Seventy-seven years ago, my parents Harold and Vivian were married. They honeymooned at Niagara Falls, and 9 months later I was born. They didn’t waste any time getting a family started. Two years later, Brother X was born. (His secret identity as Donald Paulson, was recently revealed by the priest who spoke at my Brother Kevin’s funeral). Eight years after Donald’s birth, Kevin was born.
Dad’s book of poetry, Dogface Doggerel, was dedicated to my Mom. When someone asked her if she ever considered divorcing Dad, she replied, “Divorce — never, but murder quite often.” I don’t really think she really meant to say “quite often”. She probably just meant “occasionally.”
I think you can get an idea of what life was like for Hal and Viv, from one of the poems he wrote about life in the Paulson Family.
Bedlam House
The doors all stick, the windows too,
You’d think we painted them with glue.
What paint there is, I should have said,
For that’s all pealed, or cracked, or shed.
The darkened sky, each winter day,
Accents the drabness with coats of gray.
Poor ancient house, my own abode,
I’m sorry for the heavy load,
Imposed upon thy aching frame
By children bearing my surname,
And by their friends, the neighbor’s boys,
Whose only goal is making noise.
From rooster’s crow to Sandman’s call,
Their feet go scampering through the hall,
And leaden hooves encased in tin,
Could not exceed their shattering din.
The sounds and screams from voices shrill,
Drown out my cries of “Please be still.”
Oh, foolish me! How hard I tried
To keep them quietly occupied
With games, and trains, and trucks, and toys.
Each a new excuse to make more noise.
The money I spent to seal my doom
Should have been spent for a soundproof room.
Down in the cellar, which I admit is short,
Is a bowling alley for indoor sport,
A blackboard, a work bench, and radio.
I have even added a video,
Short-wave receiver, shelves of books,
Hobby kits, fishing gear, and hooks.
All this and more are on display,
In hope my sons will learn to play,
In a quiet, serene, and peaceful air.
Yet I’m often shocked when I look down there,
To see sixteen kids having a boisterous time,
And a glance at their faces shows none are mine.
The bedroom upstairs is a hectic scene
As my boys use their beds for a trampoline.
The living room ceiling has cracks in the plaster.
It’s easy to see they are courting disaster.
You must excuse me for that cliché,
It was easier making a rhyme that way.
To add to my woes, in this solemn tale,
There’s clarinet practice, a sorrowful wail,
Of sour notes, and reedy squealing,
Small wonder that my head is reeling.
With this steady bedlam, ‘til day is spent,
Dear house, I see why you are old and bent.
Peace & Love, and all of the above,
Earl
earlthepearl137 