FATHER
LETTERS AND LOVE
- Duane L. Herrmann
These letters are poems of love to the
fathers of my life: Lawrence Carl Herrmann, his father: Carl Nicholas Herrmann,
his father: Andrew (Andreas) Herrmann and his father: Andreas Herrmann, the
elder. Four previous generations of
Herrmann fathers have made decisions which have lead directly to the location
and circumstances of my life. To them I
am thankful.
The twenty-fifth anniversary of my father's
death, also the year I reach the age of my father, seems an appropriate time to
bring together some of the work I've done based on their lives and relationship
with mine. Since I am not the only son
deprived of a father at an early age (my two brothers were even younger)
perhaps others will find a common theme on these pages.
This collection is dedicated to my Herrmann
fathers: letters saying, "I love you."
INDEX
Family
Plowing 1
Destiny 2
Family
Man 3
Grandfather's
Road 4
Wagon
Tale 5
Making
Hay 6
Tired
Man 7
Sweet 16 8
Blue
Diamond Hair 9
Sailor
Salute 10
That Man
Smiling 11
One Last
Time 12
Early
Visits 13
Corner
Lot 14
Men in a
Row 15
Cemetery
Therapy 16
Older
Than Your Dad 17
Fingers
and Nails 18
The
Daddy Sound 19
Credits
and Notes
1
FAMILY MAN
Sitting
on the front porch
proud:
On a
homestead claim
in Amerika land,
A Man,
with a house, a wife and a son.
Behind
the family group,
a blanket made
With
skills from "the old country"
where a man could not
Make
himself anew
if need be.
Here was
success
"American Style,"
And
proud of it
in 1898!
2
OLDER THAN YOUR DAD
It is so
strange to become
older than your dad.
HE is
the big one,
the strong, smart one:
The
older one.
But no longer.
Some men
reach the day
when their father is younger
Than
they.
Forever younger than they.
My
father was a child,
I'll say
When I
reach that day.
Then, will I play?
3
CORNER LOT
My
father was buried in the corner of the cemetery
a quarter century ago
(in which time I have become a man).
His was
a quiet corner,
past the trees
near the edge of the bordering fields.
In this
corner his soul could roam
over the grass to the fields
like the ones where he lived his life.
As the
seasons changed, so did the fields,
and he was home with them all.
I loved our private corner.
Today I
went,
for the first time in months,
and found the cemetery changed.
Enlarged
on two sides
rough roads lace the old and new,
already graves are there.
My
father's place
is now an intersection
of new roads on the old boundary.
He is
penned in.
Where
does his soul go?
trapped by the roads and old head stones?
I don't know.
4
THE DADDY SOUND
I heard
the "Daddy Sound,"
the reassuring, comfort sound
he, and
only he, could make
to which I often fell asleep.
It was
an evening sound,
an after-bedtime sound,
which
sometimes I could hear,
and knew I was protected.
It was
his sound, and his alone;
rough, rhythmic, brushing.
It was a
magic part of childhood,
a special moment I could hear.
I grew
up, moved away and married,
began a family of my own,
and
forgot the comfort of
the "Daddy Sound."
Then one
ordinary day,
after relaxing shower,
I calmly
thoughtfully scratched myself
and heard a buried memory:
The
"Daddy Sound" from long ago.
Stunned in shock, I stood
and
realized what I'd heard
and treasured all those years.
That
special, magic sound, so comforting,
was mundane, simple - and somewhat crude.
My
father was simply, leisurely -
scratching his hairy behind.
5
TIRED MAN
Tired.
He was so tired,
always tired.
He
worked eighteen hour days
in summer,
fifteen in winter.
No one
ever said, "Thank you,"
or even knew
for what to be thankful.
He was
removed
before we were aware
of all we needed of him.
The
picture shows a different man,
a happy man:
one smiling.
I do not
remember
nor recognize -
his smile.
His last
day was in the field,
working still.
He worked himself to death.
The
tractor drove
across his body
crushing bone and tissue.
He was a
tired man;
at least now -
he can rest.
6
THAT MAN SMILING
Who is
that man
smiling in the picture?
He is
familiar -
but not smiling.
He might
be my father
but I don't remember...
I don't
remember
my father smiling.
Tired
was my father,
tired day and night.
He
farmed and carried
several jobs in town.
The work
was wearing
for
anyone, even
The
Strongest Man
in the World.
7
FAMILY PLOWING
I plow
the paper with a pen
engaged
as the family has been
in
cultivation: sowing and reaping.
I plow
the paper with a pen,
in a
solitary field -
it
always has been.
My
father was a farmer,
his
father, and his before him;
we are
plowmen in our rows.
I plow
the paper with a pen -
rows of
words across the space
in neat
and even lines.
Though
plowing is the family business,
my
"machineries" now differ
for a
different kind of crop.
But the
plowing is the same:
long
straight lines
across
unmarked fields.
8
WAGON TALE
Driving
down the rocky road
something soon "feels" different
then a
crashing in the bushes.
Backward glance saw horror:
Brand
newbuilt hay wagon,
shiny, clean and perfect,
just
finished days ago;
now awkward in the ditch.
Heart
with dread the boy confesses
the accident on reaching home.
The
father, solemn, listens
with simply nodding head.
He seems
to take loss well,
thought the son,
all
thumbs when working
farm tools and equipment.
At the
scene they start to clear
brush to free the wagon.
"This
has grown up some," says the Dad,
"since I last lost a wagon here."
Then
with a chuckle adds,
"...and with the bailer too!"
9
DESTINY
The
Father bid farewell
knowing he would never see
his namesake son again
And died
of a broken heart.
To save
him
he had to send him
to a foreign land
forever.
If not,
the new Kaiser's army
would take him
and destroy him.
Each
would never see the other again.
In the
foreign land,
far, far away,
the boy and family grew;
Thriving,
generations later,
because of the pain
and sacrifice
of one father and son.
Back at
home
the family died
due to one war or another.
I cannot
give sufficient thanks
to Andreas (the elder),
and Andreas, his son:
Urgrossvater Meine.
10 EARLY VISITS
As a
child I was taken to play
among the flowers and stones
with names.
It was a
family place.
As a
father I brought
my children there
to play and visit.
They met
people unknown:
my father,
all his grandparents,
his cousin,
an aunt and uncle too.
It was
pleasant to go and talk
about God,
our souls,
the flowers and stones,
and Granpa Lawrence: Yes.
My
children are happy
and remember.
11 CEMETERY THERAPY
I go
I scream
I rail
I cry
I say
all the words I couldn't
when you were alive.
Why did
it take so long to cry?
Why did
you die?
Why
can't I
say: good bye?
12 MEN IN A ROW
In the
picture long ago:
Grandpa
Great Grandpa
and Daddy holding
baby me.
My world
was full of men to love me:
one whispered words
of German in my ear,
one clapped his hands
to talk to me,
the last held me secure
and played.
As years
passed
the picture changed:
Great Grandpa died,
then Dad died,
and finally Granpa too.
All were
buried in the family place;
I go to visit still.
There is
room left
for one man more:
Great Grandpa's grave,
Grandpa's grave,
My father's grave,
and an empty grave
for me.
13 SAILOR SALUTE
Farewell
sailor for the night,
we saluted sharply.
I stood
proud on the edge of the porch
as we signaled eye to eye.
Salutes
would turn to hugs,
embrace, a desperate grip -
his big
hands would finally pry
little arms from round his neck.
Our
"Good Byes" linked our lives.
The boy
grew up and disagreed
but never said:
"I don't want to plow the field,
or work with the oil, the gas and the
grease."
Then
Silence.
Not one
"Good Bye"
just death.
Where's
my Sailor Dad?
14 GRANDFATHER'S ROAD
Invisible
to the traveler now,
two tracks through the grass,
but the
discerning eye
can see two fence rows on each side.
Across
the prairie and down
the hill it leads
over a
little cement bridge,
with iron rails;
One
missing.
Also missing is the house
and barn
and windmill.
Not even a line of stones.
His early
life,
his boyhood home,
has
returned to the prairie
from whence it came.
The
earth has reclaimed
it's own.
But the
road remains
to show the way
to the
past of my grandfather's life.
He walked this way to school.
15 SWEET
16 - HA!
My
father died
and
my world collapsed
When I
was 16.
some fun
16 BLUE DIAMOND HAIR
Beautiful
sunshine,
birds sing everywhere,
new
grass and flowers
are now all around.
Clouds
are fluffy,
light billowy air,
sparkling
water:
blue diamond hair.
Puppies
and kittens
fuzzy with fur -
new
little noses
are poking about.
South
wind wakens
from long winter's rest
gently
waves trees
with green mist hair.
{death
is all around us.}
17 ONE LAST TIME
I dreamt
of you again
(it's been a long, long time).
I hugged
you;
interrupted your work.
You
tolerated my need,
though I didn't really "need" it.
I just
indulged in desire,
and hugged you.
I hugged
you,
hugged your body,
felt
your bones
through your skin -
and
remembered
that was all was left...
You've
been dead for twenty years
and I am no longer
the
little boy in need
of your approval.
Rest in
Peace: my Father.
We are now as equals.
18 MAKING HAY
Mornings
when the dew had dried
Granpa mowed the field of hay
going round and round and round,
outside to center.
Early
after lunch the boy would rake
the now dry hay
once around for Granpa's twice,
outside to center.
Fluffed
up windrows snaked along
from sheets of new cut grass
raking opposite the cutting,
outside to center.
Once
done, the hay was raked again
merging two windrows to one,
drying all sides of the grass,
outside to center.
Father
ran the bailer, especially -
if the knotter had a temper,
following the windrow
outside to center
19 FINGERS AND NAILS
I have all
my fingers and nails
the first in three generations
to do so.
How odd,
I thought, as I look
at my hands and find
everything there:
Ten
complete fingers with ten finger nails.
Where will children look
to see weird?
My
father lost the tip of a finger
to a grain auger one day,
part grew back.
It was
marvelous to look at -
the strange awesome finger,
unreally real.
Granpa
too, lost part of one -
to gangrene from a thorn.
He would have died
If the
doctor had not stopped by,
then cut it off.
A stub nail remained.
My hands
are complete but for scars.
The cuts say, Uniqueness:
as real as the rest.
Credits:
Family Plowing in "Potpourri"
Grandfathers Road in Voices From a Borrowed
Garden
Sweet 16 and
Blue Diamond Hair in "The Passionate
Few"
That Man Smiling in "East & West
Literary Quarterly"
One Last Time and
Corner Lot in "Inscape, Washburn
University Arts Review"
Notes:
Family Plowing: The word "machineries" is a term
used by my grandfather to refer to all farm equipment too large to carry by
hand - any kind of machinery. If it
could be carried by hand it was a tool.
Sweet 16 and Blue Diamond Hair: Both were written the year after my father
died. I was a senior in high school.