The Best of Slim Acres: April 2012

Sunday, April 29, 2012

THE SKEPTIC

Editor's note: "My father trusted everybody," Dad wrote as the introduction to this poem. "That's why we didn't have a pot to boil potatoes in, as the saying goes."

I don't suppose there's anyone
More skeptical than me.
I don't believe a word I hear,
And half of what I see.

I'd like to have the feeling
I could trust my fellow man,
But history's proven different
Ever since the world began.

I realize that maybe
I'm a skeptic to a fault,
But most of what I read or hear,
I take with a grain of salt.

It's not that I think everyone
Can look you in the eye,
With his right hand on the Bible,
And tell a bare-faced lie;

But, from my past experience,
I'd say that quite a few
Would likely do that very thing,
And cheat a little, too.

So, though I try the best I can
To treat all men as brothers,
My motto is, "In God I trust,
But be wary with all others!"
Hominy Grits (1986)

Sunday, April 22, 2012

THE HANDY MAN

Editor's note: Anyone who knew Dad (Slim) back in the day knew how much he loved to build things -- and Mom (Lucy) always had some kind of fix-up project for him to work on. Apparently, Dad got the construction gene from his father. But although I was allowed to help with some tasks like digging fencepost holes and hammering a few nails, that's where the whole thing stopped.

My Dad was very able
And mechanically inclined,
About as good a handy-man
As you could ever find;

And thanks to all the little tricks
He taught me, as a lad,
I really think I'm just about
As handy as my Dad.

If it's busted, I can fix it!
That is, if anybody can,
So I've earned a reputation
As a first-class handy-man!

When I gave up the single state,
My newly-wedded spouse
Was very thrilled that I could fix
Little things around the house.

I started in on what-nots,
In our early married life,
But soon went on to bigger things
Suggested by my wife!

Before I knew what happened,
She had me on the run,
She could think up projects faster
Than I could get 'em done!

I bought the house we live in,
A ranch type bungalow,
Then added on a carport,
And a screened-in patio;

And when I got it painted,
I thought I had it done;
I found I was mistaken --
I'd only just begun!

I made our kitchen cupboards,
The bookshelves on the wall,
The fireplace in the fam'ly room,
The closets in the hall;

Then I built another bathroom,
Not because we needed two--
We had to have the second one
Because the neighbors do!

Little jobs, and big jobs,
So many I recall,
It makes a fellow wonder
How he ever did 'em all!

But at last we reached the summit,
When anyone could see
We had it all completed
To the very Nth degree.

Then I longed for rest and comfort
But that wasn't what I found;
Lucy got it in her head
To change some things around!

Things, not so very long ago,
We just couldn't do without,
Have now become so obsolete
We have to tear 'em out.

I won't attempt to tell you
All the work I have in store;
And anyhow, before I'm done,
She'll dream up plenty more!

But Lucy has assured me
That she will let me be
Whenever I finish up this list
That she's made out for me.

And then, if the Lord is willing,
And lets me stay alive,
I can start to take it easy,
At the age of ninety-five!

Oh, she appreciates it all,
And that is fine and dandy,
But y'know, sometimes I sorta wish
I wasn't quite so handy!

Friday, April 13, 2012

FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH

Editor's note: New poems to this blog always come on Sundays, but since today is Friday the 13th, I figured it would be bad luck not to post it on the "right" day!

If you have superstitions,
As many people do,
I don't share your affliction,
But I sympathize with you.

Bad luck will come on Friday
No more often, let me say,
Even on the thirteenth,
Than any other day.

Black cat cross my path?
There may be truth in that;
It might turn out unlucky,
But only for the cat!

Some taboos are founded
On good solid thinking, hence
Not walking under ladders
Shows a bit of common sense.

I never see an omen
When I drop a fork or knife,
And spilling half a ton of salt
Would not mess up my life.

The reason I'm not troubled
By superstitious fears
Is the rabbit foot I've carried
For more than fifty years.

--Acres of Verse (1994)

Sunday, April 8, 2012

WINTER WONDERLAND

Editor's note: It's Easter Sunday, but last night I heard the TV weather guru mention the "s" word. Yes, it's possible we'll see more of the white stuff before Spring really settles in. I sure can identify with Dad's point of view in this poem!

There's nothing so crisp as a winter scene,
Created by new-fallen snow,
Nothing so bright as a big full moon
That shines on the picture below.

There's nothing so brisk as a winter stroll
Down a snow-covered village street,
Nothing so sharp as the crackling sound
And the crunching under your feet,

Or a tramp through the woods on a frigid day,
'Mid the stark and frost-laden trees,
Where the branches droop in their hoary garb,
And creak in the bone-chilling breeze.

Icicles garnish the orchard fence,
And gleam in the morning rays,
Nothing is more impressive to see
Than the sparkle of winter days.

Nobody knows just how many snows
The rest of the season will bring,
And no one's so sick of this weather as me--
How I long for the coming of spring!

--Autumn Acres (1982)

Sunday, April 1, 2012

LIVING AND LEARNING

From dust we have our beginning,
To dust we all shall return;
But in between there's a moment
When all of us live and learn.

All do not remain equal,
For we learn at a different rate;
Some will turn it to profit,
For others, it comes too late.

Experience teaches us all,
But slowly, and it appears
There's no other way to get it,
But through the passing of years.

It doesn't indicate wisdom
Because there's gray in your hair,
But everybody learns something
While Nature is putting it there.

I worked out many a problem
By stumbling through somehow,
When it would have been so easy,
Knowing what I know now.

No question at all about it,
A good many years ago,
I flubbed a legion of ventures
Because I just didn't know.

I'm sure I could have done better
In a hundred different ways,
If I'd been a little bit older
Back in my younger days!

--Acres of Verse (1994)

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