Undated - Whoever Makes A Garden

Whoever makes a garden
Has never worked alone;
The rain has always found it,
The sun has always known.
The wind has blown across it
And helped to scatter seeds -
Whoever makes a garden
Has all the help he needs.

Whoever makes a garden
Has, oh, so many friends!
The glory of the morning,
The dew, and fertile sod!
And he who makes a garden
Works hand-in-hand with God.

- Douglas Malloch


BLOGGER NOTE:
This is the poem in its entirety:

Who Makes a Garden
Douglas Malloch (1877 - 1938)

Whoever makes a garden
Has never worked alone;
The rain has always found it,
The sun has always known;
The wind has blown across it
And helped to scatter seeds;
Whoever makes a garden
has all the help he needs.

Whoever makes a garden
Should surely not complain,
With someone like the sunshine
And someone like the rain
And someone like the breezes
To aid him in his toil
And someone like the Father
Who gave the garden soil.

Whoever makes a garden
Has, oh, so many friends;
The glory of the morning
The dew when daylight ends.
For rain and wind and sunshine
And dew and fertile sod;
And he who makes a garden
Works hand in hand with God.

January 4, 1963 - While Under Tranquilizers

Written while in NW Hosp. Jan. 4, 1963
while under tranqillizers
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We drove along the winding road thru the approaching dusk to the beach spoken of in knowing voices as the place for tourists to see the sunset Pie de la Cuesta. I was in a darkening mood because of the afternoon & was feeling doubly in my two-long not yet shortened sundress & sweater. We parked & walked onto the beach where we were assailed by the regular tourists. There were shelters of fronts covering deck chairs for recumbant visitors which we shunned - a husky Mexican shouting inaudible something about the bravery of a young fellow out rolling with the breakers deserving of a few pesos' appreciation. There were young girls some very young, hawking beads-strings of beads made of shells. They placed them in our hands indicating by spanish word & peddling action that the beads were for you free of charge for simply gracing the beach & then once they were in your hands being studied by your uncertain gaze; an older girl came about with her hand held toward you while she quoted & reported a price. Understanding after all & feeling rather foolish even for a shashed second believing the ruse, you repeat the million-millionth "no, no" with the million-millionth shake of your head while the children concerned walk away with a dejected tho blaming expression. As we had walked along the sand from the car single file I slipped the letter I'd written to P. earlier in the day on the balcony, overlooking the bay. He somehow fit into his pocket so Billy would not see. Now I was free to grasp the spectacle in front of me. There was no sunset worthy of a postcard but the whole greyed western sky was a glowing incandescent orange, the surf which came from the full space of the Pacific Ocean was utterly magnificent. The beach was straight, wide & flat & the great waves rolled in & broke on the shore, shaping with an earth-shaking roar. The breaking waves towered high before they broke into masses of spray & froth. The sight was magnificent, the sound was astounding - the whole effect was breath-taking & enormous. P&B walked ahead - I hung back holding up my skirt, picking my way along barefoot as close to the water as I dared & time & time again I was fooled & the water came up beyond ______ and soaked the fullness of my dress. I loved it!

The beach was rampant with

December 4, 1949 - I Love The Universe

Tonight is December the 5th, 1949.
The moon is full - the sky is luminous with its light - the tattered clouds race across the sky - the cool air permits no obstruction between the moon and me - the unaffected stars return my wink - the whole heaven is translucently clear & brilliant with the moonlight - I yearn to be lying on the forest floor, one with all this vast movement, loving my love beside me - but knowing still that I love the universe with all my love as I can never love a mortal man!

Undated - More Small Pieces of Paper

"On the plains of hesitation bleach the bones of countless millions who, at the dawn of victory, sat down to wait - and waiting, died." William Lawrence (Used by Adlai Stevens in a campaign speech) 1922
______________________________

He who hesitates is lost.
(and so is the woman who doesn't)
______________________________

Freedom is in peril. Defend it with all your might.
(In London during the 2nd World War)
______________________________

The only moments of real, unsuperficial, sincere happiness that I experience are when I notice the activity of some element of nature - like the fall - chested robin perched in the ginko tree, or the two neat-collared English Sparrows hopping across the walk like children's toys, or the skittish grey squirrel frantically yet playfully burying something in the dark moist earth. All this I see through the newly washed window that looks out over the campus between Eads & Duncker and the Chapel beyond.
______________________________

As I sit here on my sun-warmed chair, as close to the open window as I can get, I smell again the smell of Florida. Now it has been years since my 1st experience in Florida, the time my sister and I flew down to spend Christmas vacation (with our good friends the Arch Jones', whom we always knew as Aunt Kate and Uncle Arch). In these ensuing years I have no doubt unconsciously elaborated my remembrances of Dunedin, Clearwater, Tampa, Sarasota, and St. Petersburgh, and perhaps there is no factual resemblance between the smell of a St. Louis spring & a Florida Christmas but time and time again something in the air recalled to me that time spent among the spanish moss, live oak trees, seagulls & sand. I don't know why that experience impressed me so, but I have never ceased to feel a touch of magical warmth when I remember the things we saw and the things we did. It might have been because that was my first trip out of the Middle West which fact might also account for the fact that Florida
______________________________

the bursting bundles at the ends of the tiny stalks all along the ginko branches had become even fuller & greener during this day.
______________________________

Reason has moons, but moons not hers
lie mirrored in the sea,
Confounding her astronomers
But, oh delighting me.
- Ralph Hodgson
______________________________

Infinity is where things happen that don't.
- Schoolboy
______________________________

You know, as we have said, that expressive words and superlative adj. have been so overused and so grossly misused that their original meaning has been lost or rather worn thin. They have become meaningless and ordinary. So words that come to my mind to express to you how much I love you seem too futile and to carry so little worth. But I believe that you in the depth of your understanding will take them for their true value, as I mean them, when I say I love you completely with all love and I shall continue to love you for all time.
______________________________

High up in the north in the land called Suithjod, there stands a rock. It is a hundred miles wide and a hundred miles high. Once every thousand years a little bird comes to this rock to sharpen its beak. When the rock has thus been worn away, then a single day of eternity will have gone by.
- Hendrick Van Loon
______________________________

The edge of the frost had receded with the shadow of the woods ahead of the warmth of the advancing sun rays.
______________________________

Heresy, yes - conspiracy, no
- Sidney Hook
______________________________

Schlesinger, Jr.
"cultural vigilantes" - driven by fear of Communism to stamp out all unorthodoxy
"ritualistic liberals" - driven by fear of repression to deny existence of Communist threat
Both groups flourish on each other's misapprehension and thin outcries have drowned out the voice of intelligence.
This results in competing spirals of hysteria that tower over us today.
from McCarthy on right to Nation on left.
______________________________

distinction between heresy & conspiracy - between unpopular ideas & subversive movements. If both groups grasped this distinction, 1st would stop punishing heresies as conspiracies & the rit. lib. might stop tolerating conspiracies as heresies.
______________________________

traditional tests of academic freedom & responsibility - professional competence and lawful behavior.
______________________________

It was one of the first cool days of this October & we hadn't even raised the windows until early afternoon. The sky was becoming October blue & the slanting sunlight accentuated the leaf colors; making the browns appear copper & bronze & gold. A small breeze squeezed through the slightly opened window & blew across my hands. My skin again felt the same awakening, the same refreshing sensation that I feel when first I wash my face in the morning - as though each pore is awakened from a stuffy sleep.
______________________________

This afternoon I was an uninvited spectator to one of the most wonderfully spirit-raising sights I ever have seen. I was sitting & gazing out the kitchen window at the group of plum trees in the yard. I was wondering the whys that caused them to bloom one at a time so that all 5 were in separate stages of flowering, completely unrelated to their respective sizes, the smallest being one of the first to have its branches sheathed in tight clusters of white foam/froth. My gaze was caught up in/by a swirl of pigeon wings, and as I watched, fascinated, I again felt a child's desire to become one of them. There must have been 20 of them flying, gliding & closely together. Turning slowly they would swiftly swoop 50 yards or more, skimming over & sometimes through the tops of the trees, only to bank around another turn, the first becoming the last and the last first in another swoop.

March 10, 1954 - Bird's Song Close At Hand

Something happened yesterday morning that gave my heart and faith new strength. I was in the kitchen with the blinds down when I heard a bird's song close at hand. It was so continuous and strong and joyful that I was compelled to search out its source. Upon raising the blind, I found a female cardinal sitting high in the closest plum tree right at my eye level. I could see her bright scarlet beak move in her song, it's high color charming the bird's paler feathers. But, then, a curious thing occurred. I noticed with amazement that often times the same strong song would continue when her beak was closed. I hopened the window silently so I might poke my head out to better find the perch of her partner or competitor. It took no time to find her mate, throwing his voice at the morning, in the uppermost branches of the bare sycamore, over twice as tall as his wife's plum tree. I could not see his head from my angle - hidden as it was by his promient chest, brilliantly red in the early sun's rays. These two creatures sang a duet to the new day, alternately singing together and then each separately, answering the other in one of the sweetest sounds in all this world. This sight and this sound made me declare again to myself that as long as there are sights & sounds such as this there is much to make one rejoice.

February 14, 1954 - Seeing Carl Sandburg

After seing Carl Sandburg give a delightful program of his own stories, poems & Lincolniana - we drove out Ladue Road with the top down to take advantage of the unseasonable warm weather & perhaps the last time we would be able to enjoy the convertible top before our Country Squire arrived. The wind was strong but not cool. It came at me from the south in fitful bursts. I turned my head to receive it full face (head on) because I love to have the hair blow straight back from my face - it rumbled past my ears like prolonged thunder.

January 15, 1954 - Smell of Clover

The smell of clover came so strongly to my nostrils just a minute ago - the sweet living smell of clover crushed under foot & I could picture a sloping meadow beyond a fence washed in golden light but what I saw through the window was quite different - mist & fog & dreariness hanging over all, pfitzers & ginko twigs dripping with moisture.

January 26, 1954 - Frying Bacon

Today came to me the smell of frying bacon. It wasn't bacon frying in the kitchen at home but bacon sizzling in a heavy iron skillet on the open camp stove in the cold stinging morning air of the Colorado Rockies. I imagined I could feel my face fresh & awake, taut & cold to my fingers & behind the bacon smell there was the smell of the cold of the air itself, the pines & the coming rain. I wonder if the Tetons will smell the same.

March 27, 1953 - The Day After My 25th Birthday

It is March 27th, the day after my 25th birthday, at 4:30 in the afternoon, and I must tell you how nice it is to sit at my desk facing the window with the blinds half-drawn against the late sun's rays. Entering beneath the lowered blinds the soft sunlight lays across my desk, dappling it with shadows cast by the translucently immature leaves of the bush outside the windows.

Undated - Small Pieces of Paper

I am grateful for ................
- the view from our living room windows. We are just high enough off the street that from a sitting position no housetops or chimneys are visible. One can see only the sky and the intervening sycamore trees in their various seasonal changes. Last Sunday we sat playing Fan-Tan with Pinky, listening to the late William Kapell play Rachmaninoff's Variations on a Theme by Paganini. The sky was the vivid October blue, though it was already early November, and against it the sycamore was brilliant in varied shades of yellow & orange. The color of this picture and the color of Kapell's playing brought tears to my eyes. I thought how unfortunate it was the such talent as he possessed should die with him. If only it could remain behind & transfer itself to some willing body such as mine. I wish it were possible for such a contract to be made.
______________________________

the silver sliver of the moon ...........
______________________________

the sun had set - when first I looked the western sky was a wash of lavender draining into gold - again I looked & it had become grey stained at the horizon with a soft orange glow.
______________________________

I finished book 1 of Stone's biography of Van Gogh Lust for Life and closed the book with a thought of finality, that if nothing else occurred between the two brothers, that moment when Theo & Vincent prepared to leave The Borinage was enough. The love & understanding, the deep closeness expressed in that closing moment between them was worth more ----
______________________________

What is wrong with me? I determine to be joyful and grateful because of the beautiful things I see. I look up high and feel joy at seeing tiny ripples of clouds very high up against the blue of the sky. But my next feeling is an ache and I mourn because I am not near to the sand that ripples from the gentle stroke of the tide! The ripples that these precious clouds bring to mind.
______________________________

the star-strewn, sparkled, (and) cloud-swept sky ----- smell of mint
______________________________

The freshness of the approaching spring was reflected in the new moss growing in the cracks of the sidewalk - a vivid, clear green acquainted with the snow and rain that had left last years' grass faded and dull.
______________________________

A crowd of crows flew up at my approach and fluttered noisily around until I had passed.
A crowd of crows flew up at my approach and fluttered noisily around until I had gone.
______________________________

We had heard that the ginkos lost their leaves all at once so we watched carefully the double row outside our window. They were almost wholly yellow and every passing breeze sent to the ground a shower of golden coins.
(continued)
______________________________

Walking to work each morning was a wonderful chance (opportunity) to see (watch) the changes in (progress of) the season as fall was born & progressed and waned in such brief space of time. Indian summer arrived Oct. 22nd and stayed too short a time. I remember the phrase I read on a calendar somewhere "Oh, Autumn, be less beautiful or be less brief."
______________________________

I walked across campus and past the chapel. A whirr of wings made me turn to see a swell of pigeon wings banking against the turrets of the chapel, grey and bright white in the morning sun.
______________________________

Walking across the large empty lot where the baseball diamonds were laid, on the corner of Big Bend & Forsyth, was like being in a world apart. The only tie with others was the hum & stop & start of cars at the corner light, and even this I could eliminate from my thoughts. From the woods nearby came a chorus of bird sound, chirps, cheeps & twitters. The early sun was soft & buttery and the trees were vivid.
______________________________

I wanted to tell him about the play I had seen, how it made me feel, the hope & support of my dreams it projected, about the tears it brought to my eyes that I had to painfully suppress. But I knew with a certainty that if I tried the words I would utter would come forth dry and uninspired, strained and utterly unexpressive. And so I kept my thoughts to myself.
______________________________

a magical realm of color.
______________________________

the oaks fairly afire with flame like reds & oranges
______________________________

the dripping molten gold of the elms
______________________________

the dangling, quivering coins of the cottonwood
______________________________

the brilliant pagoda-like ginkos
______________________________

the pale, limp yellow leaves of the maple incontrast to the vigorous pinks & yellows of the Norway Sugar Maple
______________________________

the sweet sweet gum clothed with colored stars
______________________________

and after all this heat and fire the cool welcome of the blue spruce and the deep green of the pine
______________________________

the vivid October sky intensified these colors as a fan intensifies a flame

June 5, 1955 - Leaving Swarthmore

Driving home from a nice weekend such as this has been - along the turnpike in the pleasant dusk - thru the Penn countryside - the car rushing thru the air - fast & easy - soothing music on the radio heard over the wind - I feel so elated after so much excitement - meeting & talking to many pleasant people, intelligent people, attractive people - eating well - hearing a fine address by Paul H. Douglas - welcoming Wilson home from his wide travels & hearing his interesting accounts of exciting places & fascinating people - feeling I looked attractive - and my solitary memorable walk & happy visit with the squirrels (in the 1865 birch (?) tree at Clothier Memorial Chapel) early Sunday morning before anyone else was in sight about the campus - all these things made me feel warm & exhilirated as we headed home - & I had to remind myself to remain on the ground when I felt my self becoming mentally airborne - that is something I've learned to be more relistic - take what has passed for what it is worth, profit by that & advance with what I've gained.

The bell tower of the chapel narrowed, stretching its warm stone tones toward the sky.

June 1955 - What Am I To Do?

What am I to do?

I pray always to be led to some work to devote my time & efforts to - this is not idle talk - it may be idealistic & slightly romantic - but not idle. I don't know where to start, what to do, to find what I seek - someone could say to me "If you don't know, I can't tell you" and I suppose that is so but still I do feel that someday some opportunity will make itself known to me & I hope and wish to be ready and able to accept it.

June 2, 1955 - Campfires

The moon is at half-round - a pure pale light set alone in the still pale sky - the great oak & the other trees are black, lonely masses - serene silhouettes - I see the spark of a single firefly down by the road among the apple trees - and across on the other hill.

The windows have lit up one by one - among them I can see two flickering lights - of backyard paper fires - they make me think of camp fires - have you ever experienced the multitude of good feelings that sweep over you at the sight of other campfires at distances from your own? Picture this: you're sitting on a log close up to a small wood fire warming yourself against the quite cool night mountain air - your camp is set up around you - you are happily weary from hiking and from the simple chores of making a home for yourselves outdoors - the night is sweetly still around, above & beyond you - and, in the places such as I like best, you are all alone as far as sight & sound are witness - but, wait! See those flickering friendly firelights across the lake or valleye or river - around each is gathered another contented group of campers loving the things you love at this moment - all at this moment your brothers, sharing the things God gave all mankind to share, the things to which there is no end.

This is November 23rd, 1952

This is November 23rd, 1952. I felt a driving desire to go once again to Grey Summit - to drive through the park & turn left on the road that led up to the river - to walk along the river upon the stones as I had done with Jack another November day several years ago. It was not Jack I remembered with longing but the things we did together. The weather was the same as that other day - cold but not a penetrating cold - the kind of cold that makes you warm after walking climbing and feeling the wonder of the day.

Bob did not feel like walking so we drove out Ladue Road with the windows open, the wind making our cheeks ruddy and tingling. We went again to the spot on Babler Road where we had been before. I got out & walked up the bank of the road & stood once again on the edge of the familiar field. I had seen this field in its many seasons, with new tender translucent green shoots piercing the brown blanket of earth - with tasseled corn tall in rows (I have some of that tassel pressed in a book somewhere - it was nice like pale yellow silk, now it has become brown & curled but it still possesses some of that sweet earth corn smell) and as it was now - the earth turned over into gentle ripples - each ridge alternativg with rows of grass whose green stood out in its greeness. I took off my shoes and stood on the cold soft ground. I walked across the field, the clods of dirt breaking under my weight but when I stood still, the ridged dirt pressed hard up into my feet. I can still feel that welcomed pressure. Quiet was everywhere disturbed by an occasional blare of a duck call and by periodic gun shots. The sky was almost totally blanketed bya scaley cloud - like a textured shade pulled across almost to the edge where the sky was an intense autumn blue.

I became upset with myself because all I write has to do with me alone - it's all so personal. I so want to write & yet who wants to read about me, what I feel & think --

As I stood in that field I felt so comfortable within myself so much at home - I thought to myself that this was my season the one I truly loved the most. The ground in the distance was rusty with fallen leaves and the trees were rusty black - the fall air was gentle on my bare legs & I did seem at one with this part of the world - but I had to go back to things as they really were - Bob said we could drive more if I wanted to but I had the feeling that we had to go home sometime - I would feel no more like it later than I did then - it was that old uncertain sensation of not knowing what was or when or how ..........

September 4, 1953 - Schedule

Left U.City 5:00 a.m. 9-4-53 Friday

Stayed motel Colby, Kansas Friday night

Arrived Colo. Spr. Sat. morning-drove around Pike Natl. Forest etc. - up Pike's Peak - lunch there - down to Woodland Park - camped on Rampart Ridge Road in view of Pike's Peak Sat. night - drove down Mt. through Garden of Gods

Lunch along road to Pueblo & Walsenburg -

Camped Sunday night along mountain stream just short of Wolf Creek Pass

Monday drove to Mesa Verde Natl. Park - stayed in cabin Monday Night -

Tuesday drove toward Estes Park - found no spot to camp - cabin in Meeker - lunch at Rabbit Ears Pass - rock slide delay between Parshall & Hot Sulphur Springs -

1954 - Along 550

Along 550 saw white horse grazing high up on mountain side in Wolf Creek Pass area near camp site
saw tallest pines - coming down other side we saw among them these tall "birch?" trees reaching high trying to outdo the pines before sending forth their small coin-like leaves - chipmunk on head on 2nd site - coyotes in Mesa Verde - one

June 29, 1954 - 9:30 a.m.

8270. - left for Pittsburgh
8535. - 14.6 gals. gas - 4.30 = 18.+
Wheeling W.Va. 8840. - 15.5 gals. gas - 4.62 =

Left Mother's at 9:30 a.m. of June 29, 1954 and when we turned from University Drive on to Millbrook Blvd. we knew we had at last started east on this new phase of our lives.

June 18, 1954 - In Clouds

Left on Trail Ridge Road in clouds -

June 17, 1954 - Motel

Stayed in motel in Burlington, Colo. - 705 miles in 15 hrs. - up at 4:40 - drove thru Denver - arrived at 11:10 at Estes Park - set up camp at Glacier Basin cmpgrd. - then hiked from Bear Lake to Nymph Lake to Dream Lake to Lake Hiayaha - 2 mi. each way - clear day - all four quite weary - ate & went to bed at 7:45.

June 16, 1954 - Bought Ice & Left

- Left Mother's at 4:45 - bought ice & left at 5:00 going out 40-61 - full moon, pale orange low in a grey blue sky - evening star still visible - mist over every unwooded area & on highway - most times when I have done something fulfilling, the moon has been full along with me -

- 1:20 Standard Time - we finally were able to get some classical music on the radio - Debussey's Prelude to Afternoon of a Falen P Stravinsky's Petrouchka - the heavy clouds of earlier had gone leaving the sky purely brilliant and the land vivid in the sunlight - there were great squares of chartreuse, yellow, red gold, & shades of green - the bright yellow arose from the small flowers of the _______ which grew along the roadsides in scattered clumps & in whole fields - the red fold of the wheat was present in all shades - (this morning the sky was all pink, blue & lavendar while the earth contrasted in a multitude of shades of green brown) --- ---

January 2, 1954 - Anna

I named her today although she died yesterday. While I looked through the blinds at the tuft of still-green grass that was her best monument, the name "Anna" came to me. Now is that a proper name for a dead pup? Through the 3 weeks she had lived she had never been a separate enough identity to require a name. In fact it was nearly impossible to distinguish her from one of her sisters, both fawn, frail and black-masked.

Then one night I found her caught between her mother and the wall. That was the beginning though not the cause. Friday she seemed quiet and disinterested. Saturday Bob and I parted ways, though with the same purpose and destination in mine. He followed the vet's guidance & I followed God's. I had no faith in his way but great faith in mine. His way failed but I do not feel mine failed as well, even though my pup is not still with me. I held her near me all the day long, cradled in the crook of my elbow, wrapped warmly snugly in an old soft challis gown sprinkled with blue rosebuds. I acknowledged all the good things I knew to be true of man and the animals over which man has dominion, lesser only in understanding but not in "health, holiness or immortality". And after I had worked steadily, seriously, and strongly despite frequent bursts of hot tears, I felt sure & confident of God's ever-present, impartial care. Bob spoke for both of us when he said "We have done all we can do" although with thoughts different from mine. My ever active conscience twitched at the thought of 2 such contrasting paths having been used to achieve and reach a single goal. At dinner Bob announced he was gboing to buy some chloroform should it become necessary to put the pup to sleep as the pup's condition looked worse to his eyes. I took the small tyke up in my arms and laid down on the couch with her to wait out the night. She seemed to sleep the large part of the time & when she would stir she seemed to look at me with her soft deep blue eyes in recognition.

Now I know there are many who say an animal, especially of her age, has or can have no sense of recognition. I do not know. All I can tell is of the way she would slowly raise her head & stare at me as though to thank me for my tender care & comforting arm. We laid there, this small thing not much larger than my hand, and I, waiting for a happy sign. It did not come. When a change did come it was in the form of gasps and a slight stiffness. I did not know what to do. I was alone with this small thing that I loved as dearly & as deeply as any mother must love her own child and who had had so little chance to know contentment or discomfort, so little time to be either good or bad, and who needed me more now than before.

I guess now she was dead then, but I was not sure. I did not want her last moments to be moments of pain so in a terrible turmoil I mounted the stairs in a mist of tears to get the small bottle from the bathroom cabinet & a soft, very soft handkerchief. I remember looking in the mirror & feeling shock at seeing my face, blood red & contorted with my crying. I held the soaked hanky to her nose, hating myself all the while, as though this was the fateful act. Finally she lay still in my lap amidst all those blue rosebuds. Her eyes would not close & her tongue betrayed its paling pink. I covered her gently & held her there in my lap while waiting for Bob to come home. During those minutes my sobbing subsided but the whirl of sorrowful thoughts would not. I could only wonder why.

Last night it rained & I found myself thinking the very things I have silently ridiculed others for thinking of their dead dear ones. I felt infinite sadness at the thought of her still-warm body lying in the cold soaking soil. I wished we had kept her until morning, wrapped in her blue rosebuds. And yet I knew & I know now the being I loved was nowhere but where she had always been & I could love her still.

Is all this foolish? I suppose it is but she filled a part of that space that is part of me reserved for my animal friends of whom she was only one of the first.

December 13, 1954 - The Two-Day Old Pup

When I held the two-day old pup in my lap and watched it wrap its brilliant pink tongue around the nipple of the baby bottle & coax the milk from it, I cried for pure joy. I would rather have that small, sweet living thing in my sight where I can watch it eat, sleep, grow, move & be itself than have the loveliest fur coat ever just as I would rather have a horse of my own instead of the finest diamond ring or a herd of cows or cattle rather than the most luxurious home. Having this fine litter of healthy boxer pups makes me feel very rich indeed.

December 9, 1953 - Art, Cows & Love

I feel certain whatever "art" J. will bring forth will in no way compare with that of v.G., but it came to me that V. must have appeared to people as J. does. I'm sure he has friends but they are all of the same bohemian type; however, who knows but that one among them might evolve into someone to be remembered by his works. All this is of no importance.

I wish I had done more on-the-spot writing during our western camping trip. As I reread the description of our first campsite I find it has a fresh* quality that would be foreign to any account I might write now months afterwards, although I am anxious to put it all down before it fades further. (* one has more of a feeling of being "there" rather than merely of being told about such an experience.)

On several occasions within the last year the experience of coming to "love" certain things has come to me with such a concreteness as to be an actual physical change. Watching cows has always been one of my favorite pastimes. Whenever on a trip I watch the cows I see with affectionate intensity. I like to watch them lie down & get up, & occasionally I'm lucky enough to see one run a bit & I can see in my mind as clearly the picture of a herd of cows all turning their heads toward me as they hear me approach - their ears pert, their eyes intently suspicious, & their bulging sides in profile. Someday I shall be able to convey to them the interest & friendliness & love I feel toward them. On a trip to Barrington early last spring I felt, as I saw in turn contented cows, noble horses, sheep and other common form inhabitants, this feeling of actual physical love come to me. I felt as I had long known, that I loved in a deep sense of the word these and all animals & I felt closer to them & more kindly toward them than many of the upright, 2 legged animals.

Again, on our camping trip, as we drove through Rabbit Ears Pass on the way to Rocky Mt. Nat'l Park, this sensation came to me as I looked at the mountains we had come to know in so short a time. I realized then in a single instant, I felt in that instant, this love for these newly known inspiring mountains a love that had been growing only since a bare week before. And I had an inkling of the satisfaction and contentment that must come from living among them & becoming a friend to them.

December 8, 1953 - Comparison

There is a boy at the library who delivers our mail. He is a philosophy student & is living what he himself calls the bohemian life. He wears his hair uncut & uncombed, his cloths are never clean nor pressed, he is often unshaven & he smokes continuously. Yet he has fine features combined to make a handsome face. He is basically shy and self conscious and highly nervous. He likes to talk to me; I imagine, because I appear interested in what he tries to tell me & yet I must here confess much of what he says I cannot understand. He talks in terms I do not know, of ideas, methods, types, theories, that mean nothing to me. I listen intently, trying to make some similar pattern out of the words he speaks. I think I am being too unjust but it is a strange feeling I have when he talks & I cannot converse intelligently because I do not know what words to use!

The purpose of all this is the comparison that rings in my mind between this boy & Vincent van Gogh. My thought on it is this: since reading Lust For Life I have felt as I wrote previously that I would have wanted to & would have been able to understand V.v.G. & his abilities & would have been one to share his life & offer him some happiness. Now being candid I see this is all very foolish & is merely hindsight. He was lacking in friends because of his coarseness, his uncleanness, his unconventional habits etc. I like to think I would have been different but I must realize I would have been no different. I know this because in the case of J. I find him interesting but yet his untidiness, his disregard for the usual niceties, & his moodiness often disgust me. So you see after all, I am no better than the crowd, no matter how much I might want to be.

December 7, 1953 - Sensation of Promise

Toward five I looked out my window at work at the darkening sky with its rasberry pink streaks & I felt such a chill as to make me pull my arms up for warmth. I have always especially loved this time of day but it seems lately it brings with it this same gloom & depression. But later in the evening my mood changed to one of more cheer - I had a strange sensation of promise - the music pulled my eyes to glance through the slightly open window & I silently prayed "God, show me the way that I must go" and I felt with a certainty it would be a good & proper & fulfilling way.

Now November 3th, 1953

Tuesday, Sept. 8, 1953

It is now 10:45 of Monday evening, November 30th, 1953. I had turned my pencil to this paper to write of my latest moving experience but my thoughts were momentarily detoured by the preceding entry. I would so like to complete the telling of our summer's camping trip. But now while my strains are fresh I wish to tell of what has just occurred to me. I have just finished reading Irving Stone's biography of Vincent Van Gogh Lust for Life. I was thrilled more deeply by this book than by any other I have read. I have just been told that some art critic who edited the souvenir booklet of Van Gogh's exhibit at our city Art Museum believes this biography to be a bad one; he believes Stone does not understand the kind of a person V.v.G. was, because the only thing it impresses upon its reader is the madness of v.G. that resulted in his cutting off his ear. All this of course, is not true. This critic undermines his case when he admits he has never read the book.

Mr. Stone calls his book a biographical novel & he explains in a short note at the end of the book that the conversation has necessarily had to be imagined but as a whole work, the book is a true account of V.v.G.'s life & work. I suppose by enjoying this book so much I prove myself to be less than a scholar but I admit without excuse that I thrive on emotion and the trials of those who I feel have contributed something lasting to this world, as I would like to do. Upon completing the first few chapters I was at a loss as to how to accept this Dutchman - I felt neither like nor dislike for him - only an impartial sort of pity. But he became such a real being to me that I imagined I felt every tear in his mind & soul as though it were my own. I was so engrossed in his experiences & progress that I dreaded to finish the pages between me & the book's final paragraph because I knew of the void I would face. When living in a book such as this as I do, I spend every walking, sitting, standing, otherwise moment in which my eyes are not occupied following the pulse of life portrayed. I dreaded the end & yet I could not slow my certain progress. And at the end of this book, I could hardly read of the subsequent death of Theo for the tears that welled in my eyes as I finally read the words that told of Vincent's suicide & his closing moments with his brother at his side.

Regardless of what other may say, I feel I know what kind of a person V.v.G. was, as well as any one else living. It was a wonderful experience, reseeing his exhibit, knowing why he did as he did & how he saw what he painted & realizing that the very lines & strokes I was seeing were the very same lines & strokes Vincent himself put on that very same paper years ago. Despite the huge crowds all about me I felt such a closeness with his spirit. All I could wish was that I could have been able to give him some of the joy that was so alien to his experience. I think I could have loved him & given him the things he so deeply desired. But that is something no man knoweth for had he had such things he might not have produced the very canvases I was drinking in as I thought these thoughts. My heart truly aches as I think of him & yet I know he felt a joy few men ever feel - that knowing what he must do & having the strength & determination to make all else pale beside his desire to paint. Life without his art was not life & so when his art was gone there was no other thing to do but end his life as well.

September 5, 1953 - 8:00 by Bob's Watch

It is now 6:00 p.m. by Rocky Mt. Time, 7:00 by Standard Time, and 8:00 by Bob's watch which we have kept to daylight savings time. We are now ensconced in what is as nearly a perfect spot as I could imagine. We are sitting high on a granite rock watching the sun set behind the Rocky Mountains. Before us, looking unreal & unbelievable, is Pike's Peak. The whole range of it is softly hazy - tho western slopes lit by the dying rays. The gentler slopes of pine forest are more distinct that cover the land between my peak and Pike's. Large shadows lay across their greeness, cast by the mountains which the sun's rays strike first.

As I look around me I can see no sign of human existence, which is what makes this spot perfect for me. A sharp discord is run by the sound of children's shouts below at some picnic ground. But otherwise all I hear is the majesty of my surroundings, the sweet twitter of an occasional bird & the sound of my pen. It is very hard for me to realize where I am and as usual I find it impossible to accept what I see. I love it. I am stunned by it, but I do not know what to do with it. These poor scratchings are my weak attempt to grasp what I am a witness to. The soft rattle of a bird sounds, is repeated by a second, and by still another. Behind me in the tall pines a raucous call interrupts. The sun sinks lower, the air grows cooler & the shadows longer & less & less of the impressive peak before me is illumined. All around are evergreens of all varieties, somewhat long needles, feathery boughs, others whose branches are tipped with short, soft, blue needles & who are adorned with tiny cones. I think I see a few cedars & there are all through these the smaller, lighter green leaves and slender white trunks of the aspens.

To my left I heard a tiny sharp chatter which I thought was bird-created. Looking, my eye was caught by the movement of a furry tail and I saw what I love to see, a small darling chipmunk drop from the tree. The sun just now sank rather suddenly below the mountains & when I look now there is only the golden aura it left behind. It is now quite cold & I am wondering if we will be warm enough tonight in our sleeping bags with our own blankets. Tomorrow I shall tell about it as well as about the first day of our trip, yesterday, September 4, 1953. I shall continue until Bob returns. He has gone to find the cow whose pleasant moo he heard from somewhere behind us. I hear his steps now, crunching the gravel of the road. My hand is becoming numb from the cold so I shall close again.

June 12, 1953 - What I Really Meant Was This

The way I ended the last entry is ridiculous. What I really meant was this: above all else on earth I have always loved and found comfort in animals and what is known as nature and I am happiest when in the presence of these.

June 8, 1953 - Such a Spot

I have felt the heat more today than any other day this year, if not other years. I am now lying on my tummy on the grass in the back yard with Betty beside me gnawing on a ham bone. There is a slight breeze which cools the perspiration on my face neck and the sun peeks horizontally through the maple leaves. The plum trees that were a mass of froth a little over a month ago are now adorned with lacy, gnawed leaves. The sparse fruit is small, hard, and green.

Yesterday was the library staff picnic at the Gleaves' place on the Meramec near Moselle. It is a grand place, much like I would plan for myself. The two-story cabin of logs and stone sits on a hill at the base of which on three sides runs the river. The slope before the house is clear and the view across the valley and the hills beyond is perfect. These gentle hills are completely clothed in trees with a swath or two cut for the power lines. The road leads down the hill and around the curve, deceptively hiding the width of land beyond to the river. We set out to walk down to the spot to swim and it was a wonderful walk. It led between two fields of graceful wheat, clumps of scrub oak, open fields already shorn of their crop with an occasional tree lending a little shade to the open road. Down the ridge to our right we caught glimpses of the limpid green river (that describes it to me) and these glimpses set the dog frantic. She was whipped with the heat and the beating sun - her tongue was purple and her jowels hung with foam. She grabbed at the spots of shade but only until we had passed on. She admitted the sight & feel of the river when we reached it were reward enough.

The beach was wide and rocky, deep and spotted with willow clumps. The opposite bank was abrupt and covered with growth, flat, leading off to farther hills. An immense sycamore stood up against the brilliant sky like a spire. The water was teasing by calm-appearing, masking the current that was difficult to walk against. The water was cool and kind and lovely as I have always known river water to be. We found that swimming up the stream as well as we could we made no distance; we simply held our own against this tireless traveler.

The dog's antics in the water were something joyous to see. Such lack of inhibition and such abandon I wish were mine. She leapt out of the water again and again as a porpoise does. She took on the wild attitude she does when she feels free and spacious. Once in hearing me call Bob from the opposite bank she thought I had called her, and she started across. When she encountered the strange force her eyes became apprehensive but she swam determinedly and gained a footing not far downstream from where she had started.

After we had returned to the house & eaten I walked down the slope behind the house and found a really idyllic spot. I came suddenly upon a 30 foot rocky bluff rising directly from the river. I sat upon its edge and dreamed and absorbed it all. Across the river, willows hung dejectedly over the water all along the bank. Upstream a bit a narrow slough ducked behind a slender finger of land. The late sun sparkled on the ruffled water. Below me lazy turtles rose to the surface, floated downstream and then sank to reappear at the original spot. As I sat there, part of the scene I witnessed was a lovely sampling of nature's color wheel. A kingfisher softly blue, swept low over the river and perched on a bare branch below me. A brilliant flash of red became a cardinal followed by his more modest mate. A minute later a spot of speckled yellow flew from bank to bank, a finch I would guess.

I would love to own such a spot where I could dream alone and for hours. I will someday, I'm sure. I want a hill, a view, a river, some cows to love to look at and some horses to love to ride. I really believe that is the ultimate of my mortal ambitions.

June 5, 1953 - This Journal

The idea to start this journal came to me last night in church. I felt it would help both my mental state and my writing, such as it is. This will be for my eyes alone and I shall not struggle for certain phraseology or for artistic penmanship. I want to just write the thoughts as they come to me and perhaps I shall thus learn to compose my ideas more strongly and more quickly. As always when I have tried to write the thoughts come to me in such crowds that I am not able to completely deplete one before another comes before me. Usually, however, when I determine to complete one, I have exhausted it long before I want to. I mean that when it comes to putting it into words on paper I find there was not so much to it as it seemed when my mind was filled with it. And so I wonder how it is people are able to fill pages and books with words on a subject which seems to make up such a small part of existence. And as I say that I know it is foolish because it is only my existence of which these things compose such a small part. And then I realize that I am so lacking of knowledge of any subject and I don't yet know what it is I yearn to write about. As I mentioned before my mind flits from one perch to another, lighting on none long enough to be worth while. But all this is getting me no place. It is just that I have always been so unable to express to others in words, especially spoken words, what I mean on the more abstract ideas that I thought by talking to myself this way privately I might catch myself being concrete for a change.

I might as well confess now that egotistically I always consider in the back of my mind the pleasant (to me) possibility of someone someday reading my notes in some form or another. I really do deplore that and by writing in this way I want to outgrow that and really learn something by humbly doing badly as I am doing now. I pledge to stop these scribblings every time I catch myself writing with the fantastic, or imaginary, future reader in mind. And I have pledged to myself, too, to never change or correct as I reread what I have written and in that way I may learn to take care with my thoughts before they take the written form.

Before i go to bed, I will say something about this evening of the sort journals are supposed to contain. Earlier we could not decide whether we should go to a movie, of which there were none we were really anxious to see, those we were interested in seeing having come & gone duringvthe weekends we were unable to attend. So instead we drove to the park. Stopping at the waterfall, we walked up to the top or source of it and I waded in the cooling water before I went up to one of my favorite dreaming spots over the slope on the edge of the rolling golf course, under the birch trees there. It was pleasant & resting to be alone and away from people. As I lay on the grass I felt my face gently touched by rain although the sky directly above me was distantly clear. Over in the west large dark hulks were approaching and high winds must have blown these tiny drops ahead of their coming. Then when we were driving toward home large cold drops splashed in my face though the sky was still only partly crowded with tattered scraps of grey contrasting with the gentlest of pale pink and blue backgrounds. And there in one spot a high mass of white cloud was so struck by the last sunlight that it looked rainsoaked, thickly translucent like the half-melted snowslush that splatters when stomped upon.

Now we're home - Bob is in bed and Betty is stretched out across the doorway. One day I shall write about this dog of ours - all that she stands for, symbolizes, sort of, and what she means to me. Too, I want to write something of my past experiences as I am reminded of them, as I am quite often, being one who seems to enjoy living part-time in my past - much less lately, though, as I have come to be more deeply & securely happy or more bluntly, more mature.

As I reread this I feel I surely must do better as I couldn't do much worse. I am now discouraged.