Wolcott History – A Poem

In January 1967, the students of Wolcott High School decided to publish a literary “magazine” containing poems written by students. They solicited entries from all the current students as well as alumni. I was a freshman in college at the time and was in the midst of my “poetic phase” of life where I was writing poetry on a regular basis. Thus, I decided to write a poem to submit for publication in this “magazine”. It was accepted and published shortly thereafter.

The title of this poem is simply “Here is Wolcott” and it is a saga about the town. There is a phrase that is repeated three times in the saga about “A granite statue marks the center of the town” which of course refers to the one on the town green. I was not aware at the time that the statue had been erected in 1916 – just over 50 years earlier, nor that it was paid for by Leverett Kenea who was my 3^rd cousin (4 times removed). I wrote about that statue in my blog earlier here (http://ramblinrussells.blogspot.com/2015/05/memorial-day.html).

It is now 2017, near 51 years after I wrote this poem mentioning that statue, which had been dedicated 51 years prior to that, which was of a Civil War soldier from a war which ended 51 years prior to that. There is a certain amount of mathematical symmetry to that which I like.

Here is Wolcott                                    1/11-12/1967

“The Past”

The typical New England town

            that sets atop a hill,

            where farmers used to plow their fields

            and water turned the mill;

Where ladies wore their homespun skirts

            and shawls and bonnets bright,

            and rode a wagon into town,

            (oh, what a classic sight!);

Where wildlife freely roamed the woods

            and trees were straight and tall,

            and “injuns” prowled in the shades

            and seemed not there at all.

Its past is full of daring men,

            of deeds that they have done,

            of facts on how they lived their lives,

            of battles they have won;

A granite statue marks the center

            of this peaceful town.

            It’s dedicated to the past

            and it will ne’er fall down.

“The Present”

In spring the flowers start to grow

            and apple orchards bloom,

            the bees among that fragrant stuff

            do buzz their merry tune.

The flowers lessen year by year

            as streets do stretch their limbs –

            the lesson that we learn from this

            is found in many hymns.

The countryside, in days gone by,

            was all a verdant green;

            of all the sights around the town

            this was the nicest scene.

Where once were green fields in the sun,

            a row of houses grows,

            and where the cows did roam before

            the people hang their clothes.

Two years ago, at Lyman’s pond,

            where trees had been before,

            a man did speculate of what

            this place did hold in store.

He tore apart the wooded hills,

            he beached the water’s edge,

            then drove into the living earth

            a steel and concrete wedge.

The living green upon the hill

            was killed with axe and saw,

            now green his wallet does enfold

            and is there not a law?

The wearing of the green is gone,

            the earth has lost her wrap,

            but people ev’rywhere move in

            to spend their lives entrapped.

The people in the town who work

            can’t find employment there,

            they seek their jobs just down the road

            in larger cities near.

Because of that, we have a name,

            we are a “bedroom town,”

            the people here but lay their heads

            upon the pillows down.

The people want still better things –

            the color green’s the best –

            so for their wages battles start

            and never do they rest.

The farmers here are all but gone,

            the wars have all been won,

            but deep within the hearts of men

            the battle wages on.

If you were there on any day

            there isn’t much to see,

            just houses filling all the streets

            and not a single tree.

Our school is all there is to see

            there’s nothing else around,

            and word of it is far and wide,

            (it’s reputation’s crowned.)

Our teachers are a younger group,

            the pupils like that plan;

            ‘cause boys do like the female ones

            and girls do like the men.

They strive for things that they can learn

            and things that they can do,

            and always they achieve their goals

            and find a wisdom true.

They learn to add, subtract and square,

            they learn what language means,

            but they do not learn how to save

            the beauty of the green.

The house where Bronson Alcott lived

            did have a plaque of stone,

            but newer houses wanted land –

            the plaque now stands alone.

The mill upon the river’s bank

            where farmer’s ground their meal

            has passed into oblivion –

            and time that wound can’t heal.

There used to be a big fairground

            where people had their fun,

            a school does now that place take root –

            condolence comes from none.

The black lace pattern of the roads

            does cover all the ground,

            and buildings fill the space between

            and all the earth around.

There’s no more room for them to spread,

            there’re no more trees to cut,

            now houses reach up for the sky,

            and no one dares say, “but!”

Where running streams and babbling brooks

            had been ten years ago,

            a muddy torrent, full of suds,

            does now so ugly flow;

Where animals and creatures tame

            did roam the earth before,

            a super-highway, full of cars,

            does run past one’s front door.

The town right now is growing still,

            it’s bigger every day.

            I hope its growth does stop real soon,

            I don’t like it this way.

The whizzing cars disturb one’s soul,

            the houses block his view,

            and no one knows his neighbors well,

            and they don’t know him, too.

The quiet places all are gone

            and noise does hold the throne,

            e’en when the people leave for work

            you still are not alone.

The housewives do the morning wash,

            the younger children play,

            the screaming of a toddler’s voice

            does echo through the day.

The older children finish school

            and shout the whole way home,

            then “Dad” get finished for the day

            and I begin to moan.

I cannot hear a word I think,

            the sounds are much too loud,

            and I would like to leave this place,

            desert the noisy crowd.

These giant strides cannot go on

            and o’er them we can’t gloss,

            for if we do, in times to come,

            we will have won the loss.

A granite statue marks the center

            of this noisy town,

            it’s dedicated to the past,

            but will it e’er fall down?

“The Future?”

This maddening race cannot go on

            it surely cannot last;

            I hope we see in times to come

            the future is the past;

They’ll start to wreck the buildings tall

            because they hide the trees,   

            and houses they will tear apart

            and give to earth the breeze.

The green again will start to grow

            and please a mortal’s eyes,

            and make the verdant earth alive

            with praises to the skies.

A granite statue makes the center

            of this peaceful town.

            It’s dedicated to the past

            and it will ne’er fall down.