Words of My Father

In June 2000, a few months before moving to California, I inititated a correspondence with my father, who was living downstairs in the family home we bought together in Denver, April 1998. My wife and I (and eventually my first son) were to spend about three years in California, before returning (but briefly) in April 2003 to our house in Denver. In August, we departed for a 10-month stint in the Czech Republic, where I would pass time as a Fulbright scholar, researching and writing my dissertation. I found this correspondence in the form of email files on my dad’s hard drive. I seem to remember there may have been more on paper, that we passed back and forth under doors, while each other slept. (He kept odd and irregular hours, often rising before dawn, and sleeping partway through the day). The last few show his relentless struggle with words, his endless editing and revising.

—–Original Message—–
From: Jonathan G. Secora Pearl

Sent: Sunday, June 04, 2000 11:49 PM
To: Norman Pearl
Subject: Beginning of a dialogue in verse (I hope)

June 4, 2000

Beginning of a dialogue

You say there’s much of you in me.
I wonder then what’s left to be.

Am I to you a life anew,
and you to me a life to be?
Are even you your father too?
And life itself repeated through
this peregrine loop,
a hoop through which our who
is you and me and all the troop,
seeing our reflection true,
though never new?

And if myself you know
as if my now were yet your past,
how yet does there remain to grow,
or seek or see or be at last?
Do you indeed my future show,
my yet-to-be already past?
Or is there still a me to crow
about, a sail to hang on my own mast?

But then perhaps I must agree
that even in my novelty
perhaps some residue of you
remains; that even as I strew
my seeds, to show
the life that stems from me,
the seeds I sow, as well you know,
being some me,
come from some you.
And so I see, as seeds I sow,
the parent plant I too renew.

Jonathan Geoffrey Secora Pearl
Denver, Colorado, USA
——– Original Message ——–

First response to my son

As words in the same tongue
share the same sounds,
as oriental carpets
share similar strands,
our lives and those to be
are intertwined.

What was is not quite at end;
what is still may be;
what shall be is in your hands;
what is yet to be
only they comprehend,
whose futures on coupling depend.

Norman Pearl
Denver, Colorado
June 6, 2000

-----Original Message-----
From: Jonathan G. Secora Pearl
Sent: Tuesday, June 06, 2000 7:52 PM
To: Norman Pearl
Subject: Round II

June 6, 2000

And so, on couples life depends,
I can not argue that;
Yet I recall from in my youth
what often you had taught:
that many kinds of lineage
descend, and flesh is only one.

I learned, from you,
to listen well
to voices long since gone;
and carry on the dialogue,
for others to attend.

A dialogue of sorts it was,
though of the strangest sort,
for voices gone come not again,
and voices new are yet to be,
and only now my voice extends
to a future voice beyond.

Jonathan Geoffrey Secora Pearl
Denver, Colorado, USA

-------- Original Message --------

To Jonathan, response II

I celebrate those few whose gifts humanity thrives upon,
the Mozart who, it’s said, heard whole symphonies in his head
gives those who care to hear his works great joy or sadness.
Plato speaks now as he spoke long after the Atlantis of which he wrote,
long before many of the tongues he now speaks in were born.
Einstein puzzled out a universe of which he knew so little,
Michelangelo freed the figures trapped within the marble he worked.
Only a handful each century is needed to propel the human race
upon its forward course, and yet the miracle of Mozart’s music
would be mute were it not for those of lesser gifts
who share the common bond of humanity with the genius.
Plato’s works would not reach us weree it not for those
who crafted his words into the tongues now we comprehend and those
whose skills provided the printed pages on which they reside.
So with Einstein, Michelangelo, Augustine who shared with us
the inner workings of his mind, Paracelcus who inspired modern medicine.
If your gifts should soar with theirs, then return the favor they paid you
by providing your gift to those who come. Yet, also remember those
whose great skills provided you with the opportunity to communicate
with those great contributors and celebrate the heritage we share
beyond the coupling that carries that potential forward to those not yet
born.

(p.s. You could make this a little easier, Jonathan. Have pity on an old
man who needs his sleep.)

——– Original Message ——–

Hello Jonathan,

I'm sure I'll be able to improve on this, but it's now 1:22 and I won't
get to sleep until I move these thoughts from my notebook to this reply
to you, so here it is.

"Such a sad face, my son,"  he said,
looking at the pouting face of the
eight-year old son visiting him
for the summer.  "I'm lonely, daddy,
all my friends are back in Baltimore."
He started to tell his son of all
the wonders New York held, the museums,
Central Park, Coney Island, but before his voice
could form a phrase, his mind had taken him
back to the terrible year
his eighth had been, how he
had struggled with a loneliness
far deeper than that his son was feeling now.
Nine months confined to home with only
his skinny, sickly sister
whom he was scarcely allowed to see
for fear of infecting her with the disease
that had turned his skin sallow
and made the whites of his eyes yellow,
with only his fragile, crippled mother,
afflicted monthly with fearsome pain,
his father, full of bluster and tempest
and the Harvard Classics heaped up
in the corner of his room, where his father
had dumped them after rescuing them from a home
he was working in with a brusque "Here,
occupy yourself with these."  And so he had,
over those nine months, reading every one,
his fingers dirtying every page in his
two-volume dictionary, for no one in the house
could answer the questions he had.
Plato, Aristotle, Cato and Pliny,
Pare and Paracelsus, Marlowe and Shakespeare,
the Curies, St. Augustine, Buddha and Lao Tze,
on and on, day after day, week after week,
Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson,
Thoreau and Voltaire, Moliere,
Ibsen, Doesoyevsky, and the rest
had carried him through those days
in their one-sided conversations
with the boy, and so
he took his son by the hand
and led him to his bookshelves.
"Let these be your friends, my son,
they'll never disappoint you
and you'll never be lonely again."

I hope that rings truer than the previous attempt, although it still needs
work.

Oh yes, and I thought you might enjoy this tid-bit, written many years ago,
when you were only a thought.

(god)

daddy
	yes michael
i know who god is daddy
he's my friend

god is my friend kevie
you better be good or he'll make you dead
	don't cry kevin
	mikie was only teasing

snuggle with me daddy
i'm afraid of the dark
	what about god mikie
	he's your friend isn't he

god can't snuggle with me daddy
he had to go home

(revised 5/27/00)

——– Original Message ——–

I think this is a slight improvement over my earlier note to you tonight.

(response to round II)

such a sad face my son he said
looking at the tearful face
of the eight-year-old son
visiting him for the summer
i’m lonely daddy
all my friends are in baltimore
he started to tell his son
of all the wonders new york held
the museums central park
coney island but before his voice
could form a phrase his mind
had taken him back to that
terrible year his eighth had been
how he had struggled for
nine months confined to home
with only his skinny sickly sister
whom he was scarce allowed to see
for fear of infecting her
with the disease that had
turned his skin sallow
and the whites of his eyes yellow
with only his fragile mother afflicted
monthly with fearsome pain
his father full of bluster and tempest
and the harvard classics heaped up
in the corner of his room where
his father had deposited them with a
brusque here occupy yourself with these
and so had had over those nine months
reading every one
plato aristotle cato and pliny
pare and paracelsus marlowe and shakespeare
the curies st. augustine buddha and lao tze
emily dickinson walt whitman thoreau
voltaire moliere ibsen doestoyevsky and the rest
had carried him through those days
and so he led his son to his bookshelves
let these be your friends my son
they’ll never disappoint you
and you’ll never be lonely again

(revised 6/10/00 2:17 a.m.)

——– Original Message ——–

Hello son,

Here is the latest revision of my response to your second poem, with a new ending

such a sad face my son, he said
looking at the tearful visage
of the eight-year-old
visiting him for the summer
i’m lonely daddy
all my friends are in baltimore
he started to tell his son
of the wonders new york held
the museums, central park
coney island and the aquarium
but before his voice could form a phrase
his mind had taken him back to that
pivotal year his eighth had been
how he had struggled for nine
months confined to home
with only his skinny sickly sister
whom he was scarcely allowed to see
for fear of infecting her
with the disease that had
turned his skin sallow
and the whites of his eyes yellow
with only his fragile mother afflicted
monthly with fearsome pain
his father full of bluster and tempest
and the heavy books heaped
up on the corner of his room where
his father had deposited them with a
brusque here occupy yourself with these
and so he had over those long months
reading every one
plato aristotle cate and pliny
pare paracelsus and the curies
marlowe shakespear and donne
buddha st. augustine maimonides and lao tze
emily dickinson walt whitman thoreau
voltaire moliere ibsen doestoyevsky
and the rest had carried him
through those days
and so he led his son
to the books upon his shelves
let these be your friends my son
they’ll never disappoint you
and you’ll never be lonely again
and perhaps someday
you may become a friend
to others yet to be

(revised 06/14/00)

——– Original Message ——–

(legacy)

such a sad face my son, he said
looking at the tearful visage
of the eight-year-old
visiting him for the summer
i’m lonely daddy
all my friends are in baltimore
and even they don’t think
the way i do
he had been about to tell the boy
of all the wonders new york held
the museums central park
coney island and the aquarium
but before his voice could form a phrase
the youngster’s meaning gripped his mind
and took him back to that pivotal year
his eighth had been
he thought of how he had struggled
for nine months confined to home
with only his skinny, sickly sister
whom he was scarce allowed to see
for fear of inflicting her
with the disease that had
turned his skin sallow and
the whites of his eyes yellow
confined to home with his fragile
polio-twisted mother devastated
monthly with fearsome pain
with his father full of bluster and tempest
and the heavy books heaped
up in the corner of his room where
his father had deposited them with a
brusque here occupy yourself with these
and so he had over those many months
reading every one plato aristotle cate and pliny
pare paracelsus the curies marlowe shakespeare
donne keats and shelly buddha st. augustine
maimonides and lao tze poe yeats emily
dickinson whitman melville thoreau and poe
voltaire moliere ibsen tolstoy doestoyevsky
and the rest had carried him through those days
and so he led his son to the books
upon his shelves let these be you friends
your guides and your peers for they
have written these books with you in mind
have entrusted their thoughts to you
in hopes that you will help shape
the souls of future hearts
the boy squeezed his father’s hand

(revised Father’s day, 2000)