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“Son”...”say goodnight to grandpa”

Spurred by mother dearest 
as well as other politesse
drummed into her second born
fobbing blandishments as incentive
tumbled off fingers of prodigal son
tripped wordsmith to splutter forth
forthwith the following lines.

Back in the day 
quaint summertime of yore,
the following popular refrain reverberated
within hallowed halls of school.

"No more pencils, 
no more books, 
no more teacher's/
teachers' dirty looks”

Never did exotic vacations populate
those twelve weeks
when doors flung opened 
at Henry Kline Boyer,
whence score years ago yours truly 
now (June 8th, 2023) 
approximately same age,
when mine paternal grandfather visited
me, and other members of family
at then Route Deliver #2
Collegeville, Pennsylvania,
the home of mein kampf.

Figurative eons ago 
bygone innocent childhood of mine 
oblivious to progressive political issues 
easily delighted, liberated, tantalized...,
especially when Sunkist grandpa Harris 
(Aaron) indulged yours truly
jais nais sais quois
kibitizing lovingly, mirthfully
naturally offering pleasing qualities,

surrendering slender tanned arms
where upon left wrist dangled his 
venerated wristwatch (analog),
I ecstatically fingered, prized, and toyed 
with said object fascinated 
at the linkedin craftsmanship,
which yielded general squealing zealousness
from an ordinarily 
non emotionally expressive lad.

This towheaded grandson,
extremely excited when me daddy's papa
came to this figurative rural outpost, 
(despite his chastising behavior
ridiculing favorite progeny's children),
where traces of early twentieth century
still evident when manicured formal gardens 
pegged, limned, harkened... back 
to a supposedly simpler time

when this elderly family member
(who only completed eighth grade),
whose birth benchmarked, coincided
and demarcated with late 
Industrial Revolution, whence
Philadelphia birthplace noisy with 
horse drawn carriages competing 
with early model automobiles
crowding thee busy thoroughfares, 
where the streets have no name.

Lemme return back 
to the previous topic, 
and explain how 
I felt eager to interact
with cranky, yet doting old man,
which showcased chained metal links 
wore a temporary imprint
upon his bronzed aged skin – dog 
head lee remaining 
gently persuading him

to delay when departure time arrived
for favorite boyhood relative,
twas pure heavenly glory 
conniving, finagling, inveigling...
our favorite grandfather
to situate myself on right side
and toy with the wristwatch (analog),
winning three way verbal tussle
between yours truly and two siblings
(an older and younger sister),

which when a kid 
also exhibited glee at occasions
treasuring said older folk gave me a frog 
tiled toy (sliding puzzle) 
that required dexterity
moving pieces fastly secured,
which when complete 
always left me agog
and this, that or 
some other gewgaw, souvenir, trinket

(plus a bit of chump change given to me)
spurred mine late mum 
to spark me mental cog
to say “good morning”, “good afternoon”,
“goodnight”, “thank you,” 
or when eggnog proffered to this 
most senior chronological guest,
who sat at the head of table,
or blankly watching television 
like a bump on a log

while chided, forced, induced...
to parlay social graces 
from this mere pollywog,
who (much as delight arose fussing
with trappings worn 
loss on atrophied flesh),
a skittishness found me
averse to follow orders
as if I happened to be a petsmart dog.

At that time
Florida orange juiced industry
touted, popularized, and linked in 
with Anita Bryant -
American singer, political activist, 
known for anti-gay activism
and 1958 Miss Oklahoma 
beauty pageant winner, 
and a brand ambassador 
from 1969 to 1980 
for the Florida Citrus Commission.

Thee paternal grandfather
oft times visited our then rural abode
at that time one sturdy estate
(originally called Glen Elm) 
wildlife twittered, jibber-jibber, crowed...
within the plush wooded tract 
even then blueprints drawn up
land deeded, mapped, parceled,
and slated to explode;
our then eco-friendly family averse 
to witness expanding commercialization

across wetlands horizons
(Canadian Geese flocked to pond,
which liquid haven courtesy Donald Nelson
got the plug pulled 
and drained watery basin)
asthma late mum didst lament 
misfortune of flora and fauna, 
nevertheless chided me 
against even thinking 
about sabotaging property 

after I played  devil's advocate to goad
conspiratorial natural forces
to undermine cookie cutter 
look alike slap dashed, ticky tack
shoddy tinderboxes (vinyl city) growed
on formerly untamed, uber virgin woods,
perhaps early boondocks getaway hoed
and plowed, but indomitable 
(naturally enshrined eminent domain 
abandoned since pioneers

bushwhacked rustic habitations)
nature relished reversed 
grape seeded tracery etched
yet 'pon reflection, 
I ponder how early occupation knowed
no habitat foresaw wreckage
when decision via wealthy Leipers,
(original residents plus wealthy owners of 
The Bell and Clapper)
unanimously custom made crafted mansion
actually originally a summer getaway.

Self imposed endeavor 
to indulge drafting literary effort,
though methinks love's labor's lost 
hunt and peck typing  
across qwerty keyboard 
and captcha characteristics
unique to house of my boyhood,
whereby selecting alphanumeric 
and/or special symbols  
instantaneously generate electronic signals 
electronically communicating, 
subsequently transmitting 

byte size data packets description 
to respective ip node
(to create document courtesy OpenOffice)
analogous how modus operandi 
to build stately 
sturdy summer country villa,
(circa early 1900's)
which property whittled down 
to 324 Level Road demesne comprising 
about a half dozen acres
eventually acquired by Boyce Harris
February 28th 1968 - 

for x number of years mortgaged he towed,
a near singlehanded undertaking 
to gentrify house as elements of style
witnessed once ship shape 
wrought architectural structure
weathered, subjected to degradation, 
naturally deteriorated
him (in vain) to enlist by force if need be
grunt laborious services of singular son
the author of these words,
who houses the ineradicable genes 
and chromosomes of August Aaron.
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