No Poet Laureate
I once considered myself a poet. Youth made me think so. These were magical years of transformation from adolescence to adulthood; a time when passion was as prevalent as Boone’s Farm wine, bell bottom britches, and Beatles. I was determined to remember it all and be a recorder of events.
I did a lot of writing.
In fact, I started writing a book in the eighth grade to tell the story of my appendectomy. It was a landmark event in my life. I wrote several pages, almost four chapters. I remember struggling to find the right words to describe the awful indignation of my Sunday school teacher, who worked as a nurse at Lisenby Hospital, “indecently” preparing me for surgery. For an extremely modest teenager, it seemed a horror, a pain worse than appendicitis. It became less significant when the bandages came off and the incision healed. The whole affair formulated my belief that death is preferable to a backless hospital gown.
I took a creative writing class in the tenth grade at Rutherford High School. We studied Haiku. I liked this form of Japanese poetry because it didn’t require a lot of words. The idea was to write as tightly as possible (with 5-7-5 syllables) while conveying emotion in three short sentences. I wrote about the essence of my passion.
“Long hair from his head
Society turned him down
Living his own way”
So profound was my Haiku, that it was published in the high school newspaper. Never mind that I was the associate editor of the Rampage and used my influence to post it on page one. Power corrupts!
Long hair to my generation was the equivalent of modern day lip rings. We were just kids looking for a way to stand out. Growing up in Millville, in the shadow of the stink from the paper mill, I stood out.
It wasn’t always easy having long hair. As a young adult, it became more and more bothersome. Styling salons were non existent and there was ridicule and humiliation in the Millville barber shops. Some of us braved infrequent trips to the beauty shop. It was a hefty price for being cool.
You couldn’t find a blow dryer at Wal-Mart. In fact, you couldn’t find a Wal-Mart. The longer my hair grew, the more it curled. So, I engaged in an epic battle to rid my hair of curls. I would dry my hair outside under the dryer vent. The neighbors thought I was crazy. I never had dandruff but I was known to have a little lint.
At age 18, the law allowed us to drink. It was a new law built on the logic that if you’re old enough to fight and die in Vietnam, you are old enough to drink. A few years later the law changed back to 21 when young men stopped dying in Vietnam and started dying on the highway.
My long hair was a frequent visitor to the bars and clubs. All of this came to an abrupt end one night while on a date at the Bonfire Lounge in Parker. Thinking I was a woman, a drunken airman approached me from behind and politely asked me to dance. I will never forget the look on his face when I turned around and looked him in the eye. I kept my composure and in the deepest voice possible replied, “Do you mind waiting for a slow song?"
I cut my hair the next day. Poetic justice, I suppose.
My long hair now short.
Cut quick as a last resort.
Such a sad report.
The longing to capture the essence of my feelings and to put it on paper never escaped me. I was beginning a quest to find out who I was; high school clearly behind me and my future clearly ahead.
A developing struggle to define myself intermingled with a strong Christian up-bringing and weighed heavy on my soul. Who am I? What am I doing here?
I wrote an entire book of poems then gave it as a gift to Sherry Mauldin, my very best friend. I have tried to no avail for more than 35 years to see that book again. She won’t let me. I suspect she is only trying to keep me from disturbing skeletons. Maybe she threw it away to save me from embarrassment. Either way, I am sure she did the right thing.
I listened to music of the great poets. Gilbert O’Sullivan was among the very best. The Irish born songwriter was writing deep, emotional songs. His hit song “Alone Again Naturally,” became my mantra. It was as if it had been written just for me.
“..To think that only yesterday,
I was cheerful, bright and gay.
Looking forward to, and who wouldn’t do,
The role I was about to play.
But as if to knock me down,
Reality came around,
And without so much as a mere touch,
Cut me into little pieces.
Leaving me to doubt, all about God and His mercy,
Oh, if He really does exist,
Why did He desert me?
And in my hour of need,
I truly am, indeed,
Alone again, naturally..”
Truthfully, as a self-absorbed young adult, my troubles seemed larger than they really were. Even so, there are some things I had just as soon forget.
There is some poetry in those tales of woe but you will not find it here.
It would be like pulling my finger from the dyke and all of the mess would spill onto the page; mercy to the reader if that ever happens. Besides, my friends will be the first to say that I never let a little heart ache get in the way of a good time.
I call these my “dark years” and regret very much the time I wasted but what do kids know?
‘Time can slip away.
Like the check with which I’m paid.
Now, I wish I’d saved.”
Years have a way of turning idealism into realism and temper the most ardent dreamer.
I never became a poet though I have met one. I never became an author but have interviewed one, and I am not a playwright but I have written about one.
I am a reporter.
My work never rhymes and it doesn’t deliver potent morals or suspenseful plots and never has powerful, insightful revelations. It simply reflects a mirror image of our times, presents the human drama, and delivers information that might help make someone’s life a little easier.
Perhaps in its entirety it is a poem called life.
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About Me
The life of any News Director is stressful most days... so, when the weekend rolls around I find myself on the back roads of our bountiful and beautiful part of the state looking for bluegrass music, interesting things to do, and, of course, fried chicken. I will try to share some of these "finds" with you. There are a thousand stories left to be told or simply remembered. Don't expect to find them all here; maybe just a little stroll down memory lane or maybe a little skewed insight into topical issues.
Larche Hardy,
News Director
Recent Entries:
- Marty Raybon and Georgia Bluegrass
- Curse of the Acoustic Guitar
- A Millville Hero
- Bluegrass at BAMA JAM a hit!
- Bird watching not a bore
- No Poet Laureate
- Let the Bluegrass begin
- Hurry Spring
- Alabama’s Highway 52
- Cell Phone Interuptus
- Bellying up to the bar
- Resolutions are Doomed to Failure
- Bah-dad-gum-Humbug
- A hunting we will go!
- Hot Stuff!
Other News13 Blogs:
- The Casual Historian - Larche Hardy
- Behind The Scenes - Heather Kretzer
- The Resident Gator - Megan Albright
- The Newby - Jessi Chapin
- Bloggin' From The Beach - Bree Sison
- Gainesville, Georgia's All American Girl - Tuquyen Mach
- ... and yes, my hair is naturally curly - Jessica Foster
- Derby Girl - Enocha Van Lierop
- Cracker Cat - Jeannie Weller
