October 15, 2022

Turkeys lounging most of the afternoon in the back garden. 

My father and I never talked about anything important, philosophy or art or belief. I have no idea what he believed about anything. Mother and I could talk about– what shall I say?– domestic virtue, how one should behave toward others. I don’t know what she believed either. They were both Republicans, but on what principles? For my mother it was likely an unexpected familial hatred of Roosevelt, but there must have been more to it than that. I think you would call her a Miraculous Christian, one who saw miracles in daily events. Now that I think of it, she was a pagan with the names changed. What music did they prefer? What books? Which paintings? Plato or Aristotle? It cannot be rewoven now even from the threads of remembered conversation. What would they have thought of my work? I recall father attending a reading at Hiram. His remark to me afterward was “That’s poetry?” I think he expected “Invictus.” It’s a point of view. I wish I knew where it led.