The Book of Knowledge

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
I sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley,

Of thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
Amd half a hundred bridges....

And out again, I curve and flow,
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

Mom told me that dad bought an encyclopedia
called The Book of Knowledge (circa 1946)
and that while I was still a babe
in my crib, he would sit by my bedside,
and while I fell asleep,
would read to me from this book
such things as this poem by Tennyson,
along with other more scientific passages.

This story, was one of the things I can remember,
which helped me heal my relationship with my dad...

For as I got older , I can still remember him
sitting at the kitchen table
with more than a few beers under his belt reciting:

I come from hooten scooten skern...

Never realising the hours he spent by my bedside,
years earlier, after a long day at work,
in an effort to help his son become a wiser,
more knowledgeable human being.

This is one of the things being a parent,
gives some perspective on.

A few years ago, at a yard sale,
I stumbled on a copy of the encyclopedia,
Volume I (Copyright 1926-1931 by The Grolier Society, The Amalgamated Press [Ltd] 1922.)
Maybe the only volume dad acquired
as a perk to purchase the entire set of volumes...

But what a host of memories it brought back to me. I recalled many of the passages and chapters in intimate detail, as the book remained in our house as we grew older, and I would dip into it from time to time.

Dad wanted me to become a successful business man, and he was also a World War II Veteran and had a perspective on the trials that I might have to face growing up. I don't believe he wanted me to become a musician given his prior knowledge, but wanted me to have an income, some security, sentiments I now advocate for my own children, knowing what I know now.

He was a gifted musician/violinist recognised by many of his family members. We as children were never told how the family respected him, though he played at home often until I was about 12 years old, at which time he sold his violin for good.

I learned more of the details in later years.

Although he had a terrible temper and disavowed anything other than hard physical or mental labor to me, he would cry at the drop of a hat at any beautiful music, poetry or words.

Is it any wonder he fathered an aspiring poet?