His courtesy and kindness dispensed without
reservation
We’ll hate to try to fill Lee’s large shoes,
It’s just too much of a feat
for our small feet.
[Author’s Note: This poem was written in honor of Gene Bunge’s retirement from the Nebraska ETV Network.]
As in earlier times the Town Crier might report very
reluctantly
“The saddest news of the day concerns our good friend
Gene Bunge.”
Distinguished by a heritage of Minnesota’s sons and
daughters who are
Long on character and rugged strength, his record
Reflects dedication to their truths which he
learned at length
From those fine people who believed and taught
honest effort and sincere dedication
to honorable causes.
And to whom he listened, took their words to heart
without doubt or hesitation.
That his years of constant effort here in Nebraska
have certainly made sense
Is demonstrated happily in our common
cause of network excellence
And have resulted in a distinguished record
that cements
Nebraska’s pride in the network’s fine accomplishments.
We’ll remember too Gene’s interest in supporting
symphonic music and the arts
And in the local theatre he became a man of many parts!
So Gene’s reached high in his lifelong quest
You have to agree he’s done his best!
…of my Big Chief writing tablet begs me to fill its
empty lines
With words that mean this day has meant more
than other days to me
Because they do grow shorter as the years add up
And even an hour seems to run its course
more swiftly.
One hand of the clock hastening to catch
its look alike
Only to hang there together, suspended in time
For a brief moment before disengaging
and moving on.
It leaves this viewer somewhat short tempered,
Even nettled for having used the precious
moment
To observe and record time gone by,
Even wasted.
But was it?
by Marshall Jamison
He was fifteen. His girl, a year older
But not much wiser, kissed him hard twice,
Drew a deep breath and told him, “Late,
Five weeks late.” He responded to the kisses
With passion, got up from the couch,
Ran a comb through his hair, and smiling
Sympathetically,
Walked out of the basement play room,
Out of her life forever.
She never forgot or forgave him.
After a long, long time he finally forgave himself.
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