Happy Mother’s Day 2026

 

At Gettysburg National Park, ca 1953

 

  She was taken from our family far too early after a long and difficult illness. And almost fifty years later there's no question that I miss her. I'm especially sorry she did not live to enjoy her daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Still, I feel her goodness has been with Nancy and me helping to shape our family long after the kids have gone on to establish their own lives. Wouldn't have it any other way. She was a great mother, full of love, compassion, a wonderful sense of humor, and dedication to family and friends.

about 1946

October Gold

 It's that time of year for another Burlington memory harvest. The sights, sounds, tastes, aromas, and feelings are as fresh as this year's apple hrvest.

When an early autumn walks the land and chills the breeze

and touches with her hand the summer trees,

perhaps you'll understand what memories I own.

There's a dance pavilion in the rain all shuttered down,

a winding country lane all russet brown,

a frosty window pane shows me a town grown lonely.

In October 2008 I wrote the first of many revised editions of the story of the annual October closing of my family's "summer place" in West Virginia. It was nestled in the Patterson Creek Valley about twenty miles south of Cumberland, Maryland, and just under a three hour drive from my home in the Washington suburbs. Those who follow this blog likely know more about the Burlington campground than most current residents of that village. Still, it's an important story in my formative years and it's worth repeating, especially with revisions. The most recent change has been the loss of the magnificent two-story cedar pavilion that stood for nearly a century as the focal point of the property. For over 90 years it served as a Burlington landmark and with its loss a place that created so many memories has itself become one. And speaking of memories:

Repairing flood damage at the pavilion - classic outfit

In late October my mind floods with wonderful memories. From birth through my 27th year, the date marked an important event in my life. The story descends from my dad's membership in the Uniform Rank of the Knights of Pythias. The URKP was a military-style company within a fraternal organization born out of the search for national reconciliation following the Civil War. Every good military organization needed a campground with lodging, mess hall, recreation pavilion, and parade. The URKP built theirs in the small village of Burlington, West Virginia. It also served as a regional park, complete with playground, ball fields, and swimming in the creek. It was often rented for the day for family reunions, company picnics, church functions, and other large gatherings.

It was legal...and tasty, about 1966

"Camp" at Burlington was paradise for a young boy. A creek bordering the camp offered hours of fun. You could explore the woods and fields forever. The frequent social events made the playground a great place to meet new friends. But "camping" at Burlington was by no means a wilderness experience. We were lucky to have a cottage that offered every comfort of home. There was a drive-in theater next door where I enjoyed the snack bar as much as the movies. Across the road was a small airfield with a few Aeroncas, Taylorcrafts and Piper Cubs, and a hangar that gave birth to many "homebuilts" over the years. I can say with confidence that Burlington was never boring. The drive-in and airport were owned and operated by Dave and Georgia Baker, an entertaining and endearing couple I came to love and respect as family.

Today, the sycamores along the river may be a bit taller, but they still explode in yellow this time of year along with my favorite walnut tree. And the young maple I climbed as a boy has matured into a massive Fall fire tree. In 1950, I watched when the men brought in their bulldozers to shape a new channel and level the bank of Patterson Creek. The stone beach they built was much safer for the generation of bathers who enjoyed it, but creeks have a way of remembering affronts. By the mid '70's, the creek's waters restored the original course and bank to a scene my grandfather enjoyed in the 1930s. Although time changed the place I called "Camp" it will never erase the memories of this childhood paradise.

1959

Hulling walnuts, 1967

Through the summer of 1974, I spent many annual family vacations at "camp" and in later years, several weekends of "cold camping" in the off-seasons where I wrote many college essays including a graduate thesis. Opening the cottage and grounds for the summer though exciting was not especially memorable. Freezing temperatures lingered into May, so the campground usually opened on Memorial Day weekend.

When it's 48 degrees at noon in a pouring August rain

On the other hand, winterizing the place was like saying "Goodbye" to an old friend. Thoughts of family, friends, the big - or small - fish, fireworks, that scary movie, the old biplane, all those memories accumulated over the past six months filled your mind. Amid the blazing gold sycamores, brilliant fire oaks and maples, the smell of wood smoke, and a harvest of black walnuts, we went through the years-old closing procedure until the last item - pouring anti-freeze into sink traps - was checked. At that point, it was time to load the car, proceed with all those repetitive tasks one does "just to be sure," then close and lock the big red door until Spring.

Radical days with Marti, 1970

As American society changed, the URKP fell out of fashion. Lodge members grew old and passed away. In 1974, the lodge itself and all its assets dissolved. I haven't locked that big red door for 48 years now, but I still have the key and a remarkably detailed mental picture of the cottage and landscape that I loved.

Closing weekend, 1972

In many ways, Burlington is with me every day for my experiences there helped shape my values, and define my career, hobbies, and general interests. The impact has been so profound that I have asked my children to do their best to provide the same opportunity for their own families.

1949

In weaving all of the memories about this weekend, I ask you, my readers, to do the same: Find a nearby paradise and escape to it often while your children are young. And when they are older and have children of their own, they can join you and make even more vivid memories. There will be no sorrow there.






Sources

Illustrations and Photos:
all photos from the family archive

Text:
song title, "When October Goes", and opening quote, "Early Autumn", lyrics, by Johnny Mercer, Johnny Mercer, The Complete Lyrics of Johnny Mercer, edited by Kimball, Day, Kreuger, and Davis; Knopf 2009

Happy Mother's Day 2025

 

Gettysburg National Military Park, 1954

She was taken from our family far too early after a long and difficult illness. And almost fifty years later there's no question that I miss her. I'm especially sorry she did not live to enjoy her daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Still, I feel her goodness has been with Nancy and me helping to shape our family long after the kids have gone on to establish their own lives. Wouldn't have it any other way. She was a great mother, full of love, compassion, a wonderful sense of humor, and dedication to family and friends.

about 1946

A Mother's Birthday

Last year on the anniversary of my mother's birth, I opened the post with a paragraph saying that her family's deep lineage in the western Virginia mountains had been lost to history. Thanks to a cousin's genealogical research I can report this year on her 110th birthday that much of her family history is no longer lost. Her paternal ancestory in the New World began 1628 in the Plymouth Colony. From there the family line moved to Harford County, Maryland, by 1700, followed by Tidewater Virginia during mid-century, and the Virginia frontier (now West Virginia) around 1800. 

Her parents married a century later and raised seven children on their family farm on the eastern edge of the Allegheny Front a few miles from the Potomac River. One weekend in 1931 she and her four sisters went to skate and dance at the local lodge armory. It was a common practice among families, but especially attractive among young people as a way to have fun with old friends and make new ones as well. She struck up a conversation with the young lodge member who was selling tickets. That conversation grew into a two-year courtship that ended in marriage in 1933. Their conversation continued for more than forty years.  

On the farm in 1932

 

With my birth she became a full time mother and homemaker, but still found time to enjoy her church family, reading, gardening, nature, frequent visits with her large family, and vacations on Pattersons Creek in Burlington, West Virginia. She was taken from this world far too early after a long illness. There's no question that I miss her and I'm sorry she did not live to enjoy her daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Still, I feel her goodness has been with us helping to shape our family over the years. Wouldn't have it any other way. She was a great mom, full of faith, love, compassion, a wonderful sense of humor, and dedication to family and friends.


Happy birthday, Mom! See you later.

Dylan Thomas: "...Joy To The Trees And The Stones And The Fish In The Tide..."

Two of the most lyrical writers of the past century were born in this last week of October. The American writer, Pat Conroy, was the subject of a post a few day ago. Today we remember Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914), an artist whose work reflected his immersion in the themes and images of living on the coast of his beloved homeland, Wales . His lyrical descriptive writing, poetry and unforgettable voice brought him great fame in the United States in the decade prior to his untimely death in New York in 1953.

Thomas in a London park

Both the writer and his native land have special meaning to me. My great grandparents on my father's side immigrated from Cardiff, Wales, to the United States in the 1870's. Though I never knew my grandmother - she died before my second year - my father often recalled how she took pride in her Celtic roots and the Welsh love for song and singing.

It is interesting that he should remember the talk of song and singing. Many critics and authorities write that Thomas's recitations are spoken words that approach song. Readers can reach their own conclusion by listening to the poet reading Poem in October, his recollections of his thirtieth birthday. Audio quality isn't the best. I suggest earphones and closed eyes for this sound journey.

Poem in October


It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron priested shore
The morning beckoned with water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall
Myself to set foot that second
In the still sleeping town and set forth

My birthday began with the water birds
And the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose in a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived
When I took the road over the border
And the gates of the town closed as the town awoke

A springful of larks in a rolling cloud
And the roadside bushes brimming with whistling blackbirds
And the sun of October, summery on the hill's shoulder
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly come in the morning
Where I wandered and listened to the rain wringing wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea-wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle brown as owls
But all the gardens of spring and summer
Were blooming in the tall tales beyond the border
And under the lark full cloud
There could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples, pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning, so clearly, a child's forgotten mornings
When he walked with his mother through the parables of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice-told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks, and his heart moved in mine
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy in the listening summertime of the dead
Whispered the truth of his joy to the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide
And the mystery sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds

And there could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
And the true joy of the long dead child sang burning in the sun
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood

O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning



What an unforgettable voice. I first heard a recording of Thomas reading his work - very likely A Child's Christmas In Wales - sometime in elementary school. There's a good chance few students in any grade have that opportunity today. How unfortunate. We often think education has come a long way over the last seven decades. Perhaps it has, but somewhere on that journey we have undoubtedly lost some very precious cultural experiences. If we could hear Thomas's truth singing every year, we would know so much better who we are as individuals and as a people.

Here is Thomas reciting what is often called his most famous poem, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, a powerful, emotion-filled villanelle addressing the end of earthly life.

My family likely became aware of Thomas through his trips to the U.S. made over a span of about four years beginning in 1950. The journeys here always made sensational news for he was not only a rising star worshiped in metropolitan and university salons but also a boisterous character prone to drunkenness, colorful language, and wild behavior. Indeed, his trip to New York in 1953 ended in death from pneumonia likely brought on by his well-known excesses. One could say he covered the full spectrum of life and when he spoke of it in verse or prose he made music. It has been a pleasure to experience that music for 70 years.

October: What Memories I Own

It's that time of year for another Burlington memory harvest. The sights, sounds, tastes, aromas, and feelings are as fresh as this year's apple hrvest.

When an early autumn walks the land and chills the breeze

and touches with her hand the summer trees,

perhaps you'll understand what memories I own.

There's a dance pavilion in the rain all shuttered down,

a winding country lane all russet brown,

a frosty window pane shows me a town grown lonely.

In October 2008 I wrote the first of many revised editions of the story of the annual October closing of my family's "summer place" in West Virginia. It was nestled in the Patterson Creek Valley about twenty miles south of Cumberland, Maryland, and just under a three hour drive from my home in the Washington suburbs. Those who follow this blog likely know more about the Burlington campground than most current residents of that village. Still, it's an important story in my formative years and it's worth repeating, especially with revisions. The latest "revision" was the demolition of the cottage I enjoyed for countless summers and weekends in the first third of my life. After new owners used it as a residence and storehouse for several years it was abandoned. Weather and slow decay reduced the place to an eyesore, then a pile of debris, and finally a memory. A few years earlier the magnificent two-story cedar pavilion that stood for nearly a century as the focal point of the property fell to a similar fate. 

And speaking of memories:

Repairing flood damage at the pavilion - classic outfit

In late October my mind floods with wonderful memories. From birth through my 27th year, the date marked an important event in my life. The story descends from my dad's membership in the Uniform Rank of the Knights of Pythias. The URKP was a military-style company within a fraternal organization born out of the search for national reconciliation following the Civil War. Every good military organization needed a campground with lodging, mess hall, recreation pavilion, and parade. Beginning in 1925, the URKP built theirs in the small village of Burlington, West Virginia. It also served as a regional park, complete with playground, ball fields, and swimming in the creek. It was often rented for the day for family reunions, company picnics, church functions, and other large gatherings.

It was legal...and tasty, about 1966

"Camp" at Burlington was paradise for a young boy. A creek bordering the camp offered hours of fun. You could explore the woods and fields forever. The frequent social events made the playground a great place to meet new friends. But "camping" at Burlington was by no means a wilderness experience. We were lucky to have a cottage that offered every comfort of home. There was a drive-in theater next door where I enjoyed the snack bar as much as the movies. Across the road was a small airfield with a few Aeroncas, Taylorcrafts and Piper Cubs, and a hangar that gave birth to many "homebuilts" over the years. I can say with confidence that Burlington was never boring. The drive-in and airport were owned and operated by Dave and Georgia Baker, an entertaining and endearing couple I came to love and respect as family.

Today, the sycamores along the river may be a bit taller, but they still explode in yellow this time of year along with my favorite walnut tree. And the young maple I climbed as a boy has matured into a massive Fall fire tree. In 1950, I watched when the men brought in their bulldozers to shape a new channel and level the bank of Patterson Creek. The stone beach they built was much safer for the generation of bathers who enjoyed it, but creeks have a way of remembering affronts. By the mid '70's, the creek's waters restored the original course and bank to a scene my grandfather enjoyed in the 1930s. Although time changed the place I called "Camp" it will never erase the memories of this childhood paradise.

1959

Hulling walnuts, 1967

Through the summer of 1974, I spent many annual family vacations at "camp" and in later years, several weekends of "cold camping" in the off-seasons where I wrote many college essays including a graduate thesis. Opening the cottage and grounds for the summer though exciting was not especially memorable. Freezing temperatures lingered into May, so the campground usually opened on Memorial Day weekend.

When it's 48 degrees at noon in a pouring August rain

On the other hand, winterizing the place was like saying "Goodbye" to an old friend. Thoughts of family, friends, the big - or small - fish, fireworks, that scary movie, the old biplane, all those memories accumulated over the past six months filled your mind. Amid the blazing gold sycamores, brilliant fire oaks and maples, the smell of wood smoke, and a harvest of black walnuts, we went through the years-old closing procedure until the last item - pouring anti-freeze into sink traps - was checked. At that point, it was time to load the car, proceed with all those repetitive tasks one does "just to be sure," then close and lock the big red door until Spring.

Radical days with Marti, 1970

As American society changed, the URKP fell out of fashion. Lodge members grew old and passed away. In 1974, the lodge itself and all its assets dissolved. I haven't locked that big red door for 50 years now, but I still have the key and a remarkably detailed mental picture of the cottage and landscape that I loved.

Closing weekend, 1972

In many ways, Burlington is with me every day for my experiences there helped shape my values, and define my career, hobbies, and general interests. The impact has been so profound that I have asked my children to do their best to provide the same opportunity for their own families.

1949

In weaving all of the memories about this weekend, I ask you, my readers, to do the same: Find a nearby paradise and escape to it often while your children are young. And when they are older and have children of their own, they can join you and make even more vivid memories. Nepenthe! Nepenthe! There will be no sorrow there.






Sources

Illustrations and Photos:
all photos from the family archive

Text:
song title, "When October Goes", and opening quote, "Early Autumn", lyrics, by Johnny Mercer, Johnny Mercer, The Complete Lyrics of Johnny Mercer, edited by Kimball, Day, Kreuger, and Davis; Knopf 2009

Mom's Birthday

 

My mother was born on this day 109 years ago. She was the fourth of seven children born to a farm couple whose deep lineage in the western Virginia mountains has been lost to history. She and my dad met at a community dance in 1931 and married in the fall of 1933. By that time she had worked in a silk mill and as an etcher in a glass factory, and would later work through World War II as a quality control specialist in a synthetic fabric plant.

1932

1946

1954

1966

1972

With my birth she became a full time mother and homemaker, but still found time to enjoy her church family, reading, gardening, nature, frequent visits with her large family, and vacations on Pattersons Creek in Burlington, West Virginia. She was taken from this world far too early in 1976 after a long illness. There's no question that I miss her and I'm sorry she did not live to enjoy her daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Still, I feel her goodness has been with us helping to shape our family over these near forty years. Wouldn't have it any other way. She was a great mom, full of love, compassion, a wonderful sense of humor, and dedication to family and friends.


Happy birthday, Mom! See you later.

Octobers Never Change

It's that time of year for another Burlington memory harvest. The sights, sounds, tastes, aromas, and feelings are as fresh as this year's apple hrvest.

When an early autumn walks the land and chills the breeze

and touches with her hand the summer trees,

perhaps you'll understand what memories I own.

There's a dance pavilion in the rain all shuttered down,

a winding country lane all russet brown,

a frosty window pane shows me a town grown lonely.

In October 2008 I wrote the first of many revised editions of the story of the annual October closing of my family's "summer place" in West Virginia. It was nestled in the Patterson Creek Valley about twenty miles south of Cumberland, Maryland, and just under a three hour drive from my home in the Washington suburbs. Those who follow this blog likely know more about the Burlington campground than most current residents of that village. Still, it's an important story in my formative years and it's worth repeating, especially with revisions. The most recent change has been the loss of the magnificent two-story cedar pavilion that stood for nearly a century as the focal point of the property. For over 90 years it served as a Burlington landmark and with its loss a place that created so many memories has itself become one. And speaking of memories:

Repairing flood damage at the pavilion - classic outfit

In late October my mind floods with wonderful memories. From birth through my 27th year, the date marked an important event in my life. The story descends from my dad's membership in the Uniform Rank of the Knights of Pythias. The URKP was a military-style company within a fraternal organization born out of the search for national reconciliation following the Civil War. Every good military organization needed a campground with lodging, mess hall, recreation pavilion, and parade. The URKP built theirs in the small village of Burlington, West Virginia. It also served as a regional park, complete with playground, ball fields, and swimming in the creek. It was often rented for the day for family reunions, company picnics, church functions, and other large gatherings.

It was legal...and tasty, about 1966

"Camp" at Burlington was paradise for a young boy. A creek bordering the camp offered hours of fun. You could explore the woods and fields forever. The frequent social events made the playground a great place to meet new friends. But "camping" at Burlington was by no means a wilderness experience. We were lucky to have a cottage that offered every comfort of home. There was a drive-in theater next door where I enjoyed the snack bar as much as the movies. Across the road was a small airfield with a few Aeroncas, Taylorcrafts and Piper Cubs, and a hangar that gave birth to many "homebuilts" over the years. I can say with confidence that Burlington was never boring. The drive-in and airport were owned and operated by Dave and Georgia Baker, an entertaining and endearing couple I came to love and respect as family.

Today, the sycamores along the river may be a bit taller, but they still explode in yellow this time of year along with my favorite walnut tree. And the young maple I climbed as a boy has matured into a massive Fall fire tree. In 1950, I watched when the men brought in their bulldozers to shape a new channel and level the bank of Patterson Creek. The stone beach they built was much safer for the generation of bathers who enjoyed it, but creeks have a way of remembering affronts. By the mid '70's, the creek's waters restored the original course and bank to a scene my grandfather enjoyed in the 1930s. Although time changed the place I called "Camp" it will never erase the memories of this childhood paradise.

1959

Hulling walnuts, 1967

Through the summer of 1974, I spent many annual family vacations at "camp" and in later years, several weekends of "cold camping" in the off-seasons where I wrote many college essays including a graduate thesis. Opening the cottage and grounds for the summer though exciting was not especially memorable. Freezing temperatures lingered into May, so the campground usually opened on Memorial Day weekend.

When it's 48 degrees at noon in a pouring August rain

On the other hand, winterizing the place was like saying "Goodbye" to an old friend. Thoughts of family, friends, the big - or small - fish, fireworks, that scary movie, the old biplane, all those memories accumulated over the past six months filled your mind. Amid the blazing gold sycamores, brilliant fire oaks and maples, the smell of wood smoke, and a harvest of black walnuts, we went through the years-old closing procedure until the last item - pouring anti-freeze into sink traps - was checked. At that point, it was time to load the car, proceed with all those repetitive tasks one does "just to be sure," then close and lock the big red door until Spring.

Radical days with Marti, 1970

As American society changed, the URKP fell out of fashion. Lodge members grew old and passed away. In 1974, the lodge itself and all its assets dissolved. I haven't locked that big red door for 48 years now, but I still have the key and a remarkably detailed mental picture of the cottage and landscape that I loved.

Closing weekend, 1972

In many ways, Burlington is with me every day for my experiences there helped shape my values, and define my career, hobbies, and general interests. The impact has been so profound that I have asked my children to do their best to provide the same opportunity for their own families.

1949

In weaving all of the memories about this weekend, I ask you, my readers, to do the same: Find a nearby paradise and escape to it often while your children are young. And when they are older and have children of their own, they can join you and make even more vivid memories. There will be no sorrow there.






Sources

Illustrations and Photos:
all photos from the family archive

Text:
song title, "When October Goes", and opening quote, "Early Autumn", lyrics, by Johnny Mercer, Johnny Mercer, The Complete Lyrics of Johnny Mercer, edited by Kimball, Day, Kreuger, and Davis; Knopf 2009

Dylan Thomas: A Man So Washed In October Blood

 

Two of the most lyrical writers of the past century were born in this last week of October. The American writer, Pat Conroy, was the subject of a post a few day ago. Today we remember Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914), an artist whose work reflected his immersion in the themes and images of living on the coast of his beloved homeland, Wales . His lyrical descriptive writing, poetry and unforgettable voice brought him great fame in the United States in the decade prior to his untimely death in New York in 1953.

Thomas in a London park

Both the writer and his native land have special meaning to me. My great grandparents on my father's side immigrated from Cardiff, Wales, to the United States in the 1870's. Though I never knew my grandmother - she died before my second year - my father often recalled how she took pride in her Celtic roots and the Welsh love for song and singing.

It is interesting that he should remember the talk of song and singing. Many critics and authorities write that Thomas's recitations are spoken words that approach song. Readers can reach their own conclusion by listening to the poet reading Poem in October, his recollections of his thirtieth birthday. Audio quality isn't the best. I suggest earphones and closed eyes for this sound journey.

Poem in October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron priested shore
The morning beckoned with water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall
Myself to set foot that second
In the still sleeping town and set forth

My birthday began with the water birds
And the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose in a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived
When I took the road over the border
And the gates of the town closed as the town awoke

A springful of larks in a rolling cloud
And the roadside bushes brimming with whistling blackbirds
And the sun of October, summery on the hill's shoulder
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly come in the morning
Where I wandered and listened to the rain wringing wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea-wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle brown as owls
But all the gardens of spring and summer
Were blooming in the tall tales beyond the border
And under the lark full cloud
There could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples, pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning, so clearly, a child's forgotten mornings
When he walked with his mother through the parables of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice-told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks, and his heart moved in mine
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy in the listening summertime of the dead
Whispered the truth of his joy to the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide
And the mystery sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds

And there could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
And the true joy of the long dead child sang burning in the sun
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood

O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning

What an unforgettable voice. I first heard a recording of Thomas sometime in elementary school. There's a good chance few students in any grade have that opportunity today. How unfortunate. We often think education has come a long way over the last seven decades. Perhaps it has, but somewhere on that journey we have undoubtedly lost some very precious cultural experiences. If we could hear Thomas's truth singing every year, we would know so much better who we are as individuals and as a people.

Here is Thomas reciting most famous poem, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, a powerful, emotion-filled villanelle addressing the end of earthly life.

My family likely became aware of Thomas through his trips to the U.S. made over a span of about four years beginning in 1950. The journeys here always made sensational news for he was not only a rising star worshiped in metropolitan and university salons but also a boisterous character prone to drunkenness, colorful language, and wild behavior. Indeed, his trip to New York in 1953 ended in death from pneumonia likely brought on by his well-known excesses. One could say he covered the full spectrum of life and when he spoke of it in verse or prose he made music. It has been a pleasure to experience Thomas and his work for almost 70 years.

Happy Birthday. Dad!

 

Below is my dad's high school graduation photo. He was an honor grad and holder of class medals in English and debate. The year was 1925. He was seventeen. My dad was a mill town boy with high ambitions beyond the mountains of western Maryland but he had the security of a well-paying full-time job waiting for him after graduation in the midst of the Roaring Twenties. That job won out and he never pursued the college degree he wanted. Nevertheless he was successful, building on his strong Christian faith, steady employment, solid marriage, and remarkable work ethic.

1925

When I look at this picture I am reminded that he only had four "good" years before the Great Depression and World War II brought him and the country he loved into sixteen years of hard times. What I don't see are his weakened legs and slight limp caused by polio when he was a young boy. Through it all he survived as a member of the "Greatest Generation" and saw his nation prosper.

One hundred and sixteen years have passed since his birth on this day in 1907. That's a long time and one indication of why my value programming is different from that of most people my age. In short, I was raised by parents from the Roaring Twenties and the Jazz Age while the majority of my classmates, friends, and many colleagues had parents come of age in the 1930's and early '40's. The often vast difference in attitudes, opinions and beliefs borne out of such a circumstance brings both opportunity and challenge in the real world for those born somewhat "out of synch" with their peers.

My children never knew my dad - he's been gone for over forty years - but I think they know him well. I've done my best to teach them who he was and honor him by carrying on his many traditions. How fortunate I was to have him as a beacon in my life. He was a great and careful teacher and, though we had our differences, a constant and trusted friend. Most of all he was my loving dad. I thank him every day,  will love him forever, and look forward to seeing him again.

4th Grade class photo, 1917-18

Father's Day 2023

I'm sure I speak for others who have lost their fathers that not a day goes by without a wish to have our dads and their guidance with us once more. How fortunate we were to have such beacons in our lives. And how fortunate are those who still have their fathers in their lives.

Graduate                                      Class of 1925

His mom and dad were the son and daughter of first generation immigrants from Germany and Wales. He graduated from high school in the midst of the Roaring Twenties, went to work to support his aging parents and married the love of his life in the midst of the Great Depression. He was an entrepreneur at heart who owned a successful business by the early '50's. but left his hometown for better opportunities in hospitality management. It was a field he loved dearly because of his commitment to quality service and customer satisfaction and the fact he never met a stranger.

By example he demonstrated the value of a strong faith, a sound and loving marriage, a remarkable work ethic, constructive civic engagement, humor and wit, and a love of country. He also taught me the value of being an independent and critical thinker, of staying curious, and practicing life-long learning.

Gettysburg National Military Park                                     1954

Though he never lived to see his three grandchildren his values were a constant presence in teaching them to be responsible, caring, and loving adults. Such continuity across the generations is essential if we are to have community and commonwealth in these and future times. And given these times how wonderful it would be to see the reverence and respect for fatherhood restored in our nation today.

That said, I'll end with this wish: Happy Father's Day and a big "Thank You" to you Dad, and to dads everywhere.

Mother's Day 2023

She was the fourth of seven children born to a farm couple whose deep lineage in the western Virginia mountains has been lost to history. She and my dad met at a community dance in 1931 and married in the fall of 1933. By that time she had worked in a silk mill and as an etcher and designer in a glass factory. Later, she worked throughout World War II as a quality control specialist in a synthetic fabric plant. Her work, and that of thousands of others in the factory, directly supported the airborne invasion of Europe and the eventual defeat of Germany and Italy in World War II.

Mom in the summer of 1959 Burlington, West Virginia

With my birth she became a full time mother and homemaker but still found time to enjoy her church family, reading, gardening, nature, friends, frequent visits with her large family, and many long weekends and summer vacations on Pattersons Creek in Burlington, West Virginia. She was taken from us far too early in 1976 after a long illness. I can't thank her enough for all she did for me.

She never saw her daughter-in-law or her three grandchildren. Still, I think her love, compassion, wonderful sense of humor, and dedication to family and friends had a strong presence in our lives. It is a chain of being that I trust will continue within our family for generations to come.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

Mom's Birthday

 

Today, December 2, marks the 108th anniversary of my mother's birth. She was the fourth of seven children born to a farm couple whose deep lineage in the western Virginia mountains has been lost to history. She and my dad met at a community dance in 1931 and married in the fall of 1933. By that time she had worked in a silk mill and as an etcher in a glass factory, and would later work through World War II in a synthetic fabric plant.

1932

1944

1946

1954

1958

1966

1974

With my birth she became a full time mother and homemaker, but still found time to enjoy her church family, friends, reading, gardening, nature, frequent visits with her large family, and vacations on Pattersons Creek in Burlington, West Virginia. She was taken from this world far too early in 1976 after a long illness. There's no question that I miss her and I'm sorry she did not live to enjoy her daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. Still, I feel her goodness has been with us helping to shape our family over these near forty years. Wouldn't have it any other way. She was a great mom, full of love, compassion, a wonderful sense of humor, and dedication to family and friends.


Happy birthday, Mom! See you later.