This week’s poem post is actually about two poems, written 70 years apart, by two different men and both about getting older.
In 1927, A.A. Milne published “Now We Are Six,” a collection of 35 poems for children, some about his most famous creation, Winnie-the-Pooh. Many feature Milne’s son, Christopher Robin and all the wondrous discoveries and flights of fancy that occupy the minds of young, active boys.
Richard Russo has long been a favorite of mine, but I notice I have not read one of his books since I started this blog. Odd.
That could be because his books, like those by John Irving and Pat Conroy are marathons that I’m not always willing to tackle.
I lump the Russo, Irving and Conroy together because they are sort of cut from similar cloth, though Irving’s is special order and Conroy’s is taffeta. Russo’s cloth is denim. It’s dirty and worn, which makes it feel loved, but it can be worn too long.
Continue reading “A ‘Bridge’ too long from a favorite writer”
My second son turns 17 today.
He’s in the middle of that dreaded junior year of high school, where everything matters, from grades to standardized tests to girls and friends to music and memes.
In addition to the things my wife and I have wrapped for him to open tonight after a dinner of hamburgers (his choice) and homemade cheesecake (also, his choice), I offer him this poem by Shel Silverstein.
I realized something after hitting the “Publish” key on my last post: It was my 100th post. (Cue the horns and confetti.)
I started this blog in October 2014 because I was bored as hell at work. I was in a job where there was little work for me, but they paid me an exorbitant salary for doing nothing and I let them. Typing away on this blog at least made me look busy. Of course, they still laid me and lots of other people off when they realized none of us were actually working, so looking busy just delayed the inevitable.
Anyway, by the time they laid me off, I was kind of hooked by this, so I kept at it. Here are some fun (for me, at least) facts:
When the kids were young, I read to them nearly every night. I read classic children’s novels (“The Narnia Chronicles,” “The Never-Ending Story,” “Pinocchio” “Winnie-the-Pooh”) and, when they got older, some that weren’t specifically for children, but which I thought they’d enjoy (“Phantom of the Opera,” “A Christmas Carol,” “The Erotic Works of Anaias Nin, you know the canon). But, as kids get older, there are other things to do.
I miss those times, but I’ve written about them before, and I have promised shorter posts, so let’s get to the point of this one.
Continue reading “A children’s classic tale of a boy and his dog”
