The late Dr. Paul Root of Arkadelphia, (22 years at OBU, untold years in the music program at First Baptist Church,and a founding member of a quartet, The Four Jacks) had a habit of putting on several "final concerts." And since Editor May offered me the opportunity to write an occasional guest column, why not?
But I sent it only to the writers group I belong to. Earlier in January, I was lucky enough to receive a visit from a writer friend from Ann Arbor, MI, who has a son and grandchildren in this area. We'd met in Piggott at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Educational Center for a writers retreat. At the same time Joe stopped by, a closer neighbor (two streets over), who walks by daily and--with permission--cuts through my yard to avoid the dog on the next street, appears. I'm already streetside and I get a hug from both men, but one at a time. "Joe, meet Ed. Joe's visiting family from Michigan. Ed's a neighbor," pointing westward.
Inside, anticipating his visit, I'd pulled a rocker over facing my sitting place, brought a TV tray beside it in clase Joe wanted coffee. He did. We caught up with the news; I offered him my last copy of a hand-produced book, A Year's Worth of Selected Haiku. "Happy 70th birthday," Friend and neighbor Lydia, who'd edited Joe's new book of poetry, Slow Rivers had only corresponded with him via email and phone, so I called her to come over and meet Joe. She did.
As we visited, Joe said, "Behind you, I see a Donald Hall book." I twisted around and pulled out the thick hardback poetry book I'd read recently. In his earlier years, Joe had some interaction with Mr. Hall and expressed an interest in his work. "Here, happy birthday twice." I signed and dated it and gave it to him.
And now, it's nearly February. Where DOES the time go?
