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"The Wondering Jew"

May. 01, 2007 - 17:19 MDT

FLOW OF WORDS

As I began to learn reading, there was a small story book I finally mastered. Don't really remember the name of it, but the name of the boy character (an American Indian) was "Little Big Bye and Bye," hung on him by his Father "Plenty Pecks of Potatoes." I would read that over and over to myself.

And then once on a birthday I was given for my very own a hardback book, with pictures, which is still a treasure in my heart and soul.

"A Child's Garden Of Verses" by Robert Louis Stevenson. Some how he spoke to me, mind to mind, heart to heart, almost as if I were suddenly a poet and talking to myself.

I think I had that little book pretty well memorized back then and reading his verses now strikes a blessed chord.

Oh, I went on reading, and reading poetry unlike most other boys I knew. There was something in the flow and usages that entranced me.

And my Dad who had a mellow voice and grace of expression would sometimes on Sunday, read from Longfellow to Mom and I. His voice would carry me to places far and events not yet experienced by me.

There is something about someone reciting poetry with gentle, measured voice, someone who can convey emotion that holds me entranced yet.

Guess that is why I cannot abide the modern squalling and squealing of so-called musical songs and Rap.

My book, as I once said, has been passed on to our daughter who grounded her kids in it.

When we visit them in Oregon, late at night in the dark I'll sneak into their study, close the door, light the light and hunt that treasure up once more. I sit in an easy chair, book in front of me, re-reading those blessed verses as the pictures conjured in my mind as a child play on my screen of thought, until I have once again read it through. Put it away, turn out the light, go to my bed and dream the sweet dreams that his poetry always brought to me.

The world today seems to be such a strident place, people stressing hyper words upon my head, makes me flinch - it does, because you see, I remember that gentle, loving FLOW OF WORDS . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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