Merry Christmas, Pogo Style

I'm on a children's lit listserv and someone recently posted "Deck us all with Boston Charlie/Walla Walla Wash.  and Kalamazoo..."  as a nondenominational holiday greeting to the group.  I did a Huh? doubletake because I grew up with Jim singing the lyrics throughout the month of December, but I didn't realize he was quoting Pogo.

It shouldn't have been a surprise.  This past year I've made many mental notes of things I enjoy that are virtual presents from my parents.  Even though I won't find a package under the tree from them this Christmas, these gentle reminders of Norma and Jim are gifts.  As I giggle over a Calvin and Hobbes comic I receive daily in my email, I remember Norma's laughter as she poured over the Sunday funnies each week and Jim's Monday night ritual of settling into his Lazy Boy recliner to watch "The Flintstones."

These past few weeks I've taken a route to work most mornings that goes through a neighborhood decked with lights and holiday statues on nearly each front lawn.  It's a comforting reminder of the years my parents and I toured the same streets each Christmas night, winding down the holiday with a leisurely drive to admire the decorations.    I am sitting on the edge of the back seat of the car, my small hand holding onto the back of my father's seat.   He has an impish smile as he adds extra "rumpa pum pa's!" to his favorite carol, "The Little Drummer Boy" and my heart understands the meaning of joy.

Poem for Jeffie

Growing up with my parents was sometimes like that Drew Carey improv show, "Who's Line Is It Anyway?" with songs and random poems being created on the fly. 

When I started dating Jeff, I sent him this poem.  Who says the way to man's heart is through his stomach?  God knows, my Crock Pot Lasagne didn't work.

Love Poem for Jeffrey L Harrison

Jeffie Pooh, Jeffie Pooh
All I do is think of you.
When I'm trying to eat lunch
I think of you a whole bunch.
When I'm trying to do work
My mind's a fuzzy, messy murk.
Oh, what is a poor brain to do
When it is full of Jeffie Pooh?
-- Connie Parker Harrison

Another Christmas Poem

Not long ago a woman who worked with my mother cleaned out some desks at work and found a Christmas card my mother sent after she and my father moved to Tennessee.  What great surprise. 

Santa Claus may miss our house
Because we've moved, you see,
Down to the South where
"Hush my mouf" and "y'all" comes easily
Down here they say if you watch and pray
And believe if miracles awesome,
On Christmas Day, though Santa might stray,
You'll be visited by Pogo Possum.

The Power Of Keys

When I was a little girl, my parents would hand me their set of keys to keep me occupied. It worked. I developed quite a love of keys and would sit absorbed by them for minutes (ages in kid-time). However, my parents didn't foresee that I would use keys to get my way. At the age of four, I discovered that if an adult didn't have their keys, they could not leave. My aunt Marilyn was forced to dig around my parents' house on many occasions when I decided that she really should stay a little longer. Another discovery I made was that an adult's keys were best hidden in the purse of another adult. If the adult saw the keys in the purse, unless they looked closely, they would assume the keys belonged to the purse's owner. This kept the game in motion.


One day, my father stayed home from work to take me to a doctor's appointment. I didn't want to go and no amount of begging worked. When my mother set off for her job, I slipped his car keys in her purse and waved as she walked out the door. Later that day, my mother received a call from my exasperated father. "Look in your purse."



"What?" replied my mother.


"Just look in your purse."


"What are your car keys doing here?"


The nurse rescheduled my appointment. A successful delay, but not an overall achievement of objective. A new strategy would need to be employed.


When my parents moved from their home in Dearborn, my father left this note for the new owner:


Dear Purchaser:


The keys contained herein are almost completely lost-proof. But not quite. Certain precautions should be taken by the User to insure years of non-loss service.


The first measure taken to prevent loss is to put the keys in a drawer high above the reach of children, then forget where you put them. In this way, no fear of loss will ever be experienced.


Another guaranteed way to prevent loss is to put them in your "other" coat. When you need the keys to the car or house, you can say to your husband, "Let me use your keys, mine are in my Other Coat." They are not lost; you know exactly where they are. When your husband is not around and you go to the Other Coat to get your keys and you find that they are not there, you can say, "I know where I left them, in my "other" purse." The keys are still not lost because, of course, you know right where your Other Purse was left. After a thorough search of all four Other Purses and still there are no keys, they can usually be found at a glance on the outside of the door. Or, by looking at the lock on the car's truck.


If you have taken all of these precautions and still fear a loss, you may tie a tag to the keys which says, "If Found Return To" then put your home address, your work address, your mother's address, the LBJ Ranch in Texas, and the Taj Mahal. This way, dead or alive, your keys will be returned to you almost any place in the world.


Sincerely,


The Seller

Happy Birthday to Me

For someone who complained about getting older, Jim sure loved to celebrate his birthday.


Happy Birthday to Me

Birthdays come around each year
There's no use to fight it
They add no bounce to our step
There's no use to deny it

There's one thing I don't understand
If birthdays come so slow and steady
How come they get here 90 days
Before I'm even ready?

Santa II

I found his poem in a sewing machine drawer with counted cross stitch supplies. It was typed on onionskin typing paper, the kind people used before Spell Check, when typos needed to be manually erased. The typing is pretty bad, which means it had to have been pecked out by Jim.


Santa II


I heard the clacking on the roof
The night was geting cold and darker
As Santa parked his sleigh and reindeer
Out jumped my friends, Jim and Norma Parker.

Poem For Michael

Did I mention that Norma was a horder? I have spent this morning going through boxes in one corner of the two car garage. There were eight boxes piled up and they looked fairly innocent. Jim may have been puzzled by Norma's cookbook addiction, but I would like a nickle for every greeting card she bought and didn't mail. If you need greeting cards, give The Hope Center in Waverly a couple weeks and they'll have a selection that's better than Wal-Mart's over on the By-Pass.

In the last box, as I could see the end of today's garage cleaning objective in sight, I began to get a little brazen. Rather than thumbing through each piece of paper (yes, I am Norma's daughter), I felt the urge to begin chucking handsful of paper into the trash (Jim's daughter began to take over). I stopped as I found a stenopad because, even though I had found scads of empty ones and others full of grocery lists, you just never know what to expect from Norma and Jim.

The first page contained kitchen measurements for a possible remodelling job. The second page had this poem. And a list of utility bills for the month. Like I said, you just never know with those two. The rest of the pages were blank.

Poem for Michael

Now, don't be upset, Michael,
At this card's lack of humor
'Cause when it comes to getting laughs
Some folks are just late bloomers

So if this card has no class
Don't let it bother you a bit
'Cause you have all the class it takes
To cover this card's lack of it.

Limericks I and 2

If you've ever looked into the history of limericks, you'll find that they started out as naughty poems. I believe the second limerick was written when you could actually get something for a quarter at a restaurant.


Limerick 1
An old maid down in Boyne City
Lived all alone with her kitty.
She looked under her bed
Where her boyfriend had fled
And what she did to him was a pity.


Limerick 2
A young man down on the Border
Went in a restaurant to order.
The waitress was shy,
The boy winked his eye,
And his check was 10 bucks and a quarter.

Santa Went to Mexico

Each Christmas, Jim included a poem in cards he and my mother sent to friends and family. Some were religious, some were topical. He had mixed feelings about NAFTA.

Santa went to Mexico,

He could hire elves for less

But misfortunate came upon him,

So sad you couldn't guess.

His reindeer couldn't stand the heat

His sleigh stuck in the sand

His deliveries took 'til April 1st

With a pick-up and a van.

~December, 1996

Song for Red

I remember the phone call my father received, literally at 3:00 AM one weekday morning. I was quite young, but the incident registered strongly with me because my father, unexpectedly, didn't lose his temper at the caller for waking him up. He spoke into the phone quietly and for a long time. When he sadly replaced the receiver, he refused to answer my questions. Years later, my mother told me he went to see his old friend, as he had been asked. Shortly after the hospital visit, he attended his friend's funeral, where only three other people were there: the minister, the man's wife and my father.

Refrain:

Call me to see if I'm still living

Call me to see if I'm still here

I've been booked on a long jouney

The destination, I don't know where

A man I know lets alcohol rule everything he does

He can't work or have a conversation unless he has a buzz

He called one night at three AM to empty out his soul

He prayed God would give him back the life that liquor stole

Refrain

My friend was in an accident and fighting for his life

I went to his bedside to sit vigil with his wife

When the evening hours were over, I was told to go

He called me to lean over, then he whispered quiet and low

Refrain

It's A Lovely, Lovely Morning

It's a lovely, lovely morning

It's a beautiful, beautiful day

A wind rakes my shoulders

But the sun drives it away

We've come through a wearisome winter

Buds of spring can be seen

Warming rain drops replace snowflakes

Washing air and attitudes clean

The cold world awakes from slumber

A giant hand moves the earth

Ice recedes from the rivers

The fields experience rebirth

Sweet joy exults from Nature

Cries all her creatures heard

It's a message come down from the ages

It's plainer than any spoken word

Introduction to Jim Parker's Corner

My father, Jim Parker, or JC Parker, or James Parker, or James Connie Parker, or James Conway Parker, loved words. When he wasn't talking (which was often), he was writing. He had an opinion on just about any issue and if he didn't have an opinion, it was only because he hadn't heard of the subject yet. Jim's newspaper column, Parker's Corner, was written from his home computer in Waverly Tennessee and published in the local paper. Some other guy named Chris Parker has already taken the blogspot name, Parker's Corner (and if he's going to take the name I wish to goodness he'd actually start blogging instead of posting two piddly tests). I've modified this blog name slightly to feature my father's work.

More than a decade ago, before the days of blogging, I jokingly told my dad that he'd better get a move on compiling his writings because if he waited, I would publish the collection posthumously and make a fortune. He laughed and said, "Go ahead!" He couldn't be bothered with editing, that was kind of like looking backwards, something he was disinclined to do. He preferred spending his time trolling the internet for articles of interest on controversial subjects, the more contentious and in the murkey middle, the better.

I am now going through my parent's house, sifting through two lifetimes of belongings and memories. In the bottom of a seemingly boring box of Reader's Digest books that traveled from their home of 30 years in Dearborn Michigan to their retirement home in Waverly, I found tanned sheets of notebook paper with writings by both my parents. Some are scribbles of songs my dad made up and sang around the house, others are poems he wrote and never shared with anyone, except (perhaps) my mother. I decided it was time to save Jim's work before it got lost in the move to new home. As for Norma's work, some of that is pretty interesting too (and a lot of her pages are copies of recipes from magazines - surprise!), but that's a subject for another blog.

My father left behind a congregation of people who still comment on his articles and poems. Like all columnists, some people were in agreement with him, others were exasperated with him, but I have yet to meet anyone he knew who didn't have a good word to say about him as a person. He was charming and funny, smart and... opinionated. But here's the key difference between my father and many of the talking heads who ruminate frothingly in the media today, he liked to hear another person's opinion, especially if it differed from his. He wanted to know why people who disagreed with him believed and felt as they did. Unlike so many of today's politicians and pundits, his opinion of a person was not dependent on whether their beliefs mirrored his. Would that others in the media held this opinion.