He Came Too Late by Elizabeth Bogart - A Poem of Neglect

I have been reading and writing poetry since I was twelve. There are some poems that have special meaning for me for one reason or another, at some point in my life. This is one of them.

Born in New York City, Elizabeth Bogart was educated by her father, a minister and graduate of Columbia College (now Columbia Univ.). She published in a number of the literary periodicals, using the pen-name "Estelle." Unlike many women poets of the day, Bogart was financially independent and thus did not write out of economic need. Her poem "He Came Too Late" was immensely popular and frequently reprinted. Her works were collected in Driftings from the Stream of Life (1866).


He came too late!--Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;
Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.
She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.
He came too late!--At once he felt
That all his power was o'er!
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt,
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,
Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him and her words were gay,
No spell had memory.

He came too late!--the subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,
Not by offence of spoken words,
But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay,
Yet she disdained his tardy vow,
And coldly turned away.

He came too late!--Her countless dreams
Of hope had long since flown;
No charms dwelt in his chosen themes,
Nor in his whispered tone.
And when, with word and smile, he tried
Affection still to prove,
She nerved her heart with woman's pride,
And spurned his fickle love.

Misplaced Modifiers - The Hilarious Results

This is an excerpt from this week's Writer's Relief Newsletter:

MISPLACED MODIFIERS

Did you know that unassuming little misplaced modifiers actually have the power to run people off the road while driving, cause them to choke on their sandwiches, or even cause fits of hysterical laughter? Talk about powerful!

Don’t let their harmless appearance fool you. One little misplaced modifier can turn a simple hand-lettered sign or billboard into an Internet-cruising joke in no time flat. Confused? Take a look:

Sign posted at a Moscow hotel: You are welcome to visit the cemetery where famous Russian composers, artists, and writers are buried daily, except on Thursdays. (Gee, it’s a good thing we don’t live there!)

At an office: For those who have children and don’t know it, there is a day care on the first floor. (Must be some pretty quiet kids.)

Misplaced modifiers can also create some interesting mental pictures: Pizza was given to the teenagers that had pepperoni and olives on them. (I’d like to see some teenagers with sausage and mushrooms on them.)

This summer I stood knee-deep in the river and caught a fish without waders. (It would be fun to catch a fish that wasn’t wearing clothes, wouldn’t it?)

Let’s go back and make sure we all understand the function of a modifier, and then we can get back to making fun of its improper usage.

A modifier is a group of words that describes or gives additional information about another word (or words) in a sentence. A misplaced modifier is placed incorrectly within the sentence so that it ends up describing (or modifying) the wrong word. For example:

Correct: I like okra when fried. Incorrect: When fried, I like okra.

The second sentence gives the impression that I like okra only after ingesting drugs and/or alcohol.

Correct: The back tire went flat while I was driving to work. Incorrect: While driving to work, the back tire went flat.

The second sentence gives us a mental picture of a tire driving to work!

Humorous or confusing examples of misplaced modifiers often circulate through e-mail, and real-life examples are everywhere, especially if you’re looking for them. Who hasn’t questioned themselves when seeing that all-too-familiar sign, “Slow Children Crossing”?

A Fair to Remember - Epilogue

This is the time of year when one of the most anticipated events in rural Ohio occurs— Brown County Fair time. It is referred to by the natives as the “Little State Fair,” and is one of the most well attended county fairs in the whole of Ohio.

I wrote about my first foray into county fair-dom back in 2002 when I was a stringer for the News Democrat in Georgetown, Brown County’s seat of government. That article has been making the rounds of print and online publications ever since then.

Consider this an epilogue.

I once again attended the fair this year—2009—on Friday evening, and thoroughly enjoyed the Veterans program with my friend Beth McKenzie. But that’s not the event of which I write, stirring as it was, and as thankful as I am to the veterans and troops

My youngest daughter, Samantha, who is now a senior at Xavier University, called me Friday afternoon, asking me to go to the fair with her, as her best friend was not able to attend. Sam graduated from a Brown County high school—Eastern Brown—and has never missed spending at least one day at the fair since she was in elementary school.

Thrilled to be asked to spend an evening with my daughter, I gladly agreed to go with her.

Friday night was the first decent evening of the entire week—clear as a bell, whereas it had rained most of the other evenings. Subsequently, the fair was packed. Parking became practice for Sam’s future in international conflict resolution. I’m sure shouting out the car window, “Hey you! That was my spot!” will come in handy. However, if she should decide to become a Nascar driver, she will also have all the necessary skills. Disclaimer: No small children or animals were harmed in our mad scramble to beat all the F-350s and Chevy Duallys vying for the same parking space.

Sam and I had already outlined our plan for the evening: “Eat our way through the fair.” Anyone who knows anything about county or state fairs knows that there is nothing on the planet like fair food—it’ll kill you if you eat it every day, or every week, for that matter, but once or twice a year, you have got to indulge.

We started with the greasy, salty, skinny fries served up in a paper cup. Since we were walking while we ate them, the calories were cancelled out. Followed closely behind the fries was the ¼ lb. of chocolate/peanut butter fudge. You see, you have to alternate salty and sweet. It’s a rule. I read it somewhere. We took a half-hour off to chat with long-time but rarely seen friends—Sam’s being old high school friends—mine being former readers from my days with the News Democrat and Ripley Bee.

Now it was time for the blooming onion—a humongous breaded and deep-fried marvel. We figured this fulfilled our vegetable requirement. The hefty gentleman whose arms were covered in hot grease burns, took a shine to my 21-year-old daughter.

Sam: “Can I also get a Sierra Mist?”

Onion frying guy: “Here ya go. It’s on the house . . . beautiful.”

I was much closer to this man’s age, but sadly(not), I went unnoticed.

We watched the pretty horses running around the ring show while eating our onion. We also picked up our favorite phrase of the evening: “Lettum know ye lak em”—this bellowed out by the announcer calling commands at the horse show.

Oddly, the announcer would also bellow. “Willya jowg em”—a command, apparently, and not a question. I thought it meant, “Will you choke them” and did not quite understand since a horse does not have a choke, nor did anyone dismount and proceed to strangle the animal. Sam figured out, finally, that it meant “Will you jog them” which seems obvious to me now, but at the time I had so much grease in my system, my brain cells were gooping together.

We took another gastronomical break to watch the tractor pull. This is a strange event and Sam wondered while we watched these eight and nine-thousand pound tractors pulling this behemoth of a vehicle, which apparently weighs like five million pounds, “How does someone practice for this event?” Which, when you think of it, is a really good question. The longest “pull” was 333 feet, when Sam and I decided we needed to eat again.

Bellowed by grumpy man over fair loudspeaker on the way out of tractor pull field: “Jerry Swigert, report to the port-o-lets!”

I have no clue why.

So we’d done the salty, sweet, and salty again, so now it was time for sweet. The dilemma: elephant ears? funnel cake? cinnamon roll the size of Toledo? deep-fried Snickers? or. . . Yes!—the chocolate covered crème horn!

Now, we are not gluttons; we split one crème horn. Yet, that was enough to send us both into sugar delirium. We “drunkenly” stumbled dangerously close to the hefty gentleman whose arms were covered in hot grease burns at the blooming onion booth, but our free will won out and we swerved toward the Western Brown Wrestler’s booth and I literally choked out the word, “Water!”

Sam then decided she just had to touch the dead, frozen, and eyeless pig laid out in the pulled pork booth waiting roasting.

By 11pm, nausea, bloating, acne, greasy hair, and diabetes was setting in, so we weaved our way along the horse excrement-brick road through other like-afflicted fair-goers, while Sam chanted, “Look into the pig’s eyes,” and managed to find Sam’s probably illegally parked car, and headed for the neon lights of home.

The crash from my sugar and grease high came at four o’clock this morning. A 16- ounce glass of water, and three cups of Italian Roast coffee, followed by two loads of laundry to get the mud and poo off my clothes, and I am good to go.

Lettum know ye lak em.

My Favorite Wizard of Oz Quotes - Happy 70th Anniversary!

The Wizard: A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others.

Dorothy: Your majesty, if you were king, you wouldn't be afraid of anything? Cowardly Lion: Not nobody. Not nohow.

Tin Woodsman: Not even a rhinoceros?

Cowardly Lion: Imposerous!

Dorothy: How about a hippopotamus?

Cowardly Lion: Why, I'd thrash him from top to bottomus.

Dorothy: Supposing you met an elephant?

Cowardly Lion: I'd knot him up in cellophant.

Scarecrow: What if it were a brontosaurus?

Cowardly Lion: I'd show him who was king of the forest.

Scarecrow: I don't know... But some people without brains do an awful lot of talking... don't they?

Auntie Em: Now you go feed those hogs before they worry themselves into anemia!

Wizard of Oz: Why, anybody can have a brain. That's a very mediocre commodity. Every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the Earth or slinks through slimy seas has a brain. Back where I come from, we have universities, seats of great learning, where men go to become great thinkers. And when they come out, they think deep thoughts and with no more brains than you have. But they have one thing you haven't got: a diploma.

Cowardly Lion: [singing] I'm afraid there's no denyin' / I'm just a dandy-lion / A fate I don't deserve / I'm sure I could show my prowess / Be a lion, not a mouse / If I only had the nerve.

Cowardly Lion: Courage! What makes a king out of a slave? Courage! What makes the flag on the mast to wave? Courage! What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the ape in apricot? What have they got that I ain't got?

Dorothy, Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman: Courage!

Cowardly Lion: You can say that again! Huh?

Dorothy: Lions and tigers and bears! Oh, my!

Harold J. Chadwick, my dad, in radio interview today.

At 2:00 this afternoon, (Thursday Sept. 17) please go to blogtalkradio.com/bridgelogos in order to hear Lloyd Hildebrand's interview with Harold J. Chadwick, Senior Editor of Bridge-Logos and author of "How to Be Filled With Spiritual Power," a book that is based on the miracle ministry of John G. Lake.

The program is called "We're Talking Books," and I hope you will listen and, perhaps, call in. The first five callers will receive a free book.

Justifying My Existence - by Daniel Silveria

I was born with Spinal Muscular Atrophy and, as a result, have been a quadriplegic for most of my 33 years. My mother didn't know prior to my birth that I would be afflicted with this illness. I was diagnosed when I was two years old. There's no way of knowing if she would have decided to terminate the pregnancy had she known in advance that her child would be disabled; if she'd have been overwhelmed at the prospect of maintaining an extremely dependent individual with a severely compromised immune system and a questionable "quality of life."

The thing about life is that it's a zero-sum game. In order for one's quality of life to be examined and taken into consideration, one must first have a life. My basic thesis here is that I'm glad that I do. If I'd have been aborted it would've made this far more difficult to write.

So I'm writing this from the perspective of the unaborted fetus, a not at all disinterested third party in this third rail debate. There are compelling arguments on both sides of the issue. In fact, I'm pretty sure I would be accused of riding the fence, since, though I am in favor of choosing life, when it comes down to it, I am reluctantly pro-choice. This is because I'm very much a proponent of states' rights, as opposed to a collection of any-way-the-wind-blows politicians in Washington deciding what's best for Joe Schmo in Idaho. The brilliant P.J. O'Rourke once compared the concept to being married, saying you can argue with the people (your wife) all you want, but inevitably it's just going to be, "Yes dear," and let democracy have the final say.

However, I'm just as opposed to some uninformed "it's my body, it's my life" able-bodied activist deciding for me and my ilk that my life, such as it is, is expendable and essentially not worth living. "To be or not to be?" is my question, not yours.

Life is worth living. When reduced to its simplest capabilities, when merely existing and drawing breath while being able to contemplate the sensation of that breath, life is worth the ride. Give me liberty, but first give me breath. And I'm not the smartest being to ever not walk the face of the earth, but having the ability to think at all allows me to appreciate the richness afforded me by the five senses. I can watch the nightly news and marvel at the human condition and all its long winded shortcomings, ubiquitous brilliance, and interwoven storylines. Despite my condition, the beauty is not lost on me. The sights and sounds all around provide more than enough motivation to get me out of bed in the morning. And even when I can no longer get out of bed, I'll find a way to supply myself with word of the movers and shakers and what they're moving and shaking.

If I am one day reduced to a coma, visit me in my subconscious Shangri-La with a bottle of something expensive, and we'll raise a coma-toast. If I'm alive, I'm not unconscious. My heart still knows where to pump the blood, my immune system still knows where to find the bacteria cafeteria. Consciousness is precious beyond any words I could put here in support of it. To say nothing of the visceral realm, which is sometimes background music, but sometimes makes the little hairs on the back of your neck stand in awe. Maybe it's a consciousness higher than consciousness.

You might be thinking that someone like me develops an exceptionally fortified wall of denial as a defense mechanism. Da Nile ain't just a river in Egypt, after all. I don't see it like that, though. The game has merely been simplified for me by way of removing some of the extras, and appreciation of what is replaces focus from what is lacking. It's all relative. Somebody that most people would agree has ideal circumstances in their life might be absolutely miserable because their focus is intensely on the few things that they lack. So the opposite is often true of someone who might be perceived by the consensus as having less than ideal circumstances. I'm not saying that I constantly see the world through the lenses of rose-colored glasses. I visit the doldrums every now and then. But there's no shortage of people pounding the doldrums. Misery loves company, so pity parties are all the rage. There are human interest stories as far as the eyes can see, where the humans of interest have a tale of woe. And the more morbid the tale, the more spectators.

It seems we are obsessed with constantly reaffirming that life is not fair. I have a very profound response to this presumption:

Duh!

We hold this truth to be self-evident - and freakin' obvious. You're perfectly entitled to your childish notions of entitlement, but reality has a funny way of shaking the plate tectonics of your paradigmbag. How many times do we lab brats have to run into the electrified walls of "life's-not-fair" and still be shocked and amazed by the maze? Pearls of wisdom are produced the same way actual pearls are: via friction and time. I have been pearl-lyzed, hallelujah!

It's my belief that depression's primary cause stems from the expectations and entitlement mentality running headlong into the Truth Train.

The brutality of reality gives its brand of tough love to the unsuspecting gamer. We all have a predetermined timeline arranged in our minds as to where we're supposed to be at a given point in the midst of this mortal coil. Kind of a biological clock, but applicable to endless other rites of passage we presume to be part of the grand tour. "I should have 2.3 kids by the time I'm 30 years old;" "I should be able to retire by the time I'm 65;" "I should have a house in the Hamptons with a gardener, chef, and personal misuse who doubles as my doubles partner and caddie, and drives my Cadi while I'm in the back, swigging gin & Jack on the cell with my broker, who's got me stalks of stocks socked away all by the time I'm sprouting grey hairs."

"Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse." - Adam Smith

You see, we have midlife crises, earlylife crises, and end-of-life issues. But what we really have is a beautiful collection of priceless moments. Moments are in the I of the beholder.

Two years following my diagnosis, my mother got pregnant again. Strangely, some highly motivated organizations caught wind of this and swarmed down on her like vultures, offering advice and support in preventing such a horrible misfortune from happening again. Because, you know, my sit-uation is genetic and there was a good chance that history would repeat itself repeat itself. This time she knew the risks, and come hell or sick toddler, was perfectly willing to accept the results. Baby brother Andrew came nine months later, happy and healthy.

No group elected or otherwise should have authority over another individual's life or death, or in any way feel justified in evaluating that individual's quality of life or value to the tribe. Social engineering cannot be acceptable ever. No matter how many pretty euphemisms you try to pin to it.

You might look at me, and compared to the rest, assess what you see as flawed. Look closer you'll find a soul and a mind. I am a living expression of God.

Thumper - In Memoriam

On Thursday of last week, February 26, I lost my companion of the past six years—my beloved dachshund, Thumper.

Thumper came to me from my brother and sister-in-law in September of 2003. Upon moving to a gated community that did not allow more than two dogs, and having three dogs—Thumper being the troublemaker of the trio (he liked to dig under the fence and cruise the neighborhood)—Steve, my brother, called and asked if I would like to adopt Thumper. I have always loved dachshunds and particularly Thumper as he was very talented and loaded with personality, so of course, I said “Yes!”

Thumper was an AKC-registered, smooth red miniature dachshund. His sire—dad—was Oscar Mayer Veiner II, and his dam—mom—was Buttons McIlvain. Buttons was three years older than her beloved Oscar, but theirs was an ageless love.

At the time of Thumper’s birth, Oscar and Buttons lived in Hamilton, Ohio, but their story began in war-torn Ireland . . .

Lt. Oscar Mayer Veiner II, had been a spitfire youth who was caught up in the fervor of the rebuilding of his country after WWI. Like so many other youths, he was an idealist, and was blinded by the rhetoric and propaganda of the rising Nazi powers. He joined the Lutwaffe—the German air force—and was soon fighting a battle that opened his eyes to the cruelties of man.

On April 7, 1941, Lt. Veiner II participated in the bombing of Belfast, Ireland. The lieutenant’s plane was shot down, and Oscar was seriously wounded.

Buttons McIlvain, a beautiful, red-haired lass, supported her family by working as a barmaid in Belfast. When the air raid sirens ceased on that fateful day, she climbed out of the bomb shelter and nearly tripped over the wounded Lt. Veiner II. Her mind told her to let him die, but her soft heart would not let her leave him in the street. She dragged him to her home, and there she undertook his care.

Buttons’ compassion, coupled with Oscar’s disillusionment with the German war effort, helped these two young pups bond and fall in love. Oscar never returned to the Lutwaffe, and spent the remainder of the war assisting the Irish in the defense of their country.

After the war, the young lovers married, and daringly stowed away on a ship journeying to America. They made their way to the home of Steve and Lynda McIlvain in Hamilton, Ohio—relatives of Buttons—who welcomed them with open arms, chew toys, and bags of kibble.

Their son, Thumper, never tired of hearing the story of his parents’ love. Their sense of adventure was instilled in Thumper at a young age, and he grew to be a great adventurer—fighting in the Sahara with the French Foreign Legion, working undercover with the FBI to infiltrate and bring down Al Capone’s organization, crossing the 38th Parallel between North and South Korea to deliver vital strategic information to the Americans as a CIA operative, and counseling President John K. Kennedy during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Thumper’s talents and bravery earned him a pampered retirement in my home, where he grew fat and happy. Finally able to relax, he lived out his days rolling over for cookies, chasing tennis balls, learning to use his inside voice, sleeping under his human’s desk while she worked, and caring for stray kittens.

Thumper is survived by his cousins, Jippy—a sheltie, and Jasmine—a black Labrador, Boo-Boo, a grey kitten he nursed to health, and his housemate, Dickens, an orange tabby cat.

And me, his human.

You are sorely missed, Thumpy-Geez.

The End Justifies the Meanness

For the past few weeks I have been dealing with incompetents—people, I confess, for whom I have little—okay, no—patience.

I will also admit that I don’t always know the answer to a question or the solution to a problem, but as a lifelong research enthusiast, I do know where to find the information I need.

I will also confess that I am a bit of a smart-aleck. Borrowing a line from Topher Grace’s character in “Win a Date with Tad Hamilton,” I can slay someone with my “biting rhetoric.”

So my base inclination when I am saddled with an incompetent customer service representative is to vent my spleen—not using profanity—that is the crutch of the ignorant—but with a turn of phrase that lets this incompetent feel their lack, elevates their opinion of my importance to someone they do NOT want to mess with, and makes them do it my way just so they can feel better about themselves.

I have always had this particular talent and, at various times in my life, it has been a positive. It has kept me from having “the crap beat out of” me by school bullies, it has forced a hospital to give my daughter the care she needed, it has enabled me to write and sell some of my funniest humor columns.

But, for the most part, it has been a negative. Yes, I have “motivated” people to “get ‘er done” but at what cost to themselves, and ultimately to me?

In the first century, Phaedrus wrote: A fly bit the bare pate of a bald man, who in endeavouring to crush it gave himself a hard slap. Then said the fly jeeringly, “You wanted to revenge the sting of a tiny insect with death; what will you do to yourself, who have added insult to injury?”

Proverbs 18:21 states, in part, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” Earlier in Proverbs, it is written, “The one who guards his mouth preserves his life; The one who opens wide his lips comes to ruin” (13:3).

King David, the psalmist, wrote, “LORD, who may dwell in your sanctuary? Who may live on your holy hill? He whose walk is blameless and who does what is righteous, who speaks the truth from his heart and has no slander on his tongue, who does his neighbor no wrong and casts no slur on his fellowman” (Psalm 15:1-3, NIV).

Charles Haddon Spurgeon (1834-92), England's best-known preacher for most of the second half of the nineteenth century, expanded on Psalm 15:3 in his magnum opus, The Treasury of David:

There is a sinful way of backbiting with the heart when we think too hardly of a neighbour, but it is the tongue which does the mischief. Some men's tongues bite more than their teeth. The tongue is not steel, but it cuts, . . . He who bridles his tongue will not give a licence to his hand. Loving our neighbour as ourselves will make us jealous of his good name, careful not to injure his estate, or by ill example to corrupt his character. Our Lord spake evil of no man, but breathed a prayer for his foes; we must be like him, or we shall never be with him.

Therefore, in the light that is cast upon my particular talent by these and other notable and wise writers, I will have to conclude that there is a high cost, not only to the victim of my “biting rhetoric” but also to me in “unbridling” my tongue.

I have “weighed, measured, and found wanting” too many people over the years, and if I am ever weighed and measured in that same manner, I, too, would be found wanting.

It is a universal truth that “For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you” (Matthew 7:2, KJV).

The New International Version puts it in plainer speech: “The way that you judge others will be the way that you will be judged, and you will be evaluated by the standard with which you evaluate others.”

Ouch.

I will be taking these warnings to heart, dear readers. God save me from the day when I am evaluated as cruelly as I evaluate others.