For all our birthdays in 2018--a rap by Lynne

Tracking on 80, a rap by Lynne Wilburn

I have my own teeth,
my eyes are the best in the house,
sense of direction still good,
balance better than most.
I can still climb a ladder,
haul groceries from the car,
hang clothes on the lines,
cut the grass and
scoop the porches after snow and
I can still walk five miles a day.

I can't use my phone
and Windows 10 is a stinker.
I don't always smell good at the end of the day
or sleep through the night,
but I can still read and remember
and look forward to another year,
and I can still hope for the best.

Note:  This is from an actual e-mail.  All I did was space it out a little--and of course, got Lynne's permission.

Poems from the past by Lynne

In sorting through my Christmas basket of letters and photos (sorting and decluttering goes along with age) I found some great letters from my cousin in Canada, and even a few from my mother who died in 2000. Sadly, there were also Christmas letters from "Squeeky" and Nelson (Tom) (obituaries are on the blog). As a bonus,  I found three nice seasonal poems by Lynne. I've been nagging her for years to compile them, but who listens to me?  I really like the New Year poem message--remarkable from one who has faced down cancer three times.
"There is time out there to be lived,
But not one minute must we hoard."

Christmas 1993
Home for Christmas

I'm going home for Christmas
(who says one can't go home again!)
And it always recalls to mind,
The dear folks who will be waiting there
With smiles to sweet and kind.

I am going home for Christmas,
at the thought my heart sings;
I can scarcely wait for that morning
For the joy that it brings.

It's a small house in a village
where smoke curls in the air,
The log fire where the flames leap high,
A cozy, winged-back chair.
Pure contentment, yes it's there.

The shadows of the evening
fall across the snow,
and bathe the earth in pale pink glow,
While winter's sun burns low.

The neighborhood church is beckoning
With iviting candle light, and music,
traditional and old is telling of a reckoning
so long ago foretold.

Home reflects itself within my heart,
I'm at once happy and at peace for he who sees
For I'm going home for Christmas
To all those memories.

Christmas 1995
So, Tested Friendships

Like lighted cnadles set on a window ledge
at night, which throw
A mellow, yellow path of light
Across the Christmas snow. . .

Like dancing hearth flames' warm caress
Reflecting cheer,
Soft'ning kind faces
That we hold dear.

Like holly berries bright;
Like mistltoe, with berries white . . .
Like bright stars upon a clear midnight.

So, tested friendships,
Mellow, cheering, warm and purse;
One of life's cherished gifts,
Through passing years endure.

Christmas 2002
The New Year

The old year was generous in many ways,
In other ways she may have seemed austere.
But I feel no recrimination--only joy,
As I face the New Year without fear.
There is time out there to be lived,
But not one minute must we hoard.
The year is given to us in trust,
Wanton waste we cannot afford.
And the days will grow into weeks,
The tasks and blessings will pile high.
We'll find real joy in living,
As these weeks go swiftly by.
And weeks make up months--just twelve,
How quickly the precious time goes.
Amy time have made us wiser and better.

Be my Valentine

I'm a card saver. I was going through my very disorganized under-the-guest-bed box looking for old Valentines to use for decoration on the 14th for our brunch, and I came across a poem Lynne sent me in 2000. With her permission, I’m putting it on the class blog.

It's the little things that count
The things of everyday,
Just the simple things that we can do,
The kind words we can say.

The little things like a friendly smile
For those who may be sad,
The clasp of a hand or kindly deed
To help make someone glad.

Just the little greetings here and there
On which so much depends,
The little pleasures all can share,
The joy of making friends.

Lynne L. Wilburn
2/2000
Valentine's Day

Memorial tree's first fall

Our memorial tree had a lovely first fall, according to Lynne--it was lovingly watered and watched over by several '57 class members.

The leaves fall.
Autumn is closing the windows
on the year.
But this is just
a moment in time.
There is always that eternal hope
that looks ahead to the glorious green and
flowering life of a new springtime
just over the horizon.

Update: Another photo at a different shade in the color spectrum and angle as the season changes. Isn't it lovely?

A poem for our birthdays

Sybil, wife of Mort who writes the blog Octogenarian, wrote this on the occasion of her recent 80th birthday, but reading through it, I decided it sounds pretty much like turning 70. At the mini-reunion at Moe and Nancy's, three members of the class were rejoicing at being returned to friends and family after recent serious health problems. So for all of us, whatever our age this year (I think 1939 would probably win out as a birth year for our class), here's her poem. I missed the reunion, but when I was in MM at Easter having coffee with Nancy and Lynne, I know I heard the importance of friendship many, many times, which is really what Sybil decides too.

AN OCTOGENARIAN'S LAMENT

I look in the mirror and see a strange face.
Oh, surely this image is in the wrong place.

There should be a picture, alive and aglow,
A young pretty girl with no signs of woe.

But alas I see a woman, who's old and worn,
With wrinkles and lines from the cares she has borne.

It's hard to accept that never again
Will I get the glances of much younger men.

I really feel like I'm out of the loop.
The computer keyboard to me Looks like alphabet soup.

The mouse is erratic and just won't behave
And I never remember the key for work that you save.

I don't have a Blackberry, or play an Nintendo game
And all the hip-hop music to me sounds the same.

I'm even beginning to feel quite bitter
That I have no idea what it means to TWITTER!

And so like the poet I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high O'er vale and hill
when all at once I saw a crowd
Not of golden daffodils, but of my wonderful friends.

I really should tell ol' Wordsworth
That a friend brings more joy than a daffodil.
Your love and compassion have helped me through the years
As you have patiently listened to my woes and my fears.

So thank you and bless you for helping me celebrate my special day.
Your devotion means more to me than I can say.

I love you all.

---------------

Sybil gave permission to post this.

A Spring Poem

Spring.
A time of sowing
and growing.
Seeds in the earth.
Thoughts in the mind.
Germination.
Imagination.
Cultivation.
Caring
Raindrops feeding.
Love encouraging.
Seedlings sprouting.
Friendship supporting.
Sun Warming.
Faith Comforting.
Flowers blooming.
Spirits refreshed.
Spring.

by Lynne

The Crimson Days of Autumn

By the class poet, Lynne, September 2002

The crimson days of autumn etched merrily in gold,
Unfold silently before me to watch the world turn cold.
There's frost upon the meadow where the clover used to bloom,
And the scent of clove and cinnamon permeates every room.
There's fresh cider to buy and a fresh-baked apple pie.
It's no wonder hearts beat faster when autumn fills the sky!
It's a time to pick the apples, a time to harvest corn.
It's a time to gather walnuts early in the morn.
It's a time we should be thankful for all this goodness and grace.
When the crimson days of autumn puts on her gold face.