John passed away in Dec 2001, just a couple months after our last visit and not long after I wrote the following poem.
Dean Neighbors....12/31/2001 Pleasanton, CA
He Couldn't Say
John was born a farmer’s son
and learned to work the lands,
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.
He learned to tell a story well,
and all the family knows
of model A’s, depression days,
and silent picture shows...
of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball,
of dough-boys who went “over there”
and lived to “bless ‘em all”...
of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules…
he still remembered how.
The oldest of eleven then...
what could the schoolboy do
but read his books behind a plow
and pray his rows were true.
John married young as some men do
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong
with quiet dignity.
They moved to Colorado
to find a better day.
He learned to raise another crop,
to live another way.
Then out to California
a blue pacific dawn,
the war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.
John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another forty years,
though half his heart had died.
He didn’t share his hopes for life,
I didn't know his dreams.
I didn’t know I didn’t know
until today it seems.
But I know faith and honesty,
he carried them inside
with dignity, humility
and unrelenting pride.
And I know well integrity,
he lived it every day…
and in the end I came to know
the love he couldn’t say.
~Dean Neighbors~2001
My father's death and my grandson Bailey's birth were so close together, they must have passed each other at the door to heaven...one coming back home, one departing on his journey of life. The following poem grew as an extension of that thought and I folded in parts of the earlier poem.
The Ballad of John … and Bailey
John was born a farmer's son
and learned to work the lands
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.
He learned to tell a story well
and those who listened know
of model T's, depression days
and silent picture shows ...
of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball ...
of thunderstorms and blackjack trees
and harvests in the fall ...
of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules,
he still remembered how.
The oldest of eleven then
what could the schoolboy do
but read his books behind a plow
and trust the rows were true.
John married young, as some men do,
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong,
with quiet dignity.
They moved to Colorado for,
he hoped, a better day,
to make a life without a crop,
to live another way...
then out to California
a blue Pacific dawn,
the war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.
They picked some grapes and pulled a sack
of cotton down a row,
they chased some water, pulled a plow
and danced with mister hoe.
They moved a thousand sprinkler lines
then moved them all again,
they moved the mighty cotton plant from
row, to sack, to gin.
John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another forty years
though half his heart had died.
And other loves and other crops
and other rows to hoe,
and other losses and other moves
and other pain to know.
Alone at last, yet not alone,
Louisiana bound.
In southern hospitality
a final home he found.
A restful town, a peaceful life,
a garden there to tend,
with books to read and tales to tell,
a better way to end.
With honor and integrity,
with unrelenting pride,
with dignity John lived his life...
with dignity he died.
... and Bailey
Two Neighbors boys at Heaven's door
paused there to share a grin ...
then one stepped out to start a life
and one came home again.
~ Dean Neighbors ~
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