Old Poems by Other People #3

For those who have an aversion to sex or talk about sex, this is your warning, this poem is about SEX!

Back in the early days of our country there was extant a practice called bundling. If you studied your early literature, you know what I am talking about. If you do not, read this and you will.


THE WHORE ON THE SNOW CRUST:
A New England Broadside in Defense of Bundling


Adam at first was formed of dust
As we find on record;
And did receive a wife called Eve
By a creative word.

From Adam's side a crooked bride,
We find complete in form;
Ordained that they in bed might lay,
And keep each other warm.

To court indeed they had no need
She was his wife at first,
And she was made to be his aid,
Whose origin was dust.

This new made pair full happy were,
And happy might remained,
If his helpmeet had never eat
The fruit that was restrained.

Though Adam's wife destroyed his life
In manner that is awful;
Yet marriage now we all allow
To be both just and lawful.

And nowadays there is two ways,
Which of the two is right:
To lie between sheets nice and clean
Or sit up all the night.

But some suppose bundling in clothes
The good and wise doth vex;
Then let me know which way to go
To court the fairer sex.

Whether they must be hugged and bussed
When sitting up all night;
Or whether they in bed may lay,
Which doth reason invite?

Nature's request is give me rest,
Our bodies seek repose;
Night is the time, and 'tis no crime
To bundle in our clothes.

Since in a bed a man and maid
May bundle and be chaste;
It doth no good to burn up wood.
It is a needless waste.

Let coat and shift be turned adrift ,
And breeches take their flight,
An honest man and virgin can
Lay quiet all the night.

But if there be dishonesty
Implanted in the mind,
Breeches nor smock, nor scarce padlock,
The rage of lust can bind.

Kate, Nance and Sue proved just and true,
Though bundling did practice;
But Ruth, beguiled, proved with child,
Who bundling did despise.

Whores will be whores, and on the floor
Where many has been laid
To sit and smoke and ashes poke
Won't keep awake a maid.

Bastards are not at all times got
In feather beds we know
The strumpet's oath convinces both
Oft times it is not so.

One whorish dame, I fear to name
Lest I should give offense
But in this town she was took down
Not more than eight months since.

She was the first that on snow crust
I ever knew to gender;
I'll hint no more about this whore
For fear I should offend her.

'Twas on the snow when Sol was low,
And was in Capricorn
A child was got, and it will not
Be long ere it is born.

Now unto those who do oppose
The bundling trade, I say
Perhaps there's more got on the floor
Than any other way.

In ancient books no knowledge is
Of these things to be got;
Whether young men did bundle then,
Or whether they did not.

Since Ancient book says wife they took,
It don't say how they courted;
Whether young men did bundle then,
Or by the fire they sported.

They only meant to say they sent
A man to choose the bride;
Isaac was so, but let me know,
If any one beside.

Men don't pretend to trust a friend
To choose him sheep or cows;
Much more a wife whom all his life
He does expect to house.

Since it doth stand each one in hand
To happyfy his life;
I would advise each to be wise,
And choose a prudent wife.

Since bundling is not a thing
That judgment will procure;
Go on young men and bundle then
But keep your bodies pure.


The writer is unknown, but the verses were extant in America prior to 1786. The version above is taken from Selden Rodman's "100 Greatest Poems." Other versions are available.

ohio981

For those who have called, emailed or commented about it, Jim Ross has a new blog on which he extols the major river through our valley. To reach this blog go to ohio981.blogspot.com

This is your only warning! I do not place links on my blog.

Old Poems by Other People #2

We hear daily about planned obsolescence. My Maytag repairman told me the last time he was here (the third time for the same complaint within 4 months) that refrigerator manufacturers no longer offer 10 year warranties on compressors, nor even five year warranties on compressors. In fact, if you get more than a one year warranty on a refrigerator compressor, you are getting a good deal any more.

Merle Haggard sang that he "...wished a Ford and a Chevy would both last ten years--like they should." Well, Merle, old boy, mine do because I maintain them. But I see a few out there that never get any maintenance that actually have been on the roads for longer than that--but there are damned few of them, and it looks like the wheels are ready to fall off just like the fenders have.

I always plan on having to but another printer after the old one has been in use for three years, and a cpu after five years, or at least a major upgrade to the old one. And I find it more cost effective to just go out and buy a new mower when the old one decides to get cranky.

Planned obsolescence. Bad words but the rule it seems, these days.

Now let me take you back a couple hundred years. Actually more than that. 254 years to be exact, and tell you about a preacher---


THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE


Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it--ah, but stay,
And I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the Parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that , I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open up and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what ,
There is always somewhere a weaker spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, in or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,-lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,)
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,"
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn't break daown:
"Fur," said the Deacon, " tis mighty plain
That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for thtings like these;
The hubs of logs from the "settler's ellum,"
Last of its timber--they couldn't sell 'em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue,
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide,
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through."
"There!" said the Deacon, "Naow she'll dew!"

Do? I'll tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew to horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and Deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon earthquake-day!

Eighteen hundred: it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;--
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came;--
Running as usual, much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then came fifty, and fifty-five.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it,--you're welcome.--No extra charge.)

First of November-the earthquake day,
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be, -for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less or more,
And the spring and axle and hub encore,
And yet as a whole , it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out.

First of November, 'Fifty-five!
This morning the Parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the Parson. Off went they.
The Parson was working on his Sunday text,
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed,
At what the --Moses--was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meetin' house on the hill.
And the Parson was sitting up on a rock,
At half-past nine by the meetin' house clock,
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!
What do you think the Parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once,
All at once and nothing first,
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
LOGIC IS LOGIC. That's all I say.


The Deacon's Masterpiece was written by Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Old Poems by Other People

Over the course of my life I have run into some real classics in the poetry of others. But I mean real classics, not what the professors say is a classic. You know, poems that you and I can relate to.

Well, shucks, the poems will say it better than I can explain it.

So we start a small series of poems that have enchanted me for ages.

THE PASSING OF THE BACKHOUSE

When memory keeps me company and moves to smile or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life, it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveler would drive slow and heave a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posey garden that the women loved so well;
I loved it too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night- o'er-taken tramp that human life was near.
On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there on summer mornings, its very cares entwined.
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies.
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built their palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting aunt--I must not tell you where.
My father took a flaming pole--that was a happy day--
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.

But when the crust is on the snow and sullen skies were gray,
Inside the building was no place where one would wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly; there one purpose swayed the mind;
We tarried not, nor lingered long, on what we left behind.
The torture of the icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob,
That from a frost-encrusted nail suspended from a string--
My Father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.

When Grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole on which he sat--'twas padded all around,
And once I tried to sit there--'twas all too wide I found,
My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away.
My father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I just used the children's hole 'til childhood days were done.

And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby's hole, and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue.
That dear old country landmark; I've tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit,
But ere I die I'll eat the fruits of trees I robbed of yore,
Then seek that shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween that old familiar smell will soothe my jaded soul,
I'm now a man, but nonetheless, I'll try the children's hole.

The poem is variously attributed to James Whitcomb Riley and to Charle T. Rankin. But no one knows for sure if either of them wrote it or some anonymous writer actually penned the words.

Back soon with another one.

Jim Ross--My Friend

I found out late yesterday that the Herald Dispatch has terminated some 24 employees.

First of all, this was not something totally unexpected, the newspaper industry has generally been in a financial decline for some time. But community newspapers seemed to have been surviving the trend fairly well. Apparently declining revenues and failure to maintain the required level of profitability spelled the end for these employees.

Now, I only know of one of them for sure that I think was a terrible mistake. Jim has been steady for about 30 years at the newspaper in various capacities, all of which he has handled well. I recall when he was the business page guy that I had a stock which I owned and the paper seldom published it. After calling and explaining, the daily quotations appeared. Little things. Made me think more highly of the Huntington Publishing Company. And I will always remember it as HUPCO.

My uncle worked for the paper years ago, as an assistant to Maury Kaplan. He was a photographer and was all over the area and even out of the immediate area at times to get the photo that needed to be there. Times change, my uncle retired, then died. But spoke well of HUPCO and the dedicated employees.

I will miss Jim as the Editor of the Editorial Page. Even more I will miss him as a sometimes contributor to the "Forums" and all the time moderator of his "Hot Topics" blog. But most of all I will miss the knowledge that the blog, the Op-Ed page and the forums are under his purview. I would be remiss if I did not say that I do not see good times ahead for the online world of the Herald Dispatch.

I am unaware of the status of Andrea and Joe, but even if they are both still there, I foresee a lessening of interest on my part, as I know Jim will not be there to monitor the forums.

Jim, if you read this, and I hope you do get to it now and then, I want you to know I respect your abilities far more than any other editor I have ever known (including my own former son-in-law.) I have learned of your family (as have all others who lurked around your blog.) Were I able to help in any way in your current situation, I would do so. But all I can really give you is my very best wishes for you and your family in this trying time. And keep the faith, the Old Man Upstairs watches each of us. And He really does care. And He really does answer prayers, most times in ways we may not recognize immediately as the answer we were seeking, but later, on reflection, we come to know of His wonderful love and care.

Keep in touch with some of us so we know how you are doing.

We care, too.

IF IT'S MEMORIAL DAY , IT MUST BE TIME FOR THE REUNION

What a day.

Tomorrow is my wife's family reunion.

They decided this year to have hot dogs and burgers on the grill. So much less work.

Yeah. Right!

Depends on who gets that less work, I reckon.

See, we normally contribute on Saturday, the loan of three tables, twelve chairs. This year we contribute those three tables, twelve chairs and my large charcoal grill. Which had to be cleaned of course. And then one of the top hinges came up missing and the pin dropped out of the other one. And it was on the back porch and I had to get it into the driveway to load into the truck.

The hinge was repaired by using a hex wrench through the hole.

We also usually prepare banana pudding, which we are also doing this year. We usually prepare baked beans, which we are doing this year. We also supply various items such as napkins, spoons, forks, knives, plates, cups, the normal picnic supplies. And, I almost forgot, sixty or so charbroiled chicken breasts, done the night before (which is the only thing not done this year that we normally do) and taken to the site on Sunday for the reunion.

So I have the truck loaded now, ready to take it all to my sister-in-laws- place. And guess what I get to do tomorrow? Yeah. Get there early, fire up my grill, my son-in-law's grill (he works at a church and can't be there until about 1 PM), and maybe my brother-in-law's grill too. Once at proper temperature, I can then begin grilling the burgers and the chicken I just know someone will bring and maybe even a steak or two.

So I can be hot and sweaty and stinky for lunch--while everyone else just brings a few chips, some sodas, a few bottles of water, some condiments (by the way, Mary and I supply those also) and a few desserts.

And then I get to go back Monday and pick up the grill and the tables and the chairs.

And you know what? I enjoy this. I really do. Because no one else will do what Mary and I do and do it as well as we do. Yet we let them think they do so much more than us. Because it makes them feel good.

But next year, the grill stays home.

I looked back through the photo albums (yes, we actually do have albums of photos) and picked out eight from our original reunion here at our house back in 1980. I scanned and printed them as 4 x 6's and framed them around an 8 x 10 of my mother- and father-in-law and their eight children--from the same reunion back in 1980, on a standard poster board, then hand wrote the notation of what the pictures were in dayglo highlighter. Just a little surprise for the folks.

More another time.