Son Say Goodnight To Grandpa
“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.
Copyright ©
Matthew Harris
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