Alan Seeger "I Have a Rendezvous with Death."

In Paris, about six blocks southeast of the Arch of Triumph, is a small park called Place des Etats-Unis, or United States Park, though sometimes called Square Thomas Jefferson. The streets on all four sides of the park are lined with historical mansions that have served as embassies, residences for princes, and one for the patron of Jean Cocteau. Another was occupied by the Gestapo during WWII. The American novelist, Edith Wharton lived for a time in one house, while in another lived a Viscountess who threw parties for the likes of Pablo Picasso, Balthus, Henri Matisse, and Salivador Dali.

It's a nice neighborhood.

There are three monuments in the park. One is of Marquis de La Fayette shaking hands with George Washington, designed by sculptor Frederic-Auguste Bartholdi, designer of the Statue of Liberty, standing in New York Harbor. There is an exact replica of the La Fayette - Washington monument in Morningside Park in New York, up in Harlem. The figures are double size.

The second monument is one of a person you may either bless or curse when in the dentist's chair - an American dentist, Horace Wells, an early inventor of an anesthesia, nitrous oxide or laughing gas. A sad story there, as he learned of the effects of the gas in a circus, performed a few successful extractions using it, but then became addicted to chloroform, becoming deranged from it and committed a crime by throwing acid of a sort onto two prostitutes. He committed suicide in remorse. For some reason my dentist finds this story amusing. Both the American Dental and Medical Associations honored Wells posthumously in1864, and have credited him as the discoverer of modern anesthesia.

The third monument is of Alan Seeger, a poet who was born in New York but lived part of his his adolescence in Mexico.  He returned to the US and attended Harvard college, becoming an editor of the Harvard Monthly where he regularly submitted poetry. After graduation, Seeger lived as a bohemian in Greenwich Village for two years, moving to Paris in 1912. After the outbreak of WWI he joined the French Foreign Legion, serving in the trenches on the Western Front. During quiet hours of guard duty he composed verse.

In 1915 he wrote in a letter, "If it must be, let it come in the heat of action. Why flinch? It is by far the noblest form in which death can come. It is in a sense almost a privilege. . . ."
 
Alan Seeger

Rendezvous 

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air--
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath--
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

 

Alan Seeger was killed at Belloy-en-Santerre on July 4, 1916, said while cheering on his fellow soldiers in a successful charge after being hit several times by machine gun fire.

Ode in Memory of the American Volunteers Fallen for France

(Written, to have been read before the statue of Lafayette and Washington in Paris, on Decoration Day, May 30, 1916).  First, fifth stanzas.

Ay, it is fitting on this holiday,
Commemorative of our soldier dead,
When -- with sweet flowers of our New England May
Hiding the lichened stones by fifty years made gray --
Their graves in every town are garlanded,
That pious tribute should be given too
To our intrepid few
Obscurely fallen here beyond the seas.
Those to preserve their country's greatness died;
But by the death of these
Something that we can look upon with pride
Has been achieved, nor wholly unreplied
Can sneerers triumph in the charge they make
That from a war where Freedom was at stake
America withheld and, daunted, stood aside.

V

There, holding still, in frozen steadfastness,
Their bayonets toward the beckoning frontiers,
They lie -- our comrades -- lie among their peers,
Clad in the glory of fallen warriors,
Grim clusters under thorny trellises,
Dry, furthest foam upon disastrous shores,
Leaves that made last year beautiful, still strewn
Even as they fell, unchanged, beneath the changing moon;
And earth in her divine indifference
Rolls on, and many paltry things and mean
Prate to be heard and caper to be seen.
But they are silent, calm; their eloquence
Is that incomparable attitude;
No human presences their witness are,
But summer clouds and sunset crimson-hued,
And showers and night winds and the northern star.
Nay, even our salutations seem profane,
Opposed to their Elysian quietude;
Our salutations calling from afar,
From our ignobler plane
And undistinction of our lesser parts:
Hail, brothers, and farewell; you are twice blest, brave hearts.
Double your glory is who perished thus,
For you have died for France and vindicated us. 

Seven years after Seeger was killed, on 4 July 1923, the President of the French Council, Raymond Poincaré, dedicated the monument in the Place des États-Unis to the 24 Americans who had volunteered to fight and were killed in World War I in the service of France.

Here is the inscription:

"They did not pursue worldly rewards; they wanted nothing more than to live without regret, brothers pledged to the honor implicit in living one's own life and dying one's own death. Hail, brothers! Goodbye to you, the exalted dead! To you, we owe two debts of gratitude forever: the glory of having died for France, and the homage due to you in our memories."

"I Have a Rendezvous with Death" was one of President Kennedy's favorite poems. His wife Jacqueline often recited it for him.

Seeger's collected work, Poems was published posthumously and was not very successful, because, it was said, the language and ideals were too lofty. It was reviewed by one of his Harvard classmates, T.S. Eliot:

"Seeger was serious about his work and spent pains over it. The work is well done, and so much out of date as to be almost a positive quality. It is high-flown, heavily decorated and solemn, but its solemnity is thorough going, not a mere literary formality. Alan Seeger, as one who knew him can attest, lived his whole life on this plane, with impeccable poetic dignity; everything about him was in keeping."

Alan Seeger's brother Charles, a noted musicologist, was the father of the American folk singer, Pete Seeger.

Humanities 101

We have all had a professor or two that have had an exceptional impact on us. This story is about one of them.

 

A few years ago, a friend was at her wits end with her son who had no interest in classes that were not about science, where, thankfully, he was doing well.  She thought I might be able to help and asked if I would write a short note to him:

 

Dear Toni,

Your mother tells me you have been doing some animation. I assume computer animation. If so, I can only love the technology behind it and respect your understanding of it. We used to think only of cartoons and Disney movies in this context but I know animation has moved way beyond that - medical training, abstract modelling, pilot simulation, etc, (not to mention Halo or EA, Grand Theft Auto). 

She asked me to offer you my thoughts regarding the study of the humanities in general, of literature and poetry. I feel I am slightly able to do this as I have in my time read many of the books which appear as "classics" on several scholarly lists, as well as an assortment of cheap novels, pulp fictions, comic books, high adventure stories. I have read my share of abbreviated Cliff's Notes to get the gist of a classic when time to read the whole book before the exam was not available. I have been to many museums, gone to many concerts, some rock and some classical. I have also read a lot of poetry and even tried writing some.
 

But I have read, seen things, heard music - that turned me sideways, that made me feel haunted and humbled. And, truth be told, the more you know about the thing, the more you will be able to appreciate it.

 

My first day in my first class in college, in the elective subject of Humanities 101, I walked into the lecture hall of a certain Dr. Pletz, a slim, animated, gentle man who always wore a black suit with a red or black turtleneck sweater, which made his shock of white, unruly hair stand out. The first thing he said was to never say "I know what I like" - rather, to say "I like what I know". Then began the lessons to expand that which we liked and which we knew. He was strict - he called out randomly to the hall and asked you to leave if you were unprepared - because he said the world tossed you out if you were unprepared. But he also became one of the artists he spoke about.

 

Over the year, the class was a survey of the many disciplines of the humanities: language and linguistics, history and literature, but also the arts: theater, music, dance, painting, architecture. In short, pretty much the gamut of human intellectual endeavor - save the sciences. For his fresh-faced students, Dr. Pletz held open the door and pushed, pulled as we piled through to appreciation and understanding, to a view of the incredible world where artists, including computer animators, interpret the world with original words, clay, music notes, and motion. Where they make inquiries into values, ethics, ideals. Where they define truth and beauty - and their opposites. 

Among some of the classics we read was Aristotle's Poetics concerning the seven parts of a play.  We read John Ciardi's translation of Dante's Divine Comedy, as well as his "How Does a Poem Mean?", about how to read and write poetry, where he tells of a poet who says he writes because he "likes to hang around words". The survey covered the masters of renaissance art, French and English painting up to the twentieth century, and finally, the music of some of the great classical and modern composers.

Needless to say, Dr Pletz inspired me. I went on to publish six novels, two plays, and several volumes of poetry. Just kidding. But I did expand what I know and still never say I know what I like. Perhaps I would have an appreciation of the humanities without this particular professor, but it would not have been the same. I think of him whenever I read a poem or see a play. Hopefully, you will meet someone like him.

Probably the best known American poet is Robert Frost. He won the Pulitzer Prize four times. Though some say his poems are very dark, I think they are not too murky and have an easiness about them. He recited at Kennedy's inauguration. "The Road Not Taken" and "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" are two of his better known poems. You can find these in the American Poems link below. Read them, if you like, and let me know what you think of them. I know your mother likes poetry and she would enjoy your discussing them with her. 

 

Carl Sandburg is also well known, born near Chicago. Here is an apropos poem of his.

                                             BATH

A man saw the whole world as a grinning skull and
cross-bones. The rose flesh of life shriveled from all
faces. Nothing counts. Everything is a fake. Dust to
dust and ashes to ashes and then an old darkness and a
useless silence. So he saw it all. Then he went to a
Mischa Elman concert. Two hours waves of sound beat
on his eardrums. Music washed something or other
inside him. Music broke down and rebuilt something or
other in his head and heart. He joined in five encores
for the young Russian Jew with the fiddle. When he
got outside his heels hit the sidewalk a new way. He
was the same man in the same world as before. Only
there was a singing fire and a climb of roses everlastingly
over the world he looked on. 

http://www.americanpoems.com/

THE TENNIS PRO

A Short Story

My friend Drew, a one-time pro tennis player and later a club pro at a posh resort in the Caribbean, showed up every once in a while to catch up on what was new with me and the rest of the home boys. We go back several years when we played a lot of tennis on many courts, both clay and composite, and some championship golf courses around the country, as sometimes we could cross our paths on our travels. We often played gratis because many courses gave a courtesy pass to Drew, who never failed to inform everyone in the clubhouse that he was a Tennis Pro and could reciprocate for the greens fees with free tickets for local sporting events.

Of course, being a Pro, Drew could blow me off the court even when he backed off from the full power of his huge serve, one of the fastest recorded in the history of tennis, somewhere around 150 miles per hour. It was rare that I ever got to add-in, meaning my advantage, needing only one point to win a game. When Drew needed to use the big serve to put me away, I didn't see much of it and was just glad it didn't hit me. If I was lucky I could win a game or two during a set, but the scores of every set and match were always dismal, with Drew seldom working up a sweat.

On the other hand, I could nearly always beat him on a golf course because I drive the ball straight, something most golfers, especially duffers, would die for. Drew rarely hit the fairway and found every out-of-bounds, water hazard, sand trap, tree, and bad lie on almost every hole. He got to know how I felt when I returned everything long, wide, or into the net on a tennis court.

Dinner and drinks followed all of our outings wherever we were, at a local steakhouse or sports bar. Score cards, brilliant shots, lucky shots would be hashed over, always with a lot of kidding and laughs. We were always out to have great fun times, to not really compete seriously.  We played well because there was no tension or pressure to really beat the other guy, which, as most golfers know, your game improves when you have a relaxed, easy swing, forgetting the previous bad hole or other problems.

Things were about to change.

Our first competition was nearly at hand, though it would still be with a lot of kidding and laughs. It took place in our favorite venue at what was then the old Lake Geneva Playboy Club Resort (I guess we were sort of small time amateur playboys) that had two of the most enjoyable golf courses we played. Lake Geneva had been the flagship Playboy Club Golf Resort in the country and had attracted all the major entertainers when Hugh Hefner wore something other than  bathrobes. The resort hotel had been closed down for several years and was in sad disrepair, quite run-down, you could say it was dumpy even. The place was kept open because the two courses were popular and always had their tee times fully booked. (Thank God the tennis courts were closed). After the golf round we of course went into the clubhouse for the few customary drinks at the bar, as golfers always do, traditionally called the 19th hole. At the Playboy clubhouse though, we were told that the bar was in the otherwise closed and shuttered hotel, the only room still open and used, that we should just keep walking down the long darkened corridor and we would be sure to find it all the way in the back, turn right and you'll see it, the room with the large windows giving a great view overlooking both courses. So in we went.

Walking into that empty, barely lit bar it was game on. Our first competition began, then and there, winner take all, no second place - for we were both stunned, dumbfounded, by the unbelievable apparition standing behind the bar, knowingly smiling at us as we approached. Lisa, deeply tanned, elegant, was the dark-haired bartender, who would have shamed any of those Playboy Bunnies for sheer beauty (to our eyes) and as we were to see, for her wit, charm, guile, intelligence, what have you. She and the barmaid, Cheryl were law students at UW and were working summers there probably as much to make blustering fools of golfers who thought they could make the slightest impression on them, as well as for the tips, which increased exponentially when Drew and I were around. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not the ugliest guy around, and Drew isn't exactly the best looking guy in the world, but he is a big guy, over six feet tall, blond, and a Tennis Pro, which  he likes to point out. And he always has this grin on his face to match his damned sunny personality. All right, I'm none of those things, haven't got a big sunny grin, so he has me at a disadvantage, or as he likes to say, add-out. Now we both knew vaguely even under the circumstances that tossing pick-up lines to waitresses, barmaids, and bartenders is juvenile and banal, but golfers have been known to get that way, so Drew's lead-off was his ever present stupid boyish grin which slightly disarmed Lisa, who was, sad to say, also mildly impressed that he was a Tennis Pro, naturally, the first thing that got brought up.

My situation was deteriorating fast and I sought something to give me add-in, if not to just even the score at deuce (tied, in tennis parlance) if I wanted to stay in this game. Drew had racked up several points with some well practiced lines to my nil, when to my relief Lisa mentioned that she was part Indian, one-quarter, because her mother was half Indian, of the Oneida tribe.  A break, because I happen to be part Indian from my mother's side, from a plains tribe. That got her attention, so taking full advantage (add-in), I asked her for her Indian name. Such luck, she didn't have one. Very seriously, because it is, I said we could perform the naming ceremony according to tribal conventions, to give her one if I could summon it, a name that suited her physical and spiritual traits, was nature based, and was fitting for her. Reaching back to things my mother had long ago told me, about how I had received my Indian name, I recalled it would come only after deep reflection and falling into a mystic sort of dream (not unlike Silas Marner). when after several minutes, the name would arrive. It involved gripping hands and passing things back and forth, - for instance, leather and wooden objects, tobacco pouches and flints, (we substituted things at hand, a wooden spoon from behind the bar, cigarette packs and lighters). Trying to add a little pressure, Drew started for the door while I ceremoniously, carefully performed the ritual to beckon the proper Indian name for her. Ten minutes later it came. She liked it. From then on Lisa was known as Summer Wind.

And before every time Drew and I entered the bar we had someone in advance put a quarter in the jukebox to play Frank's song upon our entrance - we loved the way she spun around to look for us:

Add-in was very pleasant - while it lasted. Poor Drew was left feeling like a lone survivor at the Little Big Horn while I was like a new brave with a painted pony. Summer Wind, what a name if I say so myself. It was perfect for her. She was everything a summer wind might mean to you. More. Then the Tennis Pro offered tennis lessons, drat, something she always wanted to learn. Suddenly, I was Salieri, Mozart's second.

Time for a new ploy, a fresh gambit - a longer club or tighter racquet. But what? I know. Yes, that's it. I'll write some poetry for her. Never mind I've never done that before but here in Summer Wind is a perfect muse, and I am suffering, am I not? Let's see, I'll write one about the three major players, maybe even one to Cheryl, and anything else that brings inspiration. Summer Wind might soon see how sensitive I am, and I'll have permanent add-in.

First, Drew.  This painting was in the bar. The Tennis Pro:

        THE TENNIS PRO                                  

Like the Leroy Neiman behind him hanging on the wall
With hazel gaze the tennis pro sets the figure before him 

Herself a study in pretty proficiency, bidding his subtle call

The picture paints a player frozen in a blur

Dazzled now, he searches for a clever winning serve

His mind a perfect blank, his tongue covered with fur

His seeded game was regarded with renown - picture perfect

All plot and stratagem, thrust and parry - drop and lob

Then another cross-court victory - poetry with no defect

With flashing fore and backhand, with stunning, numbing play

Against the ilk of Nastase, Connors, and Borg

They all proclaimed him a laureate of the court of clay

Though thoroughly beguiled, his serve shouldn't fail again

But when a withering return flashes from those evoking eyes

He forgoes the match and simply mutters, another tonic and gin.

A time might come when he may know all he needs to know

When vistas open, and she, like the painted frozen player, thaws

And she joins him in the picture, frozen by winter winds that blow.

That surprisingly, seemed to work. Everyone had a good laugh and I was add-in.

Until Drew took the T-tops off the Firebird and offered her a ride - sorry, only room for two. Time for another poem. A killer. Framed it. Hoped she would weep when she saw it:

 

      THE BARTENDER

The hospice had come to a baneful day

Once like a Pantheon on the great Appian Way

Its glories, like Rome, are of yesteryear

When legions gathered for wine and good cheer.

  

Its rooms and halls are quietly vacant now

Grandeur long gone, time would fain not allow

The grounds are barren where blossoms once reigned

Humbled, they dreamily brood of old splendors again.

Snugged in the back, an anomaly remains

A vestige of glory, of paradise regained

Shaped like a cirque, a circular space

The barrel house is now a time out of place.

 

Vesta herself, in sartorial rendition

Is keeping the hearth in age-old tradition

Like pouring a libation to honor a deity

She serves to stranger’s draughts with her fealty.

In grand proportions of varied elements

She plies her craft with refined sentiments.

With an artist’s devise and innocent guile

To concupiscent remarks she renders a smile.

Barmecide of Arabian nights deferring to his wishes

Gave a beggar a sumptuous feast served on empty dishes.

Our bartender now, with ample and graceful geniality

Can succor the soul with her chalice of generosity.

Don Quixote charged the windmills of La Mancha

Richard Wagner rode the Valkyries to Valhalla.

In Camelot, old King Arthur had his tiny spot

But it was here Alexander cut the Gordian Knot.

Against a backdrop of brandy and blend

Against a backdrop of view without end

This maestro with baton, nay - this melodic symphony

Restores to this world things – called peace and harmony.

Against the works of Poe, Shelly, or Michelangelo

Or Longfellow, Leonardo, or even Vincent Van Gogh

These lines when compared pale like miracle to sin

But not the lovely Lisa, better known as Summer Wind.

To my delight, she did cry when I presented it to her, of course to the strains of Frank singing her song.  She said she hung it her bedroom (gasp) and read it every night. Now for the coup de grâce, going for game, set, match - the final player, The Poet:

                THE POET

 

To say a poet seeks Truth and Beauty deigns a brief reply

He marks in murky metaphor while he really wonders why

Fair Ganymede and Io spinning in their awesome plane

Shouldn't somehow signal to our world-

As they whirl by again

It's there Beauty's lofty lesson might then best be taught

They are only part of a whole - alone, they come to naught

The moons of Jupiter seem far removed from such a lofty yield

But Truth is men are brethren-

Their welded lot is sealed

While sifting the progression of Nature's perfect contest

And seeing things true and beautiful in her majestic manifest

He writes his letter to the world with metaphor as means to end

With finite eye, his solemn soul peers into infinity-

With Truth and Beauty his only friend

With his words he paints the dawn when the sun touches morning,

He counts the fragrances of spring, Nature’s breath adorning

He points with pleasure to which he seeks at an ever-even pace

And touches, then, the breast of Truth and Beauty-

With tears upon his face

If he justly honors this, his sacred chosen task

And pours his winsome words as from an aurum cask

When he enrolls in the poets' confraternity named so odd

Come Judgement, he can humbly stand erect-

Before the Throne of God

Things were going well - oh, the oddly named fraternity just above is The Dead Poets Society - and it was at this point that Cheryl was starting to feel left out, so I wrote one to her called To Cheryl, The Law Student:

 

      TO CHERYL, THE LAW STUDENT

               In Hoc Signo Vinces

Their dour faces echo ironic mockeries of birth

They are the meek who never inherited the earth

The newborn's tears impeach the day's divinity

The disinherited inveigh the earth's serenity

Menageries of militant madmen vie for the others' mud

Then loose the ugly mongrels on our children's blood

Quarrels of ancient wars erupt in insidious incident

Revenging omissions that cannot be considered accident

Chattering blindly, in doomed attempt to resolve a past

Factions, races kill, objecting to the system of caste

That preordains at birth, and inhumes the natural right

To stem the loss of humanity, within a child's sight

The iniquities of this world we love, wretchedly abound

The disjointed and disabled are buried, without a sound

Fleeing fathers sit snug in the trees

Forgotten mothers lie dead in the seas

The other day I opportuned to meet a cool jeweled mind

That just might offer hope to a world in such a bind

She's preparing to answer that stirring clarion call

To law, to serve the needy, the disenfranchised, all

Now if healing can come from planted words that grow

And the adage holds true, you reap that which you sow

If she stands the bar for those with no reward to offer

She won't be looking for that which has already found her

It has been said, for as early though the laurel grows

It withers far quicker than the lovely crimson rose

Her deeds, reposing with renown, will musk her amber wine

And shed the light in which a far better world will shine

An early evening, while we were listening to the strains of Sinatra crooning his song on the jukebox, Summer Wind proposed a little mock contest, to see which of us could pick the best place to take her for a romantic trip on holiday.  We were to write our answers on a bar napkin and turn them over, one at a time.  Drew and I of course strained our grey cells mightily to imagine where in the world would win the day. Lord, Drew turned up Hawaii, the island paradise of James Michener, From the Sun Swept Lagoon, and all that rot. I meekly, fearfully turned over my napkin and incredulously saw a provocative smile and watched her elegant finger point to... Alaska.  A Room With a View: 

          A ROOM WITH A VIEW

Have you ever had the keys to the kingdom, ever been truly free

Have you seen the exquisite ice castle, the one they call Denali

Then come to the primordial Rim of Fire, restore in resignation

Ride your own Iditarod, lift your spirit to glacial revelation

Shake dreams from your midnight hair, my new and gentle friend

And go on a voyage of discovery, just beyond Vancouver's bend

To a place where, still, the grey timber wolf and caribou run

To a land called Alaska, of northern lights, and midnight sun

The Aleutians, lying like diamonds in the windswept Bering Sea

Point like your slender finger, from Asia to high Mt McKinley

From the empire of Mother Russia, besieged in Crimean volley

He garnered with love, this robust land, known as Seward's Folly

There is gold, they say, in the Yukon River, the beaches of Nome

There are no strangers at her gate, her warm valleys provide home

Now those who missed her Golden Age, of prospecting and violence

Pause at Prince William Sound, for Alaska, in a moment of silence

They say the Aleut and the Eskimo are of hunter, warrior class

Who forage for salmon and seal on treacherous glacier, like glass

In eloquent erudition, they slay the grey whales when they blow

Yet they revere the elegant tundra where the belly flowers grow

The Bear will glide white through a blue, phosphorescent sea

As two figures stand mute, awed by the green Earth's majesty

Her plunging bow will point north, guided by the star Polaris

As she sails to Alaska, a pristine land of the aurora borealis

Jack London, out from Seattle, wrote it was The Call of the Wild

I like to call it a provocative smile, of North America's child

Now there is a myriad of seas and isles everywhere under our sun

But dreams of Alaska come true when summer winds have just begun

When dreams become your walking stick, your life is forever new

As far as when vistas open, you can call this a room with a view

Come to think of it, on a voyage with you beyond Vancouver's bend

The discovery would be Alaska and you, - two views, without end

Summer Wind asked if I would like to borrow a music cassette she always listened to. Of course I would. That day, a warm sunny Sunday afternoon found us at a banquet for staff and guests of the now defunct Playboy Resort, reduced to a shadow of its former self.  But near the verdant golf course and away from the hotel, the gloom was nowhere to be found, and Drew and I enjoyed very much the banquet, especially watching Summer Wind gliding around, serving her brandies and blends behind the outdoor bar, under an enormous oak tree:  A Borrowed Cassette:

            A BORROWED CASSETTE

Sounds so stark, like a winter tree in a park

Recalling greener days, just now gone dark

An empty park, with only chill hurrying past

Sadly saying, autumn's fire does not last

Filling a void amid desire and fulfillment

Lamenting exclusion from contentment

Notes that misrepresented her air we knew

And denied as petitioner that special view

The sad tableau of sound recalled a place

Of a garden faded, and that certain space

When witnessed, the clearest light since birth

Seen firsthand, the most living thing on earth

The losses of this world music can explain

Better still it unveils things that remain

Listen to the desultory sound on your cassette

But hear the fanfare as you dance your minuet

While a tranquil winter is for a little while

The tree reminisces a not forgotten style

This time of respite is like an old dog's dream

When it shaded a girl under a branch so green

 The winds of winter bend our friend, the tree

 But bends his ear for an aria to set him free

 He listens for the lyrical, warm song of spring

 The promise of life and love it will always bring

Trouble on the horizon. Tired, heading for home late at night from some engagement, I  stopped for gas, about half way between The Resort and home.  It came to light that Summer Wind sometimes dated the Resort's red-headed Golf Pro (damn Pros), a fact not known to me nor Drew.  The Waystation:

 

       THE WAYSTATION

Home bound was the knight from a long rigorous battle

It was only with effort he stayed in Rosinante's saddle

Winged dragons and windmills were filling his sore head

His thoughts turned then to home and his rickety bed

It was well the worn black nag knew the way to her stable

For the wizened old warrior was lost in some courtly fable

Where Dulcinea, his true ladylove, had at last come to know

For whom it was he dreamed, and fought the unbeatable foe

With visage drawn by battle and his thoughts all asundered

Just off the darkened road into a waystation he blundered

Whether by chance or the hand of a supernatural vision

He stopped, and took on the guise of a lost apparition

Templar and noble with armorial bearing, with visor full down

He dismounted, and off he strode with an awful clanking sound

With nerve and lance at the ready, he quickly drew his sword

For suddenly something had struck a somewhat distant chord

Now off in the misty shadows appeared a strange red-headed knight

Charming his own fair ladylove there, with all of his might

He could see no need for challenge, for the arms bore the crest

Of Frederick Barbarossa - alas, he had forgotten the rest

It was well that in the law of heraldic chivalry our hero resided

He could not look once at the maiden over whom that sire presided

For if he had seen it was Dulcinea, mayhem would have engendered

And not only the earth, but his poor heart would have been rendered

Back then to his waiting trusting steed he went, never the wiser

Back to his world of battle and fable, as seen through his visor

Back to his impossible dream, and the quest he would always pursue

And though she would always keep it to herself, now Rosinante knew

The summer came to a close, golfing season ended, things tug at you as time passes. 
               
Aside from a few phone calls, I heard from neither Drew nor Summer Wind until about six months later when Drew called to tell me he just got married - that's right: Summer Wind. And I say I could not have been happier for them, though I would have liked to have been there even if it was only a Justice of the Peace affair. 

I wish the story ended there but it didn't. After a month I got out to see them where they were staying. It was early evening and Drew, surprising to me, was passed out in a chair by the fire. For a smoke, Lisa said she had to go out to the patio because Drew did not allow smoking in the house, again surprise, because that was only one of so many rules they were hard to remember. On the darkened patio she told me the marriage was a huge mistake. Drew was an alcoholic and violent, she had some bruises to prove it, that she was afraid of him and wanted to know why the hell I hadn't told her because I must have known. The truth is, I hadn't known, didn't think I'd ever seen him drink excessively, never drunk. Seems some people can hold liquor well and others hide alcoholism well, maybe the same people. And I wasn't looking. I told her she had to get out, leave at once. 

She didn't.

A few weeks later his brother called to say Drew was in jail and Lisa was in hospital - domestic violence, broken arm, battered face.  About the worst thing I have ever had to do was stand by a bedside and visualize the arm of that huge serve and look at what it had done. She said that if they could put her back together, she wanted a clean start, to get away. Marriage lasted seven weeks.

Leaving the hospital, I thought of the appalling waste and loss, for all of us. I thought of the collection of tennis trophies from a long career... how friendships can turn, how things can end badly - and about alcohol.

Back in the car, on the seat was the book I happened to be reading, one of Le Carre's about George Smiley. I was at the part when, after a loss, Smiley said he would return to his island of half-people, where no one ever knew or had forgotten how people can love each other, that his books and music would sustain him - but that he would always carry a light. I think the three of us could follow that allegory.

 It was seven or eight months later Drew's brother called again to say he had just heard from Summer Wind. He told me that she was living in northern California, near the Oregon state line and that he was a new uncle. He said Lisa's pregnancy had survived the beating and that she had a new daughter, Katherine Rose - that both were doing well.

He almost forgot he was to tell me that Katie's Indian name is Summer Song, named after all those little songs, little poems written to her mother that summer, one of which is hung on a bedroom wall out there somewhere in California, near the Oregon border.

That sustains me. Forget Smiley's books and music. But he was right about the light.