Robin rounded the bend
Fearful that if she looked back
Some one, some thing
Would be gaining on her
Some force following her
There, just over her shoulder
Residue from previous failure
Left over, from yesterday
One she never wanted to revisit
And she was hopeful
Optimistic, bright, cheery
Wide open to possibilities
Ready, willing and able
To meet and best new challenges
Learn new tricks
Still the doubts, the fears
Real, palpable
Threatened at any moment
To shake her fragile confidence
Robin rounded the bend
Fearful that if she looked back
Some one, some thing
Would be gaining on her
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Sapphire Sky
Sitting on the Brant Beach bulkhead
At the end of the street, hard by Barnegat bay
An auburn sunset too early in the day
Drew to a close a cold January afternoon
That once had seen, several hours earlier
The deep azure of a sapphire sky
Stretched like a sail full of breeze
Crisp across the expanse from bay to ocean
As far as the eye of the imagination could wander
And wonder
Mid-morning, the color was closer to the fruit of sassafras
With island vegetation acting as the laurel for the planet
And just before sun-up, anticipation for the center of the universe
Produced memories of the stigma of the saffron
Bright orange against the petals of purple.
Ah, the many shades of sky
Removed each nighttime to reveal the translucent onyx behind it
As deep as any thought that might have escaped
From a philosopher lost in space
Oh, the many shades of sky
Each paralleled on the ground by the many blues
That occupy as many samplings of emotions
From predatory beasts and hunted species
And human frailities alike
Yes, the many shades of sky
With a thousand other variations of cotton, watercolor, ink, mud and blood
Generated by passing storm fronts
In various stages of battle with disintegrating high-pressure systems
Indeed, the many shades of the sky
While sitting on the Brant beach bulkhead
At the end of the street, hard by Barnegat bay,
An auburn sunset too early in the day
For Conversations With Walt
By Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011
At the end of the street, hard by Barnegat bay
An auburn sunset too early in the day
Drew to a close a cold January afternoon
That once had seen, several hours earlier
The deep azure of a sapphire sky
Stretched like a sail full of breeze
Crisp across the expanse from bay to ocean
As far as the eye of the imagination could wander
And wonder
Mid-morning, the color was closer to the fruit of sassafras
With island vegetation acting as the laurel for the planet
And just before sun-up, anticipation for the center of the universe
Produced memories of the stigma of the saffron
Bright orange against the petals of purple.
Ah, the many shades of sky
Removed each nighttime to reveal the translucent onyx behind it
As deep as any thought that might have escaped
From a philosopher lost in space
Oh, the many shades of sky
Each paralleled on the ground by the many blues
That occupy as many samplings of emotions
From predatory beasts and hunted species
And human frailities alike
Yes, the many shades of sky
With a thousand other variations of cotton, watercolor, ink, mud and blood
Generated by passing storm fronts
In various stages of battle with disintegrating high-pressure systems
Indeed, the many shades of the sky
While sitting on the Brant beach bulkhead
At the end of the street, hard by Barnegat bay,
An auburn sunset too early in the day
For Conversations With Walt
By Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011
He Said
He said:
I come out here,
To experience life, ma'am,
Big, bold, undistilled
American life,
The rough, uninhibited,
Unscripted color of life,
Folks from out the neighborhoods,
Off mowers in cul se sacs,
Folks from off combines on farms,
And all mixed up,
Going here to there
Going there to here,
Just going,
Moving,
Heading somewhere sweet,
Or even heading somewhere,
Scowling,
Don't make no never'mind to me,
Either way
Makes a study
He said:
Yes ma'am
I come out here
To experience life.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011
I come out here,
To experience life, ma'am,
Big, bold, undistilled
American life,
The rough, uninhibited,
Unscripted color of life,
Folks from out the neighborhoods,
Off mowers in cul se sacs,
Folks from off combines on farms,
And all mixed up,
Going here to there
Going there to here,
Just going,
Moving,
Heading somewhere sweet,
Or even heading somewhere,
Scowling,
Don't make no never'mind to me,
Either way
Makes a study
He said:
Yes ma'am
I come out here
To experience life.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011
The Journey Jones
I got the journey jones
I want to eat distance
Chew on the miles
The in-between
Mainline the bee line
Into the interior
Of America
The vast interiors
Of a nation
Head west into the wilds
Feast my eyes
On the sights and sounds
That Lewis & Clark themselves
Yearned to see
Up to the headwaters
Of the muddy Missouri
Up where the Rockies
Reach the skies
Up where even chip monks
Have contracts as sherpas
To eastern greenhorns
Like me
Who have the journey jones
Craving distance
Hungering for miles
The in-between
Mainlining the bee line
Into the interior
Of America
The vast interiors
Of a nation
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011
I want to eat distance
Chew on the miles
The in-between
Mainline the bee line
Into the interior
Of America
The vast interiors
Of a nation
Head west into the wilds
Feast my eyes
On the sights and sounds
That Lewis & Clark themselves
Yearned to see
Up to the headwaters
Of the muddy Missouri
Up where the Rockies
Reach the skies
Up where even chip monks
Have contracts as sherpas
To eastern greenhorns
Like me
Who have the journey jones
Craving distance
Hungering for miles
The in-between
Mainlining the bee line
Into the interior
Of America
The vast interiors
Of a nation
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 29, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Wrinkle
This episode in his life
Was the wrinkle in the tale
That altered his trajectory,
And sent him off
On a new journey.
Not unlike a song on the radio
Whose architecture
Calls for the singer to drone on in a low register
For the first two stanzas,
Only mildly raise excitement in the chorus
Then, all of a sudden,
As if by surprise,
Although we should have known its explosion
Had been foretold
Embedded in the brew
Of chord progressions
And note juxtoposition
In those first two stanzas,
Still, now with a dramatic key change,
The drone is replaced
By a singer possessed,
Inspired,
Singing at the top of his lungs,
Proclaiming as if in the gospel tent
On a hot steamy high plains Bible-belt night
His eternal love for a soul,
So fair, so fine
So Guinevere,
So compelling, yet tender
That their very meeting
Would forever remain
For good or for ill
In the halls of the legendary couples
As love heralded,
Heralded love.
And this meeting of passion and dreams,
This episode in his life
Was the wrinkle in the tale
That altered his trajectory,
And sent him off
On a new journey.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 15, 2011
Was the wrinkle in the tale
That altered his trajectory,
And sent him off
On a new journey.
Not unlike a song on the radio
Whose architecture
Calls for the singer to drone on in a low register
For the first two stanzas,
Only mildly raise excitement in the chorus
Then, all of a sudden,
As if by surprise,
Although we should have known its explosion
Had been foretold
Embedded in the brew
Of chord progressions
And note juxtoposition
In those first two stanzas,
Still, now with a dramatic key change,
The drone is replaced
By a singer possessed,
Inspired,
Singing at the top of his lungs,
Proclaiming as if in the gospel tent
On a hot steamy high plains Bible-belt night
His eternal love for a soul,
So fair, so fine
So Guinevere,
So compelling, yet tender
That their very meeting
Would forever remain
For good or for ill
In the halls of the legendary couples
As love heralded,
Heralded love.
And this meeting of passion and dreams,
This episode in his life
Was the wrinkle in the tale
That altered his trajectory,
And sent him off
On a new journey.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 15, 2011
Fathers And Sons And Grandfathers
Editor’s note: I wrote this piece in 1989. Even though my dad died in 1999, and my son is in his late 20s, it still captures the intergenerational relationship that defines me, my son and my dad.
He wrapped his 15-minute-old fingers around my pinky. He had a firm grip. Already he was growing. I had just witnessed his birth. It was as if I could hear him say:
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Son.”
I’ve been Dad, of course, from the very beginning. And, I’ll always be Dad in that sense. I’m Dad because of who I am.
But I’ve found, like in so many other things, being Dad is so much more than just a title. It’s not just who I am; it’s also what I do. It’s a relationship in the constant state of “becoming.” It’s like being a seed – with an endless capacity for growth.
It’s been six years now: years of walks and playgrounds, and storybooks at night. There’s been a lot of toys, sticks and rocks. Lately, it’s been “Othello,” checkers and backgammon instead of Candy Land. Suddenly, it’s also tee-ball, swim lessons and parts in plays.
It’s been explanations on how this world works: how to listen and learn; how to be good; how to trust and love. The seed has grown as we’ve gotten to know each other. I call him on the phone, and I can imagine his extending his open palm:
“High five, Dad.”
“High five, Son.”
He sees my own Dad often. They share their own kind of relationship. They’ve shared the discovery of mechanical pencils, that nifty fold-up pocket scissors, and all kinds of remedies for broken toys.
There’s been walks to nearby playgrounds and forays into my Dad’s home office.
The seed grows, and in a sense, it grows young for my Dad as it grows old for my Son. I remember happening upon them once playing at the keyboard of the electric typewriter. The 6-year-old’s fingers, small but growing in confidence, were being guided by those of a man 70 years his senior. “It’s time to eat,” I said, calling them to supper.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Thanks, Son.”
My Dad? Well, my Dad held two jobs, and seemed capable of holding more. He always seemed a patriarch. He put five kids through college and always encouraged us to grow. He’d say, “In the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as fail.”
We studied hard in school, participated in activities. I ran track in high school, edited the newspaper in college. After that, I was busy starting a career.
Then I became a Dad. Gradually, that seed started to grow again. It seems now that when I stood in that nursery and first touched my son’s hand, as I became “Dad,” I started becoming “Son” all over again. Since then, I’ve come to realize that my Dad probably sees me as I see my own Son. When I think that, I am blown away.
As he rises from his favorite chair when we arrive for our visit, my Dad puts down his crossword puzzle and folds his glasses. He lays one hand on my Son’s head as he extends the other. He smiles broadly. Without saying anything, he says:
“I love you, Son.”
“I love you, Dad.”
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 15, 2011
He wrapped his 15-minute-old fingers around my pinky. He had a firm grip. Already he was growing. I had just witnessed his birth. It was as if I could hear him say:
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Son.”
I’ve been Dad, of course, from the very beginning. And, I’ll always be Dad in that sense. I’m Dad because of who I am.
But I’ve found, like in so many other things, being Dad is so much more than just a title. It’s not just who I am; it’s also what I do. It’s a relationship in the constant state of “becoming.” It’s like being a seed – with an endless capacity for growth.
It’s been six years now: years of walks and playgrounds, and storybooks at night. There’s been a lot of toys, sticks and rocks. Lately, it’s been “Othello,” checkers and backgammon instead of Candy Land. Suddenly, it’s also tee-ball, swim lessons and parts in plays.
It’s been explanations on how this world works: how to listen and learn; how to be good; how to trust and love. The seed has grown as we’ve gotten to know each other. I call him on the phone, and I can imagine his extending his open palm:
“High five, Dad.”
“High five, Son.”
He sees my own Dad often. They share their own kind of relationship. They’ve shared the discovery of mechanical pencils, that nifty fold-up pocket scissors, and all kinds of remedies for broken toys.
There’s been walks to nearby playgrounds and forays into my Dad’s home office.
The seed grows, and in a sense, it grows young for my Dad as it grows old for my Son. I remember happening upon them once playing at the keyboard of the electric typewriter. The 6-year-old’s fingers, small but growing in confidence, were being guided by those of a man 70 years his senior. “It’s time to eat,” I said, calling them to supper.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Thanks, Son.”
My Dad? Well, my Dad held two jobs, and seemed capable of holding more. He always seemed a patriarch. He put five kids through college and always encouraged us to grow. He’d say, “In the bright lexicon of youth, there is no such word as fail.”
We studied hard in school, participated in activities. I ran track in high school, edited the newspaper in college. After that, I was busy starting a career.
Then I became a Dad. Gradually, that seed started to grow again. It seems now that when I stood in that nursery and first touched my son’s hand, as I became “Dad,” I started becoming “Son” all over again. Since then, I’ve come to realize that my Dad probably sees me as I see my own Son. When I think that, I am blown away.
As he rises from his favorite chair when we arrive for our visit, my Dad puts down his crossword puzzle and folds his glasses. He lays one hand on my Son’s head as he extends the other. He smiles broadly. Without saying anything, he says:
“I love you, Son.”
“I love you, Dad.”
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 15, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Today Makes A Week
Today makes a week
Until another journey begins.
Anxious now, worrying,
That this gloriously leaky driip
Might someday dry up,
Might on those days crossing America
Fail to open and flow,
Fail to be able to enunciate
The great wide wonder
That dances like a giddy camper
Who has just found out
That her mother mysteriously packed
In her otherwise purely nutritious lunch box,
A secret treat, her favorite,
A six-pack of her favorite cookie,
Her comfort food, if it could be argued
That an effervescent nine-year-old spirit
Ever needed a food to give her respite
From the light and hope
That seemed to form an indestructible aura
Around her head, like a halo.
Today makes a week
Until another journey begins.
Anxious now and stoked
To write about the 6,000 mile journey
From the perspective of a camper,
Hopelessly giddy about the secret treats
Packed away beside the lunchbox pen and paper.
Oh, please let it flow
From the gloriously leaky drip
Upon seeing the great wide wonders
Of those days crossing America.
Today makes a week
Until another journey begins.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 7, 2011
Until another journey begins.
Anxious now, worrying,
That this gloriously leaky driip
Might someday dry up,
Might on those days crossing America
Fail to open and flow,
Fail to be able to enunciate
The great wide wonder
That dances like a giddy camper
Who has just found out
That her mother mysteriously packed
In her otherwise purely nutritious lunch box,
A secret treat, her favorite,
A six-pack of her favorite cookie,
Her comfort food, if it could be argued
That an effervescent nine-year-old spirit
Ever needed a food to give her respite
From the light and hope
That seemed to form an indestructible aura
Around her head, like a halo.
Today makes a week
Until another journey begins.
Anxious now and stoked
To write about the 6,000 mile journey
From the perspective of a camper,
Hopelessly giddy about the secret treats
Packed away beside the lunchbox pen and paper.
Oh, please let it flow
From the gloriously leaky drip
Upon seeing the great wide wonders
Of those days crossing America.
Today makes a week
Until another journey begins.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 7, 2011
Savor The Flavors Of The Country
Savor the flavors of the country:
Big bold juicy Kansas City steak,
Golden ears of Iowa corn,
Mounds of butter-fluffed Idaho potatoes,
Leafy green Pennsylvania Dutch salad
Garnished with New York state carrot slivers,
Chopped Piedmont mushrooms and cucumbers,
Jesey tomatoes twice the size of fists,
Pitchers of Wisconsin milk for the kids,
Carafes of California table wine for the adults,
Hot apple pie cobbler courtesy of Washington state
Under Vermont churned extra smooth vanilla ice cream.
Savor the flavors of the country.
For Conversations With Walt
By Denis J. Kelly
June 7, 2011
Big bold juicy Kansas City steak,
Golden ears of Iowa corn,
Mounds of butter-fluffed Idaho potatoes,
Leafy green Pennsylvania Dutch salad
Garnished with New York state carrot slivers,
Chopped Piedmont mushrooms and cucumbers,
Jesey tomatoes twice the size of fists,
Pitchers of Wisconsin milk for the kids,
Carafes of California table wine for the adults,
Hot apple pie cobbler courtesy of Washington state
Under Vermont churned extra smooth vanilla ice cream.
Savor the flavors of the country.
For Conversations With Walt
By Denis J. Kelly
June 7, 2011
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Dusk On The High Plains
Dusk on the high plains,
Jed poured the thick black coffee,
Knelt next to the campfire,
His horse nearly swallowed in the shadows:
Steve wrote.
The day ahead would be crucial
In Jed's search, hot on the trail,
Looking for the sergeant
Who'd made his enlistment pure hell:
Steve wrote.
Even though Jed had the lower rank,
And the task at hand had called for following orders,
Jed balked at the zeal with which the 'bub had barked
The rebukes that questioned his steel,
Questioned his honor:
Steve wrote.
Now, somewhere out there,
Somewhere in the utter vastness,
The utter darkness,
Jed aimed to track him down,
Call him out,
Face him,
Reclaim his honor,
Show him,
Best him,
Call it square:
Steve wrote.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011
Jed poured the thick black coffee,
Knelt next to the campfire,
His horse nearly swallowed in the shadows:
Steve wrote.
The day ahead would be crucial
In Jed's search, hot on the trail,
Looking for the sergeant
Who'd made his enlistment pure hell:
Steve wrote.
Even though Jed had the lower rank,
And the task at hand had called for following orders,
Jed balked at the zeal with which the 'bub had barked
The rebukes that questioned his steel,
Questioned his honor:
Steve wrote.
Now, somewhere out there,
Somewhere in the utter vastness,
The utter darkness,
Jed aimed to track him down,
Call him out,
Face him,
Reclaim his honor,
Show him,
Best him,
Call it square:
Steve wrote.
For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011
A Great Day To Be All Over Our Towns
We were all over Watchung, Long Hill Township and Warren Township on Memorial Day, Monday, May 30, to attend observances and parades in all three towns.
Each had heart-felt remembrances for the veterans who made the supreme sacrifice in the defense of their country.
The day awoke with an early thunderstorm that some might have thought might have washed out the scheduled events. But early on, the weather cleared, and by the time the first ceremonies began, the rain was a thing of the past. Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it is something about 2011, but each event seemed to have a slightly bigger audience than in year’s past.
In Watchung, the day started with the fallen firefighter’s remembrance over in front of the Firemen’s Exempt Hall. Then folks gathered at the veterans monuments in front of the Texier House in the Watchung Circle for Memorial Day services. Air Force retired Gen. Thomas Hartmann, and his wife, Air Force retired Lt. Col. Virginia Hartmann, were the guest speakers.
Up in Long Hill Township, the parade up Main Avenue in Stirling ended at the veterans monuments in front of the grades 6-8 Central Middle School, The events are organized by the American Legion Post 484, Stirling.
The Grand Marshall this year is Anthony ‘”Tony” DeFilippis, who spoke briefly. “I am a man of few words,” he said. Few words, but big actions.
He was in the Navy during World War II, and then he came home and made a life for himself, his family and his community by being the proprietor of the Stirling Hardware Store on Main Avenue, from 1946 until his retirement in 1982. He is also a 60-year life member of the Stirling Volunteer Fire Company, a founder of the Stirling Legion post, and an overall community volunteer.
Then it was over to Warren Township, with the parade on Mountain Boulevard to the municipal complex. The keynote speaker was New Jersey National Guard Lt. Col. Dan Mahon, who was sent to Ground Zero immediately after the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, from Fort Dix, where he is operations chief. He remained at Ground Zero for a month.
He stood on Monday across the parking lot from a flatbed that had rolled proudly in the parade, carrying the piece of World Trade Center steel. It will become part of a new 911 Heroes Memorial at the Warren Municipal Complex. As he said, on days such as these, he is allowed to get emotional. He put aside his prepared text, and spoke from the heart.
Laying the wreath at the foot of the veterans monument was World War II Navy veteran Ken Whatley and World War II Army veteran Philip Sapienza.
Warren Middle School students read “Why I’m Proud To Be An American” essays they wrote for a Watchung Hills Elks Lodge-sponsored contest. “Taps” was played by two trumpeters from the Watchung Hills Regional High School Marchung Band. The band did double duty, marching in both the Long Hill and Warren parades. In Warren, the high school band was joined by the Warren Middle School band on the “National Anthem” and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
It was a great day to be all over Watchung, Long Hill Township and Warren Township. It was a great day to honor and revere our nation’s armed services, first responders and those who died for their country. Now, let’s do our part. Vote on every election day. Vote on Primary election day, Tuesday, June 7.
Make sure you could say to all those veterans you honored on Memorial Day: “You did your part. Now, I did mine. I voted.”
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011
Each had heart-felt remembrances for the veterans who made the supreme sacrifice in the defense of their country.
The day awoke with an early thunderstorm that some might have thought might have washed out the scheduled events. But early on, the weather cleared, and by the time the first ceremonies began, the rain was a thing of the past. Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it is something about 2011, but each event seemed to have a slightly bigger audience than in year’s past.
In Watchung, the day started with the fallen firefighter’s remembrance over in front of the Firemen’s Exempt Hall. Then folks gathered at the veterans monuments in front of the Texier House in the Watchung Circle for Memorial Day services. Air Force retired Gen. Thomas Hartmann, and his wife, Air Force retired Lt. Col. Virginia Hartmann, were the guest speakers.
Up in Long Hill Township, the parade up Main Avenue in Stirling ended at the veterans monuments in front of the grades 6-8 Central Middle School, The events are organized by the American Legion Post 484, Stirling.
The Grand Marshall this year is Anthony ‘”Tony” DeFilippis, who spoke briefly. “I am a man of few words,” he said. Few words, but big actions.
He was in the Navy during World War II, and then he came home and made a life for himself, his family and his community by being the proprietor of the Stirling Hardware Store on Main Avenue, from 1946 until his retirement in 1982. He is also a 60-year life member of the Stirling Volunteer Fire Company, a founder of the Stirling Legion post, and an overall community volunteer.
Then it was over to Warren Township, with the parade on Mountain Boulevard to the municipal complex. The keynote speaker was New Jersey National Guard Lt. Col. Dan Mahon, who was sent to Ground Zero immediately after the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, from Fort Dix, where he is operations chief. He remained at Ground Zero for a month.
He stood on Monday across the parking lot from a flatbed that had rolled proudly in the parade, carrying the piece of World Trade Center steel. It will become part of a new 911 Heroes Memorial at the Warren Municipal Complex. As he said, on days such as these, he is allowed to get emotional. He put aside his prepared text, and spoke from the heart.
Laying the wreath at the foot of the veterans monument was World War II Navy veteran Ken Whatley and World War II Army veteran Philip Sapienza.
Warren Middle School students read “Why I’m Proud To Be An American” essays they wrote for a Watchung Hills Elks Lodge-sponsored contest. “Taps” was played by two trumpeters from the Watchung Hills Regional High School Marchung Band. The band did double duty, marching in both the Long Hill and Warren parades. In Warren, the high school band was joined by the Warren Middle School band on the “National Anthem” and the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
It was a great day to be all over Watchung, Long Hill Township and Warren Township. It was a great day to honor and revere our nation’s armed services, first responders and those who died for their country. Now, let’s do our part. Vote on every election day. Vote on Primary election day, Tuesday, June 7.
Make sure you could say to all those veterans you honored on Memorial Day: “You did your part. Now, I did mine. I voted.”
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011
Remember In Ways Great And Small
Yes, Memorial Day is still 11 days away, and next week might be a better time to talk of Memorial Day remembrances. But the good folks of the Warren American Legion Auxiliary asked us to speak in advance of next week about the significance of the poppies they sell every year as an act of remembrance, and as a way to raise money and awareness for veterans programs. The Auxiliary does such good work every day of every year. Who could say no?
Remembering in reverence is really a very personal thing. There are, no doubt, as many ways to remember as there are people. And there are as many people who should be remembered as there are people.
It doesn’t take a “Hero” to be a hero. It doesn’t take being a hero to justify being remembered.
Sometimes it takes the parade down main street, with loud trombones and tubas and fanfares to remember. Sometimes it takes the peace and quiet of the lone trumpeter on a distant hill playing, “Taps.”
Often the remembrance is for the men and women in the uniforms of the soldier, the sailor, the airman, the Marine, or the coast guardsman. After 911, we learned again how proud, too, are the uniforms of the firefighter, the police officer, the emergency medical technician and the fire chaplain.
We also learned how proud is the uniform of the office worker, the restaurant dishwashers, the newsstand clerks, the innocent bystanders, the hard-working janitors and the middle management folks who would come to work early each day, not to mention the airline flight attendants, the moms and dads on board, and the construction workers and truck drivers who volunteered on the pile for weeks, risking their lungs and their health without a thought for their own safety.
We learned this year, too, of how proud is the inspiration of the Rutgers University senior, Pamela Sue Schmidt of Warren Township, who was cut down in the prime of her life. She was so young, so smart, so energetic, so kind and so positive. Her remembrance, fashioned by friends and family who were inspired by her example, was to do as she would do: create a scholarship so that future students like herself could pay her spirit forward full of youth, smarts, energy, kindness and being positive.
The truth of the matter is that the folks who are remembered aren’t remembering themselves. The most humbling thing about remembrance is that the folks who are being remembered, like Ms. Schmidt, and like all the other loved ones in uniform as well as our family-members, our friends, our work colleagues, our mentors and our charges who are now departed, all would most likely be saying on Memorial Day: “It’s the other way around. You say you remember me? And yet, it is I who remember you… quietly, and in my own way, a lone trumpeter on a distant hill, remembering fondly.”
So, when you see an American Legion Auxiliary member offering poppies for sale leading up to Memorial Day, to help raise a little money and awareness for veterans programs, make a little donation, display the poppy, and read up a little bit about the history and significance of the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” written in 1919 by Major John McCrae, a poet, doctor, and brigade surgeon with the first Brigade of the Canadian Artillery Forces. Then find some distant hill somewhere, and read quietly:
“In Flanders fields the poppies blow/ Between the crosses, row on row,/ That mark our place; and in the sky/ The lark, still bravely singing, fly/ Scarce heard amid the guns below./
“We are the dead. Short days ago/ We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,/ Loved, and were loved, and now we lie/ In Flanders fields./
“Take up our quarrel with the foe:/ To you from failing hands we throw/ The torch; be yours to hold it high./ If ye break faith with us who die/ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow/ In Flanders fields.”
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011
Remembering in reverence is really a very personal thing. There are, no doubt, as many ways to remember as there are people. And there are as many people who should be remembered as there are people.
It doesn’t take a “Hero” to be a hero. It doesn’t take being a hero to justify being remembered.
Sometimes it takes the parade down main street, with loud trombones and tubas and fanfares to remember. Sometimes it takes the peace and quiet of the lone trumpeter on a distant hill playing, “Taps.”
Often the remembrance is for the men and women in the uniforms of the soldier, the sailor, the airman, the Marine, or the coast guardsman. After 911, we learned again how proud, too, are the uniforms of the firefighter, the police officer, the emergency medical technician and the fire chaplain.
We also learned how proud is the uniform of the office worker, the restaurant dishwashers, the newsstand clerks, the innocent bystanders, the hard-working janitors and the middle management folks who would come to work early each day, not to mention the airline flight attendants, the moms and dads on board, and the construction workers and truck drivers who volunteered on the pile for weeks, risking their lungs and their health without a thought for their own safety.
We learned this year, too, of how proud is the inspiration of the Rutgers University senior, Pamela Sue Schmidt of Warren Township, who was cut down in the prime of her life. She was so young, so smart, so energetic, so kind and so positive. Her remembrance, fashioned by friends and family who were inspired by her example, was to do as she would do: create a scholarship so that future students like herself could pay her spirit forward full of youth, smarts, energy, kindness and being positive.
The truth of the matter is that the folks who are remembered aren’t remembering themselves. The most humbling thing about remembrance is that the folks who are being remembered, like Ms. Schmidt, and like all the other loved ones in uniform as well as our family-members, our friends, our work colleagues, our mentors and our charges who are now departed, all would most likely be saying on Memorial Day: “It’s the other way around. You say you remember me? And yet, it is I who remember you… quietly, and in my own way, a lone trumpeter on a distant hill, remembering fondly.”
So, when you see an American Legion Auxiliary member offering poppies for sale leading up to Memorial Day, to help raise a little money and awareness for veterans programs, make a little donation, display the poppy, and read up a little bit about the history and significance of the poem, “In Flanders Fields,” written in 1919 by Major John McCrae, a poet, doctor, and brigade surgeon with the first Brigade of the Canadian Artillery Forces. Then find some distant hill somewhere, and read quietly:
“In Flanders fields the poppies blow/ Between the crosses, row on row,/ That mark our place; and in the sky/ The lark, still bravely singing, fly/ Scarce heard amid the guns below./
“We are the dead. Short days ago/ We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,/ Loved, and were loved, and now we lie/ In Flanders fields./
“Take up our quarrel with the foe:/ To you from failing hands we throw/ The torch; be yours to hold it high./ If ye break faith with us who die/ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow/ In Flanders fields.”
For Essays And Editorials
Denis J. Kelly
June 2, 2011
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