Column: Recalling bits and pieces of poems not always opportune

Published 12:00 am Thursday, October 9, 2003

Way back when I was still in grade school, as part of our reading studies we were asked to memorize a poem that started, &uot;October gave a party/the leaves by hundreds came.&uot; In those dark days there was, I think, much more memorization than is required of school children today.

It had its advantages. Quite often when I’m expected to meet someone some place, I arrive early and keep myself occupied by remembering all the verses I’ve learned over the years.

Unfortunately I never remember them in an appropriate sequence. I can be surrounded by cheerful, fun-loving friends and find myself thinking of the lines from &uot;Julius Caesar:&uot; &uot;Cowards die many times before their death/The valiant never taste of death but once.&uot;

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On the other hand, at solemn moments for instance, when a truly loved friend is telling me that she is going into the hospital for a complete check-up, concerned though I am, I find myself insanely wanting to share with her such trash as,

&uot;Did you ever hear tell of Johnny McGuire

Who ran through the town with his trousers on fire?

He ran to the doctor and fainted with fright

When the doctor told him his end was in sight.&uot;

In all fairness, I never regard my own health as in any way sacred. When you reach my age people don’t even have to know you to inquire after your health. They mean well and are showing me kindness. It’s a rare occasion, though, when I can refrain from answering: &uot;Like the legendary Fiona McQuinn, ‘I’m in very good shape for the shape that I’m in.’&uot;

I’m writing this on Sunday, Oct. 5, and it’s been a good week. A week ago I finished reading Al Franken’s book, &uot;Lies and the Lying Liars who Tell Them.&uot; I was so favorably impressed by it that I haven’t had the Fox News Channel on once since.

Moreover, I’ve acquired three previously unread novels by Phyllis Whitney and am looking forward to the Writers celebrating their second anniversary on the seventh.

As you may have guessed, I’m trying to pack every good and delightful activity into October that I can, because if one thing is sure, it’s that you can’t trust Minnesota weather once we hit November.

In vain do I tell myself that there are just as many months in summer as there are in winter. I don’t believe it. Winter lasts forever. Summer is gone overnight. When I first moved to Minnesota, a native of the state told me the sad tale of a traveling salesman who had to travel out of state for five days in July, and missed the Minnesota summer altogether.

One should not despair, though. In November, there’s that wonderful lutefisk supper in Emmons. Not to mention Thanksgiving. In December and January, there are winter holidays to look forward to, Christmas and the New Year. Then we encounter Valentine’s Day in February and from March on, we’re on our way back to spring. Short winter, wasn’t it?

Just the same, I wish I coud remember the rest of that poem about October giving a party. It was cheerful.

I remember the teacher of a dancing class I was in, asking that on a certain day everyone in the class prepare to sing a song, as she was planning a musical. My mother, an accomplished pianist with an ear for music, promptly told her not to expect a song from me; I was no singer. Could I speak? asked the teacher. All the time, admitted my mother, there was no stopping me.

So, on the appointed day, I recited my, &uot;October Gave a Party&uot; poem and was a great success. I’m sure that if the dancing teacher had ever produced that musical I would have embarked on a new and exciting career, but someway it didn’t ever work out. Looking back, I suspect that some of the mothers weren’t as realistic about their kids’ singing as my mother was about mine.

At least my grandmother took my singing in stride. When she used to gather my cousins and me around the piano to sing and my cousins complained of my singing, she always hushed them. &uot;She’s making a joyful noise toward the Lord,&uot; she always said, &uot;Nothing more should be expected of her.&uot;

I still memorize poetry and will have more time to do so now that I’ve given up listening to Bill O’Reilly.

Don’t know why it took me so long to do that.

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.)