The Best of Slim Acres: May 2011

Sunday, May 29, 2011

FAMILIAR FACE

Editor's note: Since this is class reunion time, I thought this poem would be appropriate. I don't know about you, but the older I get, the more this happens to me)!

Your face is real familiar,
But I can't recall your name,
My mem'ry's kinda foggy,
But I know you, just the same!

In fact, it's right remarkable
That we should meet this way,
For I've been thinkin' 'bout you,
It was only yesterday.

I said to Lucy, "Honey,
it's a doggone dirty shame
I haven't kept in touch with
My old buddy, what's 'is name!"

It sure is nice to see you,
After all these years again;
Let's have a cup of coffee,
And tell me, how've you been?

Father Time has been real kind
To you, it's plain to see;
It seems you haven't changed a bit
From what you used to be!

I'd know you anywhere, because
You still look just the same;
Your face is sure familiar,
But I can't recall your name!

--Square Marbles (1978)

Sunday, May 22, 2011

AT SEVENTEEN

Editor's note: "My hat's off to graduating seniors," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "I can even forgive them for being a little bit cocky. History repeats."

Looking back from later life,
On my emerging phase,
I marvel now, how bright I was,
In my adolescent days.

When just a toad-head youngster,
Hardly dry behind the ears,
I felt I'd grown in wisdom,
Far beyond my tender years.

Before I'd finished high school,
I was sure I had it made;
There couldn't be much more to learn,
Beyond eleventh grade!

And, after graduation,
For at least a year or so,
There wasn't any question,
I knew all there was to know.

I haven't suffered memory loss,
To any great extent;
But yet, I wonder, now and then
Where all that wisdom went!

I'd be the shrewdest pundit
Anyone has ever seen,
If I were half as smart today
As I was at seventeen!

--Eighty After Eighty (1995)

Sunday, May 15, 2011

HAPPINESS

Editor's note: "Any way you look at it, happiness is a stopping place between having too little of something and having too much," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

Happiness has been defined
A thousand ways, I guess,
And just as many given how
To find it, more or less.

Happiness is how it is
When everything's okay;
Not how it was a week ago,
But how it is today.

It may be only fleeting,
Or it may go on and on;
It's often-times elusive --
Now you have it, now it's gone!

It's not a destination,
Or a goal that you can set;
The more you try to gather in,
The less you're apt to get.

It isn't something you can see
Inside a crystal ball;
It may be late in coming,
Or it may not come at all!

Happiness is better shared
With others, for it's known
That hardly ever anyone
Enjoys it all alone.

Sow little seeds of happiness,
And that is what you'll reap;
The more you try to spread around,
The more you get to keep!

Hominy Grits (1986)

Sunday, May 8, 2011

GUNG HO!

Editor's note: "Sometimes it seems our luck has run out and we might as well toss in the sponge," but that's not the way to win a ball game," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem.

What in the world can a poor man do
When his losses are many and his gains
Are few?
How can a fellow continue to hope,
When he's just about to the end of
His rope?

How can the poor guy carry his load
While pushing uphill on a rocky road,
Fighting ahead, to gain no more
Than what he already had before?

How can he hold his chin up high,
And keep a determined gleam in his eye,
While trying harder, only to find
He keeps on getting further behind?

It's easy to falter, and a great many
Will,
But a few press on to the top of the hill;
For this is the method that life employs
While separating the men from the boys!

Records of history demonstrate well
The proof of the story I'm trying to tell;
The ones who win all the marbles and stuff
Are those who hang on when the going is
Tough.

So, don't knuckle under, no matter what,
Give it the very best you have got;
Set your sights on a distant star, --
You're never licked till you think you
Are!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

Sunday, May 1, 2011

MONEY PROBLEMS

Editor's note: "Everyone knows the dollar has been shrinking at an alarming rate, so it's not surprising to see a new dollar coin resembling a quarter," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "Since it will buy about twenty-five cents worth of stuff, maybe its size is fitting. If it's going to act like a quarter, it might as well look like one."

Our economy's surely
A matter of great
Concern all over the nation;
Most folks are having
Trouble today
Keeping up with inflation.

My Lucy contends
We're falling behind,
No reason have I to dispute her;
So I took all my figures
Down to the bank,
And ran 'em thru their computer.

The monster came up
With an answer of sorts,
So quickly it ain't even funny:
We could pay fifty
Percent of our bills
With ninety percent of our money!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

Why Slim Acres?

Growing up on a small 50-acre farm in southwestern Ohio back in the 1950s, I learned the value of honesty and a strong work ethic from my parents. Of course, I didn't appreciate it much back then -- what teenager wants to clean a room, mow an acre or so of front yard or paint the boards in the rail fence my father built (even if he did agree to pay me and my best friend Marcia 5 cents a board to do it)? All I knew was that my mother spent most of her time cleaning the house, tending to her beautiful flower gardens and conjuring up home improvement projects for my dad to complete when he wasn't doing something else.

The "something else" included a full-time day job as a tool-and-die engineer (later on as the manager of an entire plant). Until he retired, he had several different jobs, a couple of which required an hour's drive one way. He and my mother operated an evergreen nursery at our farm, so that meant they spent endless hours planting and cultivating. In between all that (and doing my mom's remodeling projects), dad managed to earn a law degree from a correspondence school and -- most important for the purposes of this blog -- transform himself into a sort of country bumpkin poet known as Slim Acres and later billed himself as "The Buckeye Poet." His real name, for the record, was Harold Asa Pickett.

"Slim Acres had a distinct personality," dad wrote in the introduction to Down Country Roads, his first book of poems. "He was a sort of combination of two genuine gentle bumpkins that I have known. One was an uncle of mine, born and raised in Tennessee, who could not write his name until after he married. The other one was a neighbor, also with a scanty formal education, but with a lot of common sense and wit. Both were as honest as peanut butter. Slim Acres embodied a few traits of each, and perhaps a little bit of me."

And his name? "I can't really say where his name came from, but it sounded fitting," dad wrote.

Slim Acres was "born" as a series of snippets titled "Slim Acres Says" submitted anonymously to the Times Gazette, the local newspaper in Union City, Indiana, such as:

The Golden Rule
Is easy fergot
If we'uns can git
What you'uns have got.

Those little ditties grew into years of being a popular humorous speaker at events ranging from club meetings to graduations throughout Ohio, Indiana and Michigan. But back in the mid-1930s, Slim's writing career got a boost Reader's Digest magazine published this poem:

Roses are red,
Violets are blue;
But they don't get around
Like the dandelions do.

In 1978, in his book Square Marbles, he revised this one just a bit:

Rose's are red,
Violet's are blue;
Jeanie's are pink,
With lace on 'em, too!

As he wrote and collected his poems, he published and sold them far and wide, starting with the flagship Down Country Roads. He drew heavily on his Quaker upbringing, his family, and of course, my mother -- the "Lucy" in his poems. Writing in Down Country Roads, he noted that there "is still something about rural life that is considerably different. It's hard to define, but it is there. It's a certain something that makes country people just a little bit friendlier, a little bit steadier, a little bit happier. Maybe it's the clean, fresh air; maybe it's the lack of confinement; perhaps the cooing of doves on a dewy morning, or the clear, starry skies on a winter evening: Perhaps a thousand other factors all put together."

He kept on writing: Shortly after his 80th birthday, he published what would be his final book, simply titled Eighty After Eighty. My mother passed away in 2000, and after something like 60 years of marriage, dad simply didn't want to live in a house by himself. So, he moved to the Brethren's Retirement Community in Greenville, Ohio. There, he continued to write poems -- even winning a state award for one of them -- right up until a week or so before his death on June 24, 2009, at the age of 96. Now, one of his sisters, my Aunt Olive, is continuing his tradition of having a poem in each issue of the home's newsletter, "Fanfare," by choosing one or two from his books to be published posthumously.

Lest I forget, there's one interesting note about that Reader's Digest poem: When it was accepted for publication, dad had a choice of a small cash payment or a "lifetime" subscription to the magazine. He chose the latter -- and it's pretty clear that the more than 60 years of magazines he received for free put him ahead of the game by far.

And so it is that I, too, wanted to keep the memory of his poetry alive. Lots of folks know him, be it by "Hap," "Harold" or "Slim." I've never heard anyone speak an unkind word about him, and I can count on the fingers of one hand (with a few fingers left over) the times he ever uttered a negative word about another human being. At his heart, he remained a simple, honest man for all of his 96 years -- a man I'm proud to have called my "Pop."

Hopefully, others will get to know him through this blog. My intent is to start with a couple of my favorite poems, adding a new one each week for, well, who knows how long? One thing is certain: I've got plenty of material. If you like what you read, please drop me a line!

Also, since I've been asked about whether copies of Dad's books are available, the gift shop at the Brethren's Retirement Community in Greenville has a stash of the Eighty After Eighty paperback that we donated after he passed away. I believe the book is selling there for $5, and the profits are put to good use helping residents in financial need. I also have a number of copies here at home -- I'll pack one up and mail it to anyone who's interested for $10 including postage. This is the only book for which multiple copies exist as far as we know.

--Ramonda Pickett Ryan (more commonly known as Monnie)

The Best of Slim Acres