“Son”...”say goodnight to grandpa”

Spurred by mother dearest
as well as other politesse

drummed into her second born
fobbing blandishments as incentive

tumbled off fingers of prodigal son

tripped wordsmith to splutter forth
forthwith the following lines.

 

Back in the day
quaint summertime of yore,
the following popular refrain reverberated
within hallowed halls of school.

"No more pencils,
no more books,
no more teacher's/
teachers' dirty looks”

Never did exotic vacations populate
those twelve weeks
when doors flung opened

at Henry Kline Boyer,

whence score years ago yours truly
now (June 8^th, 2023)

approximately same age,
when mine paternal grandfather visited

me, and other members of family
at then Route Deliver #2
Collegeville, Pennsylvania,

the home of mein kampf.

 

Figurative eons ago

bygone innocent childhood of mine
oblivious to progressive political issues
easily delighted, liberated, tantalized...,

especially when Sunkist grandpa Harris

(Aaron) indulged yours truly

jais nais sais quois

kibitizing lovingly, mirthfully

naturally offering pleasing qualities,

 

surrendering slender tanned arms

where upon left wrist dangled his

venerated wristwatch (analog),

I ecstatically fingered, prized, and toyed
with said object fascinated

at the linkedin craftsmanship,

which yielded general squealing zealousness
from an ordinarily

non emotionally expressive lad.

 

This towheaded grandson,

extremely excited when me daddy's papa

came to this figurative rural outpost,
(despite his chastising behavior
ridiculing favorite progeny's children),

where traces of early twentieth century

still evident when manicured formal gardens

pegged, limned, harkened... back

to a supposedly simpler time

 

when this elderly family member
(who only completed eighth grade),

whose birth benchmarked, coincided

and demarcated with late

Industrial Revolution, whence

Philadelphia birthplace noisy with

horse drawn carriages competing
with early model automobiles

crowding thee busy thoroughfares,

where the streets have no name.

 

Lemme return back

to the previous topic,

and explain how

I felt eager to interact

with cranky, yet doting old man,

which showcased chained metal links

wore a temporary imprint

upon his bronzed aged skin – dog

head lee remaining
gently persuading him

 

to delay when departure time arrived

for favorite boyhood relative,

twas pure heavenly glory

conniving, finagling, inveigling...
our favorite grandfather

to situate myself on right side

and toy with the wristwatch (analog),

winning three way verbal tussle

between yours truly and two siblings
(an older and younger sister),

 

which when a kid

also exhibited glee at occasions

treasuring said older folk gave me a frog

tiled toy (sliding puzzle)

that required dexterity

moving pieces fastly secured,

which when complete

always left me agog

and this, that or

some other gewgaw, souvenir, trinket

 

(plus a bit of chump change given to me)

spurred mine late mum

to spark me mental cog

to say “good morning”, “good afternoon”,

“goodnight”, “thank you,”
or when eggnog proffered to this

most senior chronological guest,

who sat at the head of table,

or blankly watching television

like a bump on a log

 

while chided, forced, induced...

to parlay social graces

from this mere pollywog,

who (much as delight arose fussing

with trappings worn

loss on atrophied flesh),

a skittishness found me

averse to follow orders

as if I happened to be a petsmart dog.

 

At that time

Florida orange juiced industry
touted, popularized, and linked in

with Anita Bryant -
American singer, political activist,

known for anti-gay activism
and 1958 Miss Oklahoma

beauty pageant winner,

and a brand ambassador

from 1969 to 1980

for the Florida Citrus Commission.

 

Thee paternal grandfather

oft times visited our then rural abode

at that time one sturdy estate

(originally called Glen Elm)

wildlife twittered, jibber-jibber, crowed...

within the plush wooded tract

even then blueprints drawn up

land deeded, mapped, parceled,

and slated to explode;

our then eco-friendly family averse

to witness expanding commercialization

across wetlands horizons

(Canadian Geese flocked to pond,
which liquid haven courtesy Donald Nelson
got the plug pulled

and drained watery basin)

asthma late mum didst lament

misfortune of flora and fauna,

nevertheless chided me

against even thinking

about sabotaging property

 

after I played devil's advocate to goad
conspiratorial natural forces

to undermine cookie cutter

look alike slap dashed, ticky tack

shoddy tinderboxes (vinyl city) growed

on formerly untamed, uber virgin woods,

perhaps early boondocks getaway hoed

and plowed, but indomitable

(naturally enshrined eminent domain

abandoned since pioneers

 

bushwhacked rustic habitations)

nature relished reversed

grape seeded tracery etched

yet 'pon reflection,

I ponder how early occupation knowed

no habitat foresaw wreckage

when decision via wealthy Leipers,

(original residents plus wealthy owners of

The Bell and Clapper)

unanimously custom made crafted mansion
actually originally a summer getaway.

 

Self imposed endeavor

to indulge drafting literary effort,

though methinks love's labor's lost

hunt and peck typing

across qwerty keyboard

and captcha characteristics
unique to house of my boyhood,

whereby selecting alphanumeric

and/or special symbols

instantaneously generate electronic signals

electronically communicating,

subsequently transmitting

 

byte size data packets description

to respective ip node
(to create document courtesy OpenOffice)

analogous how modus operandi

to build stately

sturdy summer country villa,

(circa early 1900's)

which property whittled down

to 324 Level Road demesne comprising

about a half dozen acres

eventually acquired by Boyce Harris

February 28th 1968 -

for x number of years mortgaged he towed,

a near singlehanded undertaking

to gentrify house as elements of style
witnessed once ship shape

wrought architectural structure
weathered, subjected to degradation,

naturally deteriorated

him (in vain) to enlist by force if need be

grunt laborious services of singular son

the author of these words,
who houses the ineradicable genes

and chromosomes of August Aaron.