Gentle and heartfelt greetings to all of you discerning drinkers of the warm and aromatic coffee of life that is IWS Radio.
Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here, bringing you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.
Today during our journey along the sullied boulevard of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I offer unto you a dollop of green bean casserole and slice of pumpkin pie of anecdotal nostalgia from my Thanksgivings past.
As a bright-eyed and wide-eyed erstwhile ragamuffin growing up in the bucolic cottage town of Moultonborough, N.H., the familial warmth generated by the annual autumnal reunification of the Piatt diaspora, was an emotional upheaval of good tidings, and the memories of which I have today, remain so.
November in Moultonborough is rife with the lavish harvest of the summer past, replete with a cornucopia of nature’s agricultural bounty as well as the comforting and beatified paradox that lies within the thunderous and towering Ossipee Mountain range to the north, and the soothing and ebbing waters of Lake Winnipesaukee to the south.
Moultonborough is enveloped by a natural hug, and for me, a familial embrace. And I cherish with whimsy, my memories of Thanksgivings past during my many years of propagation into adulthood.
I can, some nearly three score later, smell the aroma of mother cooking a freshly plucked goose and turkey.
I can hear the whimsical conversations between my father and Aunt Louise develop into a naughty, yet, in jest only, series of double entendres and playful friskiness as they clinked their glasses full of Crown Royal.
I can see my Uncle Rupert looking into the mirror as he with the four hands of Hindu Goddess Kali trying to make his folically challenged scalp seem hair borne.
I can taste the fist of my angry cousin Winston as he would forcefully baste his tightly curled five knuckles upon my pre-turkey ingestitive mouth…I cannot accurately describe the taste of his fist, but whenever I travel to Cincinnati on lecture tour and am served Skyline Chili, my taste buds recall the taste, and reactively recoil.
I can also, and am ashamed to say, that at the age thirteen as I was on the brink of burgeoning into a man, I remember the aforementioned Aunt Louise grabbing my hand, placing it upon her right breast and asking...
“How does this feel?”
As I was in still in my Dylan Thomas period, I responded…
“It feels that as though you have just turned me into an alcoholic.”
But alas…
I would not trade my Thanksgiving years gone by for anything, because while I have not much, I have everything…and while I do not everything, I have all that I need.
As Moultonborough summer resident and American poet John Greenleaf Whittier said…
To see our Father’s hand once more
Reverse for us the plenteous horn
Of autumn, filled and running o’er
With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!
On behalf of the IWS Radio family…
I wish you all a very happy, warm, non-judgmental, and angst free Thanksgiving!!
Paul Piatt
.
Renown poet and IWS Literary Editor, Paul Piatt here, bringing you some of today’s finest in the world of poetry, prose, and people.
Today during our journey along the sullied boulevard of words made magical, and life’s pentameters made iambic, I offer unto you a dollop of green bean casserole and slice of pumpkin pie of anecdotal nostalgia from my Thanksgivings past.
As a bright-eyed and wide-eyed erstwhile ragamuffin growing up in the bucolic cottage town of Moultonborough, N.H., the familial warmth generated by the annual autumnal reunification of the Piatt diaspora, was an emotional upheaval of good tidings, and the memories of which I have today, remain so.
November in Moultonborough is rife with the lavish harvest of the summer past, replete with a cornucopia of nature’s agricultural bounty as well as the comforting and beatified paradox that lies within the thunderous and towering Ossipee Mountain range to the north, and the soothing and ebbing waters of Lake Winnipesaukee to the south.
Moultonborough is enveloped by a natural hug, and for me, a familial embrace. And I cherish with whimsy, my memories of Thanksgivings past during my many years of propagation into adulthood.
I can, some nearly three score later, smell the aroma of mother cooking a freshly plucked goose and turkey.
I can hear the whimsical conversations between my father and Aunt Louise develop into a naughty, yet, in jest only, series of double entendres and playful friskiness as they clinked their glasses full of Crown Royal.
I can see my Uncle Rupert looking into the mirror as he with the four hands of Hindu Goddess Kali trying to make his folically challenged scalp seem hair borne.
I can taste the fist of my angry cousin Winston as he would forcefully baste his tightly curled five knuckles upon my pre-turkey ingestitive mouth…I cannot accurately describe the taste of his fist, but whenever I travel to Cincinnati on lecture tour and am served Skyline Chili, my taste buds recall the taste, and reactively recoil.
I can also, and am ashamed to say, that at the age thirteen as I was on the brink of burgeoning into a man, I remember the aforementioned Aunt Louise grabbing my hand, placing it upon her right breast and asking...
“How does this feel?”
As I was in still in my Dylan Thomas period, I responded…“It feels that as though you have just turned me into an alcoholic.”
But alas…
I would not trade my Thanksgiving years gone by for anything, because while I have not much, I have everything…and while I do not everything, I have all that I need.
As Moultonborough summer resident and American poet John Greenleaf Whittier said…
To see our Father’s hand once more
Reverse for us the plenteous horn
Of autumn, filled and running o’er
With fruit, and flower, and golden corn!
On behalf of the IWS Radio family…
I wish you all a very happy, warm, non-judgmental, and angst free Thanksgiving!!
Paul Piatt
.
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