tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80020869389733556982024-03-05T08:12:20.018-08:00The Calvert CourierBette Foresterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09765396403769724486noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8002086938973355698.post-83085925674790140422022-09-22T09:35:00.001-07:002022-09-22T09:39:49.853-07:00Elizabeth<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPh_6gN0XlWiklbLxRaYICjWZmAorhELx4DlqAvKkL2j31Vthb6zQqay-wsKZ17UjhWtFptLjzH-t07SeK4BcfDb969B-rvtucvW-C0ZQcQ10hXL6Dqb-uCcvftcUNyba5TdIBVUMg_6w29KyM0tkprTN_ZUljUG2FEx76NDA7h2e0YvSpbMy_WBFZ/s1100/My%20Mum.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="770" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPh_6gN0XlWiklbLxRaYICjWZmAorhELx4DlqAvKkL2j31Vthb6zQqay-wsKZ17UjhWtFptLjzH-t07SeK4BcfDb969B-rvtucvW-C0ZQcQ10hXL6Dqb-uCcvftcUNyba5TdIBVUMg_6w29KyM0tkprTN_ZUljUG2FEx76NDA7h2e0YvSpbMy_WBFZ/w280-h400/My%20Mum.png" width="280" /></a></div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><b>On this day in 1911</b></span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">My mum</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Elizabeth Laura Pollard</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Was born</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">In Brooklyn, New York.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Her mum, a typesetter</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Named Alice McNutt Pollard,</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Died shortly thereafter</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Due to complications</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of childbirth.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">These days Alice</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Would have been given</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Transfusions and a D&C and</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">She might have lived</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">To give me oodles of aunties</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And uncles.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">But not in 1911.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">My mum’s dad,</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Walton Aubrey Pollard</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Was a newspaper reporter…</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Who said that with that name</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">He was destined</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">To become a writer.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Walton died a couple of years</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">After his wife</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And my mum was whisked away</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">To Texas and into the</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Loving embraces</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Of her maternal grandmum, </span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Elizabeth, after whom </span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">She had been named,</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And two aunties</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Florence and Mary,</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Both as yet unmarried.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">The other McNutt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Auntie, Alex, was married</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">And living in Montana.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">All the McNutt women</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Were typesetters.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">Guess I’m a McNutt</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;">At my core.</span><i><span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></i><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">~</span></i></p><p style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-family: verdana;">Toronto<br />22 Sept 2022</span></i><br /></p>Bette Foresterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09765396403769724486noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8002086938973355698.post-25309049560323318522020-04-15T05:39:00.000-07:002020-04-15T05:40:15.775-07:00OLD<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">This is what old looks like.<br />What the fuck’s wrong <br />With getting old?<br />My father used to say: <br />It’s not so bad<br />When you consider <br />The alternative.<br /><br />I’m too old to be a boomer.<br />I think I’m glad.<br />My cohort is less pervasive<br />Maybe more exclusive…<br />But saying pre-boomer<br />Just sounds stupid.<br /><br />There is a word… <br />Though we shirk <br />Away from it.<br />People say<br />Oh, you’re not old.<br />And<br />You’re only as old as you feel…<br />Like it’s a dirty word<br />One that we don’t want to<br />Feel on our lips…<br />Or full-bodied<br />On our tongues. <br /><br />At my sixtieth birthday party<br />I celebrated big<br />By tap-dancing <br />For gathered <br />Friends and family.<br />One friend who had <br />Already turned sixty, said,<br />You don’t seem to be upset<br />At turning sixty.<br />Startled, I said,<br />No…Were you upset?<br />Of course, she replied… flatly.<br />Well, I said, it’s not a surprise.<br />I turned fifty-nine last year <br />About this time.<br />That led me to think<br />That sixty might come next.<br /><br />Now into my seventy-seventh year<br />Some people are looking for<br />User-friendly words for us—<br />To define our age-bracket.<br />As a word-lover, <br />I find I’m enjoying<br />The challenge.<br />But most options<br />Are just sickly euphemisms<br />That reference <br />Our former roles.<br />We say, senior citizen<br />We say, elder.<br />We say, older adult.<br />Polished.<br />Ripened.<br />Worldly.<br />Burnished.<br />Advanced.<br />Veteran.<br />Well… belle-dame<br />Maybe seems<br />Sort of OK…<br /> But sans merci?<br /> Or even regret? <br /> Ce n’est pas moi!<br /><br />Why are we afraid<br />Of a little word?<br />We’re old people.<br />We’re<br />Oldies.<br />We’re<br />Wrinklies.<br />We’re biddies<br />And geezers.<br /><br />I’ve earned the right<br />To call myself old<br />Simply by living long enough.<br />These are my bonus years…<br />This is my 3rd-half.<br />I’m old.<br />Both of my kids<br />Grew up and one of them<br />Even produced<br />Kids I get to call grand.<br />So…<br />I’m grand, too.<br /><br />I’m no shrinking violet.<br />I’m busy and vibrant<br />And creative as fuck…<br />Even when my back hurts.<br />Even when I’m lazy.<br />I’m not a superwoman<br />By a long shot.<br />I’m simply my own version <br />Of old.<br />I don’t think I need to <br />Prove I’m something/anything <br />That’s “good for my age”…<br />Or that being old means<br />I’m lesser than.<br /><br />No way!<br />I’m just plain old.<br />I’m genuinely old.<br />And I’m claiming the right<br />To say it…<br />And to enjoy <br />The ever-evolving<br />Versions of me that<br />Being old brings.<br /><br />Hey, I’ve done a lot.<br />And I’m still doing a lot.<br />These are my gravy years.<br />It’s not about finding<br />A new word…<br />It’s about claiming<br />The old one <br />With ferocious pride.<br /><br /><i>~Bette Forester<br />sequestered in Toronto, April 2020</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span>Bette Foresterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09765396403769724486noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8002086938973355698.post-13583299224358927812015-07-30T12:48:00.000-07:002015-07-30T12:52:42.728-07:00GRANNIE POWER<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">She’d passed the building countless times:<br />Houses on north side of street <br />Face industry on south.<br />This house is narrow like others.<br />But brick painted white and<br />A few other differences of note:<br />Brick pedestal holds <br />Black skull with silver wings.<br />Half-dozen Harley’s rest<br />In paved front yard.<br />Sign on pedestal reads<br /><i>Hell’s Angels 54</i>.<br /><br />Another sign, three doors west:<br /><i>For Sale</i>.<br />Is there some story there?<br />She’s looking to buy a house<br />With garage to shelter coveted Vespa.<br />This house has no garage, but<br />A Vespa would surely be safe<br />From random thieves just<br />Three doors from Hell’s Angels 54.<br /><br />Surely a grannie with a Vespa<br />Could depend on Hell’s Angels<br />To protect her wheels at home.<br />But this grannie wondered<br />About how safe she could feel<br />Riding to work?<br />Will bikers give her a rough time?<br />Can Vespas even be locked adequately?<br />She doesn’t know anything about Vespas<br />Except she truly wants one.<br /><br />She buys the house<br />And shiny new yellow Vespa…<br />And tries to assume safety <br />Of new wheels somehow assured <br />By proximity to new unmet neighbours.<br /><br />But doubt creeps in.<br />Do these leather-clad ruffians<br />Understand their responsibility<br />To her? I mean, really?<br /><br />So new yellow Vespa helmet<br />With tiny yellow visor<br />Clutched neatly in string shopping bag,<br />She approaches silver-winged skull<br />And without hesitation knocks<br />On black door.<br /><br />No answer. Knocks again.<br />Hog roars up…<br />Rider big and bearded and tattooed.<br />He: <i>Hey! No one’s home.<br /><span style="color: white;">......</span>Whaddya want?</i><br />She: <i>I want to speak</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>To your public relations director.</i><br />Did he just roll his eyes?<br />He: <i>Oh, That'll be Skinner.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>He’ll be here in a bit.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>Wanna come in and wait?</i><br /><br />Enormous be-ringed fingers key in code for lock<br />And open door.<br />In they walk.<br />OK, it does smell of beer and stale smoke.<br />Regular smoke, not the other kind.<br />She does know what that smells like.<br />After all she’s not without experience, you know.<br />Her best friend’s boyfriend in university<br />Was one of Timothy Leary's students at Harvard.<br />Of course sugar cube stuff didn't smell, <br />But stuff they smoked did.<br />And this is acrid smell of tobacco.<br />Lots and lots of stale tobacco.<br />And lots and lots of stale beer.<br /><br />Reeking room is clean, just strewn with <br />Half-filled glasses and fully-filled ashtrays.<br /> <br />He: <i> I'm Bones. Can I get yer</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>Summit to drink?</i><br />She notices gap in his smile<br />Where discoloured tooth should have been.<br />She: <i>Thanks, I don't drink.</i><br />He: <i>Do ya drink orange juice?</i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">..... </span></span>Squeezed some fresh this mornin'.</i><br /><br />Skinner arrives as she sips OJ<br />Daintily from chilled beer mug.<br />Tall lanky version of Bones, he<br />Quickly glances at compadre<br />To explain unusual guest.<br />Bones just shrugs heavy shoulders,<br />Shambles off.<br />Leaves him alone with her.<br /><br />He: <i>OK, Grannie. why’ve you come</i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;"> </span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>To Hell's Angels 54?</i><br />She tells him of worries about<br />Rampant Vespa thieves.<br />He: <i>You're like a neighbour.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>No one would dare harm yer scooter</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>So closter our headquarters.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>Sorta like livin next to 55 Division of the cops,</span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;"> </span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>But differnt, ya know.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span><i>But </i><br />She says,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">.<i>.....</i></span></span><i>What about when I park</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>At work?</i><br />Skinner raises unruly eyebrows.<br />She: <i>I have an idea for your public relations efforts</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>That would be good for me…</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span></i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>And lots of other road grannies.</i><br /><br />She outlines her plan:<br />Hell's Angels across nation<br />Will guarantee grannies and their bikes<br />Will not be messed with.<br />Grannies will have special crests<br />To mount on machines, coats and helmets.<br />No one in his right mind<br />Would bother a grannie so clearly protected by<br />Hell's Angels, would they?<br />And public could see Hell's Angels<br />Have warm-hearted side.<br />If some registered grannie's bike is ever found<br />In another's possession,<br />There'll be Hell to pay...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For sure.<br /><br />Skinner seizes opportunity to trade on<br />Tough outlaw image<br />And provide valuable public service.<br />Shakes her hand.<br />Hires her to coordinate <br />New Hell's Grannies programme.<br /><br />She designs Hell’s Grannies crest-logo,<br />Gets it registered as trademark,<br />Manages staff that log grannies<br />And their cycles,<br />Orders tee-shirts, mugs and <br />Pink leather jackets and helmets<br />All with new crest.<br />She co-ordinates media advertising,<br />Does sell-in with Hell's Angels affiliates<br />All across country and<br />Conducts press conferences.<br />She’s spokes-grannie for national<br />Advertising and PR campaign.<br /><br />Now she doesn't need her Vespa<br />To ride to work<br />Because she works <br />For Hell's Angels 54, <br />Just three doors from home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>Bette Forester</i></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></span></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">..... </span></span>Toronto</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="color: white;">......</span></span>16 September 2003</i></span></span>Bette Foresterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09765396403769724486noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8002086938973355698.post-12138767979610971332015-07-29T11:29:00.000-07:002015-07-30T08:42:47.275-07:00TELLING THE STORIES<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As I relinquish myself to this night's sleep,<br />My rabbit ears bring me TVO images <br />Of Rushdie speaking of his books.<br />And of his drive to write them.<br />He says, after all, the human is<br />The only animal that is Storyteller.<br /><br />I muse on this in dreams and awake<br />To re-read Gaiman's <i>American Gods</i>,<br />A story of humans and their gods<br />And their mutual need to believe<br />In each other...<br />In each others' story...<br />To be associated with story...<br />To be Story.<br />All the while L. Cohen<br />Sings via iTunes and<br />Brings tears...<br /><i>Hallelujah!</i> in the <i>Tower of Song</i>.<br /><br />I pause and remember<br />Tiff's <i>Not Wanted on the Voyage</i>:<br />The old god who invokes<br />Noah's participation<br />In extending His story.<br />How in the stage version<br />Noah's family search each other's<br />Faces for understanding...<br />Then nod in confused acceptance<br />Of Noah's story.<br /><br />Leonard says there’s a crack in everything.<br />It’s where the Light gets in… <br />A crack in this very wall!<br />I can hear it about other cracks in other walls.<br />The Light is always the same.<br /><br />It is the Light of Recognition<br />Of human spirit... it is the Light of Knowing<br />Our part.... it is the Light of Acceptance<br />Of life... and its cycle with death.<br /><br />Leonard, as well as Salmon, Neil, Timothy et al<br />Shine Light on snippets of my own story.<br />That Light exposes myself to myself.<br />I guess we each choose storytellers to call our own.<br />Some write, some sing, some tap dance,<br />Some seek directly the hearts of others.<br />After all, we need each other to sense...<br />To discover...<br />To find... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The Story...</span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: white;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">...</span></i></span></i></span>Bette Forester</span></i><br />
<span style="color: white;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: white;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">...</span></i></span>Toronto</span></i><br />
<span style="color: white;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: white;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">...</span></i></span>30 July 11</span></i>Bette Foresterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09765396403769724486noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8002086938973355698.post-58573128681239954232015-07-24T19:27:00.001-07:002015-07-27T19:29:59.289-07:00ONCE UPON A TIME<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeoN-su1VW0f3Q0wabZvfQ3pT721W54AsfQsCIU3pb9uB1SlSuN4eTaleqkiO0xWgAZs6shCt3bt8EBIrLC8PYTqkYdE0eWnFRXPMYpwPeltJ4I7bKiJxtAfQCCkqDX_U9AXMtH1ElfE/s1600/girls-duotone-oval.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeoN-su1VW0f3Q0wabZvfQ3pT721W54AsfQsCIU3pb9uB1SlSuN4eTaleqkiO0xWgAZs6shCt3bt8EBIrLC8PYTqkYdE0eWnFRXPMYpwPeltJ4I7bKiJxtAfQCCkqDX_U9AXMtH1ElfE/s400/girls-duotone-oval.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;">
<i>Florence (left), the beautiful one,<br /> with Alice, the bright one<span style="color: white;">.</span><br /> who later became my grandmother.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">how it all began with a young typesetter<br />who later became my great-grandmother</span></b></i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br />April 1878:<br />Elizabeth Lovell Peak,<br />Eighteen, self-assured,<br />Typesetter,<br />Born in Cambridge<br />The old one, in England<br />Comes to New York<br />With sister, Rebecca,<br />Another typesetter. Both<br />Full of girlish hope<br />For careers and families<br />In new world.<br /><br />June 1878:<br />Rebecca decides to<br />Move to Winnipeg,<br />Later home to Winnie the Pooh.<br />Is there some connection?<br />Maybe someone will<br />Connect dots. <br />Not I.<br /><br />July 1878:<br />Still in New York City<br />Reporter friend invites <br />Elizabeth to convention for<br />Small newspaper publishers.<br />He suggests she can look<br />For work all across continent<br />From one room in<br />Manhattan.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span> <span style="color: #b45f06;">Mr. McNutt publishes </span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">Weekly newspaper in</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">Calvert, Texas.</span></i><br />Friend introduces Elizabeth.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">Oh, <b>The Calvert Courier</b>?</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i>Asks Elizabeth</i>,<br />Not because she knows<br />The paper, but because<br />Alliterative mastheads are<br />De rigueur in England.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">Why…. Yes, Miss Peak,</span></i><br />Answers Alexander Dewitt McNutt.<br />Smile in eyes as well as on lips.<br /><br />That’s the beginning. <br />Mr. McNutt doesn’t hire the <br />Young typesetter.<br />He courts her via letters <br />And telegrams.<br />They marry. <br />Elizabeth moves to Texas<br />Where they live in white<br />Corner house in Calvert.<br /><b><i>The Calvert Courier</i></b> becomes<br />Renown regional rag,<br />Circulates beyond <br />Robertson County,<br />Even to Dallas:<br />Repository of Texas gentry,<br />Wealth and society.<br /><br />Four daughters <br />Arrive in bi-annual increments:<br />Alexandra, the wild one.<br />Florence, the beautiful one.<br />Alice, my grandmother, the bright one.<br />Mary, the difficult one.<br />Little D, sole son,<br />Dies of consumption at four.<br /><br />Calvert kids call Elizabeth<br />Old Lady McNutt.<br />If they cut across corner yard,<br />She chases them with broom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Of course, they do it again,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Just for the spectacle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">And they also watch</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As she chops snake to bits<br />In yard with hoe.<br />Later she admits to terror, not bravery.<br /><br />November 1893:<br />On Houston shopping trip<br />With three-year-old Mary,<br />Elizabeth reads of ship<br />Sailing for England… today.<br />Sudden bitter homesickness<br />Overwhelms.<br />Counting money in purse<br />She finds enough for<br />One-way tickets.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">Have gone home with Mary.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">Will wire for money when</span><br /> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span> <span style="color: #b45f06;">Ready to return.</span></i><br />Terse telegram to Mr. McNutt.<br />Six months later they return<br />To blooming east Texas roses.<br />No explanation required.<br />Mr. McNutt is accustomed <br />To wife’s independent nature.<br /><br />While husband is away in Dallas,<br />Elizabeth has carpenter move<br />Front door of house<br />To another wall.<br />When Mr. McNutt returns<br />He uses new door for a week<br />Before she points it out to him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">It’s so convenient,</span><br /> </i></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span><span style="color: #b45f06;">I didn’t notice.</span></i><br />He tells her.<br />Still with the smiling eyes<br />After all these years.<br /><br /><i><b>The Calvert Courier</b></i> flourishes.<br />The McNutt family prospers,<br />Lives happily.<br />Photos show little girls<br />In splendid dresses and<br />Feathered hats.<br />Elizabeth sets type on occasion<br />And helps in <b><i>Courier</i></b> office<br />So is able to continue as publisher<br />When husband dies<br />At fifty-six. <br /><br />September 1898:<br />She lays him to rest<br />With military honours<br />Next to their son who had<br />Carried his name.<br />Sorting through Mr. McNutt’s papers<br />Elizabeth finds old invoice<br />Squirreled away in roll-top desk:<br />Cost to change masthead<br />From <i><b>The Calvert Messenger</b></i><br />To <i><b>The Calvert Courier</b></i>.<br />Dated September, 1882.<br />She sits <br />Stunned to learn <br />Twenty years later<br />Effect of her first remark<br />On Alexander Dewitt McNutt,<br />And significance of<br />His first smile.<br /><br />The next two years bring<br />Two floods and a fire to Calvert<br />Destroying much of town's core.<br />Businesses and population shrink<br />In rapid sucking spiral.<br />Elizabeth sells <b><i>The Calvert Courier</i></b><br />And moves with her girls to<br />Oak Cliff, a suburb of Dallas.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span>Bette Forester</i></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span> </i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span></i></span></span></span>Toronto</i></span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span> </i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: white;">...</span></i></span></i></span></span></span>10 April 2004</i></span></span></span>Bette Foresterhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09765396403769724486noreply@blogger.com