A Deep River Year
May 28, 2014
One cold January day, young Frans Petterson swerved to avoid a group of children walking in the road. He drove into a tree, destroying his brand new Nash sedan. He was thrown out of the car and suffered mi...nor injuries, but none of those children were injured. Presumably they grew up to lead productive lives in this little town, as did Frans. He and his wife Elsie lived in a white house set back from Village Street with a huge holly bush by the front steps. He would serve as Town Treasurer and sing in the Congregational Church choir, and Elsie would dote over their one and only son Leonard, her pride and joy. They would watch as Leonard graduated from the University of Maine and then fall in love and eventually marry his bride Catherine on a beautiful June day. Then he was off to war, serving with the Marines in the Pacific. Months later, on his way to Okinawa he was promoted to First Lieutenant, but on June 6, 1945, during the invasion of that little island, he was killed by a sniper's bullet, just days shy of his wedding anniversary.
The Purple Heart awarded to him could not completely console his grieving parents. After Frans died, I would occasionally visit Elsie and see Leonard's framed picture on the bureau. Elsie carried a sadness through her life and seemed burdened by loneliness and fearful about the unpredictability of an otherwise lovely world. Always she would invite me to come and cut branches of holly to decorate the church at Christmas, and I couldn't help but think of the poignant words of the old English carol, "The holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas Day in the morn."
I think of Leonard Petterson every Memorial Day, when the citizens of our town gather for a parade down Main St., ending at the town green. Again this Monday they were there: the fife and drum corps, the scouts, the fire department, a host of veterans wearing remnants of their old uniforms. I waved at my granddaughter with her green saxophone in the elementary school band just behind the oldest of the old soldiers seated on a bench. I watched them salute as a squad of sailors fired a volley in memory of Deep River's sons who had died in battle. A white rose was laid near our "Liberty monument" for each of those remembered dead, including Leonard Petterson. Later I would hug my granddaughter, tell her how wonderful the band sounded, and then she would head home to her house on Village Street, the one where once a great holly bush stood guard by the front door, with prickles sharp as any thorn.
Memorial Day
We stand
in a morning full of bird songs
and a wind ruffling the treetops
as a bugle cries
as if night, not morning, had come.
And so we must cry, all of us,
for those whose day has ended:
the old mother,
her son's picture pressed against her chest,
the child whose father's voice fades to a whisper,
the boyhood friend who wonders
why it was not he who walked
that valley of the shadow of death.
Today the names are called,
and a few still remember
the jaunty turn of the head,
the stolen kiss in the woods behind the cemetery,
the summer night of naked joy by the river
as fireflies rose into the sky
like a dream.
So we keep them in our hearts,
those dreams our world has lost
In heroes’ gallantry--
flesh of our flesh,
bright minds and tender lovers,
with us now only in the wind
ruffling the tall trees
this sweet morning.
--Timothy Haut, May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014
One cold January day, young Frans Petterson swerved to avoid a group of children walking in the road. He drove into a tree, destroying his brand new Nash sedan. He was thrown out of the car and suffered mi...nor injuries, but none of those children were injured. Presumably they grew up to lead productive lives in this little town, as did Frans. He and his wife Elsie lived in a white house set back from Village Street with a huge holly bush by the front steps. He would serve as Town Treasurer and sing in the Congregational Church choir, and Elsie would dote over their one and only son Leonard, her pride and joy. They would watch as Leonard graduated from the University of Maine and then fall in love and eventually marry his bride Catherine on a beautiful June day. Then he was off to war, serving with the Marines in the Pacific. Months later, on his way to Okinawa he was promoted to First Lieutenant, but on June 6, 1945, during the invasion of that little island, he was killed by a sniper's bullet, just days shy of his wedding anniversary.
The Purple Heart awarded to him could not completely console his grieving parents. After Frans died, I would occasionally visit Elsie and see Leonard's framed picture on the bureau. Elsie carried a sadness through her life and seemed burdened by loneliness and fearful about the unpredictability of an otherwise lovely world. Always she would invite me to come and cut branches of holly to decorate the church at Christmas, and I couldn't help but think of the poignant words of the old English carol, "The holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn; And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas Day in the morn."
I think of Leonard Petterson every Memorial Day, when the citizens of our town gather for a parade down Main St., ending at the town green. Again this Monday they were there: the fife and drum corps, the scouts, the fire department, a host of veterans wearing remnants of their old uniforms. I waved at my granddaughter with her green saxophone in the elementary school band just behind the oldest of the old soldiers seated on a bench. I watched them salute as a squad of sailors fired a volley in memory of Deep River's sons who had died in battle. A white rose was laid near our "Liberty monument" for each of those remembered dead, including Leonard Petterson. Later I would hug my granddaughter, tell her how wonderful the band sounded, and then she would head home to her house on Village Street, the one where once a great holly bush stood guard by the front door, with prickles sharp as any thorn.
Memorial Day
We stand
in a morning full of bird songs
and a wind ruffling the treetops
as a bugle cries
as if night, not morning, had come.
And so we must cry, all of us,
for those whose day has ended:
the old mother,
her son's picture pressed against her chest,
the child whose father's voice fades to a whisper,
the boyhood friend who wonders
why it was not he who walked
that valley of the shadow of death.
Today the names are called,
and a few still remember
the jaunty turn of the head,
the stolen kiss in the woods behind the cemetery,
the summer night of naked joy by the river
as fireflies rose into the sky
like a dream.
So we keep them in our hearts,
those dreams our world has lost
In heroes’ gallantry--
flesh of our flesh,
bright minds and tender lovers,
with us now only in the wind
ruffling the tall trees
this sweet morning.
--Timothy Haut, May 28, 2014
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