In Memory of My Grandfather Abraham Nestor Lake 1917-2006
Old Sarge and His Two Women
Daniel Segura
12/18/06
Who could ever forget the
sweet smell of Ms. Muriel Magnum
bobbing between the
cigar-worn-but-still-his teeth
or fingers permanently stained
by tobacco and hard work
and needing to be relit
because her chewed and damp,
loose leaves went out
during the lively and wistful
retelling of a glory day
when one of her much older
sisters or cousins
accompanied the Old Sarge
while carting supplies
to the war weary doughboys
of World War II
or provided a moment
of respite for a seasick GI
crossing the ocean on the
first Queen Elizabeth
in predatory U-boat waters
or rode along while
her owner plowed fields on the tractor
or dug holes in the handcrafted backhoe?
Ms. Muriel was good
to the Old Sarge,
or maybe he was
just too tough for the
intuitive dangers of her leaves.
His doctor told him not
to worry about the cigars
because “when you don’t inhale,
you don’t smoke.”
Muriel was a good companion.
She went everywhere with him.
She never raised a fuss, never talked back.
I man will take his dog or cigar
with him wherever he goes,
but he would never trade one for his wife.
One more day to be Eighty-Nine,
but how much sweeter
were the Sixty-some years with Ann?
The stories of his military heroism
were always punctuated,
spoken or not, with beginning of those
Sixty-some years.
Ms. Muriel Magnum was with him
for more than seventy years
of farms and Wars
and kids and finally getting indoor plumbing,
playing cards on Saturday night
and bowling leagues
and running for office
and sons and daughters-in-law
and the second round
of sons and daughters-in-law
and bad weather where
three months later you’ve
got to look at the calendar to resolve
the argument about how cold
it really got that wintry night
or “Get the Map” to resolve
the argument of just how far
we really had to travel when
we went blueberry’n forty years ago
and grandkids climbing around
in the barn bringing no end to the
annoyance of the centenarian great uncle,
Frank- Francis Michael Lake,
“Awwh, don’t fuss about the kids, Mike.
They’ll be alright.”
and plowing the “deepest
snow I ever saw come down
in one night” backwards
in that old, able tractor
throwin’ snow “better’n
20 feet” so we could get
to the end of the drive
to pull out some young
kid with his brandnewtruck
stuck in the ditch
and great-grandkids
and not being able to
throw the firewood quite
so far into the barn anymore
and having to rely on his Son
to do the heavy lifting
and needing the wife’s help
to do simple things
when he’d always been the
hero of everything else.
But, Muriel was just with him.
She didn’t have a choice,
but Doris Ann Groat did.
For those Sixty-some years Ann,
because his sister’s name is Doris,
was his wife.
And that looker
from the city who earned
his heart while trying
to sell warbonds near some
military base in Iowa stayed with him
because she chose him,
and she loved him,
and she prayed for him,
and he provided for her,
and she took care of him
and she stayed with him
because she chose to.
He liked his cigar, Ms. Muriel,
but he loved his Ann.
And he was impressed by his Ann.
And he needed his Ann.
And everyone knows she
makes the best damn
huckleberry pie in the whole world.
He didn’t need to say it
and she didn’t need to hear it,
but she always made sure that
he got one of the biggest pieces
on the table.
Ms. Muriel Magnum was
a constant companion, but
she will only be remembered
on the merits of her owner.
Who could forget the smell
or stop the tide of memories
if we ever walk through
one of her sweet clouds?
We will forget her name,
but we will never forget
Abe-and-Ann.
We will never forget
the safety of that
wood-warmed house on the
St. Marys and the wonders of
that long deserted Orion farm.
We will never forget
Daddy, and Pops and Gramps
and Great-Grampa Lake.
We will never forget
the “Old Sarge.”
Daniel Segura
12/18/06
Who could ever forget the
sweet smell of Ms. Muriel Magnum
bobbing between the
cigar-worn-but-still-his teeth
or fingers permanently stained
by tobacco and hard work
and needing to be relit
because her chewed and damp,
loose leaves went out
during the lively and wistful
retelling of a glory day
when one of her much older
sisters or cousins
accompanied the Old Sarge
while carting supplies
to the war weary doughboys
of World War II
or provided a moment
of respite for a seasick GI
crossing the ocean on the
first Queen Elizabeth
in predatory U-boat waters
or rode along while
her owner plowed fields on the tractor
or dug holes in the handcrafted backhoe?
Ms. Muriel was good
to the Old Sarge,
or maybe he was
just too tough for the
intuitive dangers of her leaves.
His doctor told him not
to worry about the cigars
because “when you don’t inhale,
you don’t smoke.”
Muriel was a good companion.
She went everywhere with him.
She never raised a fuss, never talked back.
I man will take his dog or cigar
with him wherever he goes,
but he would never trade one for his wife.
One more day to be Eighty-Nine,
but how much sweeter
were the Sixty-some years with Ann?
The stories of his military heroism
were always punctuated,
spoken or not, with beginning of those
Sixty-some years.
Ms. Muriel Magnum was with him
for more than seventy years
of farms and Wars
and kids and finally getting indoor plumbing,
playing cards on Saturday night
and bowling leagues
and running for office
and sons and daughters-in-law
and the second round
of sons and daughters-in-law
and bad weather where
three months later you’ve
got to look at the calendar to resolve
the argument about how cold
it really got that wintry night
or “Get the Map” to resolve
the argument of just how far
we really had to travel when
we went blueberry’n forty years ago
and grandkids climbing around
in the barn bringing no end to the
annoyance of the centenarian great uncle,
Frank- Francis Michael Lake,
“Awwh, don’t fuss about the kids, Mike.
They’ll be alright.”
and plowing the “deepest
snow I ever saw come down
in one night” backwards
in that old, able tractor
throwin’ snow “better’n
20 feet” so we could get
to the end of the drive
to pull out some young
kid with his brandnewtruck
stuck in the ditch
and great-grandkids
and not being able to
throw the firewood quite
so far into the barn anymore
and having to rely on his Son
to do the heavy lifting
and needing the wife’s help
to do simple things
when he’d always been the
hero of everything else.
But, Muriel was just with him.
She didn’t have a choice,
but Doris Ann Groat did.
For those Sixty-some years Ann,
because his sister’s name is Doris,
was his wife.
And that looker
from the city who earned
his heart while trying
to sell warbonds near some
military base in Iowa stayed with him
because she chose him,
and she loved him,
and she prayed for him,
and he provided for her,
and she took care of him
and she stayed with him
because she chose to.
He liked his cigar, Ms. Muriel,
but he loved his Ann.
And he was impressed by his Ann.
And he needed his Ann.
And everyone knows she
makes the best damn
huckleberry pie in the whole world.
He didn’t need to say it
and she didn’t need to hear it,
but she always made sure that
he got one of the biggest pieces
on the table.
Ms. Muriel Magnum was
a constant companion, but
she will only be remembered
on the merits of her owner.
Who could forget the smell
or stop the tide of memories
if we ever walk through
one of her sweet clouds?
We will forget her name,
but we will never forget
Abe-and-Ann.
We will never forget
the safety of that
wood-warmed house on the
St. Marys and the wonders of
that long deserted Orion farm.
We will never forget
Daddy, and Pops and Gramps
and Great-Grampa Lake.
We will never forget
the “Old Sarge.”
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