19" x 22" Untitled (The Good Enough Life)
Mixed Media on Paper by Ruth Ann Howden
This
is the only painting I’ve done this year. I do have a piece of wood that will one
day be a block print, when I get around to it. That task hasn’t even made it to
the To Do list, but I’ve left it sitting out where I see it everyday. The
artist of good intentions . . .
my good enough life
nearing the last soft hurrah
scattering of whims
My paternal
grandfather was a poet, musician, wanderer. When he lost his farm during the
depression he was already a widower twice. I knew him in the 1950's, as happy,
playful and great fun to hang out with.
He had eight children and when he could no longer work as a hired
hand on other people’s farms he did the family circuit and stayed with one of
his children and then another. He slept on our living room sofa when he stayed
with us. I remember him playing banjo and we would sing and dance to She’ll Be
Coming ‘Round the Mountain, Clementine, and my favorite, Red River Valley,
which was very sad, filled with his longing for home.
He taught us to braid four strands of leather into lanyards, and
how to make slingshots, both the forked style and the sling that you spun
around your head. He built a swing for us in an old oak tree up on the
hillside. An all-around delightful companion. Grandpa used snuff and to cover
the odor he would eat sen-sen, little bits of dried licorice from a tiny box.
He would share some of his sen-sen with us kids, and though I don’t think I
cared for the taste, licorice still hits a nostalgic spot when I smell it.
While he was living with us he self-published a chap-book of his
poetry, 49 of his poems plus one anonymous poem titled "The Deadman's Journey" that is three pages long. He
apparently had memorized that poem. Grandpa worked with the local newspaper to
get the book type set and printed. Titled “Thoughts Along the Way” by S. G.
Howden, subtitled Prairie Poems by a Pioneer with the price of $.65 on the soft
cover but no date. Clues within the poems indicate they were written from the
1920’s to mid-century and give an idea of what his life and his world was like
almost 100 years ago.
I am impressed by his effort, but as I recall he was not
successful in selling them, and my parents were embarrassed by his trying. A
box of these books were found in my uncle’s basement after he died. I am very
glad that I have one. For a couple more samples of his work see my blog dated
spring 2019.
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I
have been reading my grandfather’s poetry again, seeing that he survived very
difficult times and that he also let out a rant now and then, but he kept his
sense of humor as seen in the following poem.
THE RUNT OF THEM ALL by S. G.
Howden
My eldest boy found pleasure and joy
In wielding the gloves with me,
When he was yet small, I, being too tall,
I then would get down on my knee;
But the last time I tried I had to decide
That he was too much for me.
Now I used to play on the fiddle – –
My daughter she plays the violin,
She doesn’t play in my old fashion way,
She holds it up under her chin;
She stands when she plays, fixes her gaze,
On notes that are Latin to me.
I do not object – – she must be correct – –
For she plays so much better than me.
Well I remember one December
Of teaching the boys to skate,
For the last time I tried
I had lost that stride – –
I found I was twenty years late.
Children have kept an old record,
Their markings are there on the wall – –
Now when I step under that chalk mark,
I find I’m the Runt of them all.
S.G. Howden on right, North Dakota ca. 1945
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This
year when I try to write poetry it often comes out as rants — skip this if you
wish to avoid negativity
Madness
The one-man militia comes to our festivals
He comes to our churches and schools
He comes to temples, offices, shopping centers and bars
Multiplying the grievers and also deceivers
Politicians claim they care but do nothing
The Second Amendment was a promise for security
With a well regulated militia
Now a loophole for arms dealers
We scatter and hide
Parents die on top of their children
Nowhere is safe
Marketers already sell bullet resistant backpacks
Slip into a crevice and hold your breath
Cower into nonexistence
Leaders who flaunt the law send
Messages that an individual’s belief and desires
Outweigh the unknown victims right to life
Random mass killings, more than one a week
Madness to accept this equation
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