and stares at the ceiling as if waiting for

the faded carved initials, military symbols, and dates to heal

revealing tender cherry wood that crowns the Eagle pub

revealing the American servicemen of World War II

revealing my stepfather as a young student of Queens College before years of work, wives, and children.

I drown in my house cider,

feeling more and more like a little girl

peeking into his library, treading on a daddydaughter’s relationship

he sweeps his eyes across the fresco of masculine intentional indentions

down the windows down to his pint, exhales, and says

“To think that these American airmen didn’t know they were in here for their last drinks.”

And his eyes water, but tears don’t run down his face.

I cider myself again, the tart taste roofing in my mouth,

and I think that I don’t want to share him with his real children

and I want to have another round with him.

[From "A Small Boy's Heroes", Lanterns on the Levee, the autobiography of William Alexander Percy (Louisiana State University Press, 1988)]

Father and General Catchins and Captain McNeilly and Captain Wat Stone and Mr. Everman would forgather every so often on our front gallery. These meeting must habitually have taken place in summer, because I remember Mother would be in white, looking very pretty, and would immediately set about making a mint julep for the gentlemen – no hors d’oeuvres, no sandwiches, no cocktails, just a mint julep. After the first long swallow – really a slow and noiseless suck, because the thick crushed ice comes against your teeth and the ice must be kept out and the liquor let in – Cap Mac would say: “Very fine, Camille, you make the best julep in the world.” She probably did. Certainly her juleps had nothing in common with those hybrid concoctions one buys in bars the world over under that name. It would have been sacrilege to add lemon, or a slice of orange or of pineapple, or one of these wretched maraschino cherries.

First you needed excellent bourbon whisky; rye or Scotch would not do at all. Then you put half an inch of sugar in the bottom of the glass and merely dampened it with water. Next, very quickly – and here is the trick in the procedure – you crushed your ice, actually powdered it, preferably in a towel with a wooden mallet, so quickly that it remained dry, and slipping two sprigs of fresh mint against the inside of the glass, you crammed the ice in right to the brim, packing it with your hand. Last you filled the glass, which apparently had no room left for anything else, with bourbon, the older the better, and grated a bit of nutmeg on the top.

The glass immediately frosted and you settled back in your chair for a half an hour of sedate cumulative bliss. Although you stirred the sugar at the bottom, it never all melted, therefore at the end of the half hour there was left a delicious mess of ice and mint and whisky which a small boy was allowed to consume with calm rapture. Probably the anticipation of this phase of a julep was what held me on the outskirts of these meetings rather than the excitement of the discussion, which often I did not understand.

-Elton John

You, who are on the road
Must have a code
That you can live by.
And so, become yourself
Because the past
Is just a goodbye.

Teach your children well
Their father’s hell
Did slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picks
The one you’ll know by.
Don’t you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would die
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.

And you (Can you hear and)
Of tender years (Do you care and)
Can’t know the fears (Can you see we)
That your elders grew by (Must be free to)
And so please help (Teach your children)
Them with your youth (You believe and)
They seek the truth (Make a world that)
Before they can die (We can live in)

Teach your parents well
Their children’s hell
Will slowly go by
And feed them on your dreams
The one they picks
The one you’ll know by.

Don’t you ever ask them why
If they told you, you would cry
So just look at them and sigh
And know they love you.

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Chief Luther Standing Bear

-Aldo Leopold

Music by Elton John

Lyrics by Bernie Taupin

And now I know
Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say
I thought I knew
But now I know that rose trees never grow in New York City

Until you’ve seen this trash can dream come true
You stand at the edge while people run you through
And I thank the Lord there’s people out there like you
I thank the Lord there’s people out there like you

While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky
But they can’t and that is why
They know not if it’s dark outside or light

This Broadway’s got
It’s got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
I’ll go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City

Subway’s no way for a good man to go down
Rich man can ride and the hobo he can drown
And I thank the Lord for the people I have found
I thank the Lord for the people I have found