There is always behind the works of one, the many works of others. While we will to most, point to a group of works, there will always be that 'one' which begins the path. Each of us today, could point to one exact moment when our lives was met by something we found so beautiful, we just knew it would be a part of our lives forever.

So too can I. Back in my youth around the age of 8, I had a chance to hear our sixteen year old babysitter recite a poem which she found 'cute'. Okay, so cute wouldn't have cut it to her teachers, or perhaps in today's standards, but given her age and the growth of the west coast American culture in the very early 60s -- cute will do. She was reciting it to my mom, who tolerated its contents to the end, before suggesting something more suitable for a young girl. Yes, even then and even if my mom did hold to the ideas of Women's Libration, a young lady should act like a young lady. Young Ladies don't read or speak of works with content such as this did. Awh, but that is a story in and of itself, so let's continue with the Poem. As I listened to each metering of beat and the wonderful rhymes to each thought, it brought to mine the many songs which played on the radio at the time. Music without the aid of musical notes being played. One thing which struck me with astonishment was the story. A poem, with rhyme and told a tale. More, much more than the variety of odes, ballads and folk songs I would later learn and sing. This poem was more a story, than a poem, a bard's tale in fact. To think people actually wrote these, and enjoyed doing so.

I pretty much did what most children would do, skipping madly around the home rhyming everything I could. When mom screamed for 'enough!', I simply moved on to music and art while she was around, then back again to my rhymes in private. I had after all been rhyming for a couple of months before she caved; and we do know things like this can get the best of even the super parents. Inside, though, I would remember the words of the poem, the feel of the words as they were spoken and longed for a time when I too could invent such a wonderful tale.

Years would pass, a lifetime in fact and I would fail to find a copy of the treasured poem. The problem was one of not being able to understand the name of the poem through the nearly closed door, nor hearing the name of the poet. The words and rhyme my brain could fill in any missing blanks, but this really doesn't work with titles or names. One day while watching a bit of TV, the name of the poem came through as if I had heard it said right there and then. Why? No idea, but I did have a name, and possibly a first name of the poet. A few more years, some free time and success was met. So what was the poem you ask? I'm not being coy with you, it really does take time to pull such information from a past, this in a way gives you the feeling I have lived with. Just expand this short time of wait into a lifetime, you'll get the picture! The name of the Poem is, The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service.

To me, there would be no greater achievement in my life than to be able to spin such a poem and tale in one; and in that continuing spirit and goal, these works are offered.


Note: I could display a copy the poem as it is written by Robert. The work belongs to him, and may have copyrights applied by any number of people in this day and age. It is easy enough to use a search engine and find a copy of it posted in review, or as a study. It is enjoyable and you just might like to take a look for it.