What Would This Ghost Say?

As Halloween nears, we think of ghosts. This very special poem celebrates two very special people who live on in our memories, a mother and her son.

If Nancy Hanks came back as a ghost,
Seeking news of what she loved most,
She'd ask first, "Where's my son?
What's happened to Abe? What's he done?"

"You wouldn't know about my son?
Did he grow tall? Did he have fun?
Did he learn to read? Did he get to town?
Do you know his name? Did he get on?"

The above stanzas from the poem, Nancy Hanks, evoked A Reply to Nancy Hanks by
Julius Silberger:
Yes, Nancy Hanks, the news we will tell
Of your Abe whom you loved so well.
You asked first, "Where's my son?"
He lives in the hearts of everyone.

Indiana has a special part in celebrating the upcoming bicentennial of Lincoln's birthday. I am privileged to have Lincoln's Boyhood Home license plates, which I special-ordered at no extra cost. Eventually they will become a part of my Indiana
collection.

FALL AT LAST

It's fall at last! I love fall--the colors of the changing leaves, the color of the sky--

create "a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock." Fall feels brisk and purposeful at times, lovely and leisurely at others. But one of my favorite things about fall is Riley's poem, When the Frost is on the Punkin. When I taught fourth grade, one assignment was always to memorize that poem. Then Mr. Don Hill would come to school impersonating Mr. Riley, reciting his poetry, and the place would ROCK when the fourth graders joined the recitation. I'm going to "recite" the first verse of that poem here, from memory:

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock;

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey cock,

And the clackin' of the guineas and the cluckin' of the hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence,

Oh, it's then's the times a feller is afeelin' at his best

With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

As he leaves the house bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

I have been fortunate enough to visit Greenfield, where Riley was born, and where

the Riley Festival is celebrated each year. Later this year I hope to visit Lockerbie

Street in Indianapolis, where Mr. Riley lived and wrote his poems.