Arlene

Oldest of the widow's brood, she soon wed
A lean and sometimes stern son of the Plains.
They farmed winter wheat, sweated out rains
And prospered, five sprang from that bed.

She liked to sing in tune and time. Not so
Her husband. He knew some Norwegian songs
But seldom sounded. He knew rights from wrongs.
She knew them too but gave them room to grow.

Their children fled when they were better grown.
North Dakota pressured them to go.
They left, she followed, but more slow
And Reuben had to make it on his own.

He'd drink and talk but he would never bring
His voice along to anything we'd sing.

Art

I scarcely knew Art. Older by eighteen years,
He flew Navy airplanes in the South Seas,
Fought his own war against the Japanese.
What could I fathom of his hopes and fears?

Still he sang with Doris, his wife. "Lady
in Blue," a baritone balanced and free.
Loud, knew all the verses, often off-key.
So sweet in, "Sweet Rosie O'Grady."

Worked hard, post World War II, all of the time.
Plucked from the prairies, he sold soda pop,
Moved to the coast and soon rose to the top.
Bought his own Pepsi plant, made his own dime.

Later in life, half drunk, he told me then,
Wished he'd been half the dad he might have been.

Shirley

When I was sick she read me books:
Piglet and Edward Bear, Counterpane land,
The ryhmes of Lear, Robin Hood's merry band,
And Caroll's twice-zany kingdoms and cooks.

She had ten kids and they all got their share
Of that same fare, fed on fine fantasies
And made them true. Raised their own families
To worlds of would-bes, of love and of care.

We'd greet each other on the telephone,
"The more it snows." Then a second after,
"Tiddly Pom," half-muffled by laughter.
A family greeting that was all our own.

Her voice was soft but rang of what was true
And what still is to me and now to you.

Joy

Her name described her voice. Till her last days
She sounded girlish. She and Norm would bring
Their harmonies to everything they'd sing
And sound together to the final phrase.

Norm sang Norwegian too. The rustic runes
Of Viking heralds heard in country halls,
From far-flung fjord where still the falcon falls
And waves and water thundered out the tunes.

Their voices moved to gather in one flood.
His bass, her alto melted in the spring
Of melody arising when we'd sing,
"Oh Yes, Come to the Church in the Wild Wood."

You were the last of us but me, sweet Joy,
Your voice is true as when I was a boy.

Bev

A contralto, she was always singing,
At home, at church, at school. Pop melodies,
Operettas, love songs, nonsense, liturgies,
Preceding funerals and church bells ringing.

My tenor fit so well within her voice.
It blended like a sound Sonoman wine,
Her phrasing just a little bit like mine.
Her repertoire exactly just my choice.

Bev was the one who cancelled all our wrongs.
When the grown family gathered up for drinks,
Our bickering political high jinks
Would disappear in old familiar songs.

When cancer cut that fine contralto chord,
The family lost what we could least afford.

Dick

He drove delivery for dry cleaners and
Once or twice he took me on a back street
Where no one was and let me take the wheel.
He ran a ham radio show. He steered
An overloaded Pontiac way west
To visit mountains he had never guessed
He'd see. Then the Air Force and the weird
Fifties. Our enemies were red and real.
A happy marriage, children. He would meet
Trouble with an easy laugh and he planned
Family living that was lush with love.
I remember how we loved to sing dear
Old-fashioned songs. I harmonized above
His pleasant tenor while it was still here.

He was the person I still want to be,
A man of wit and warmth and decency.

Patty

The youngest next to me, Pat was my friend,
Taught me naughty things to sing, to say.
Was saddled with my care most every day
Til school brought the summer to its end.

She sang, but not too loud. Her alto tone
Certain and sure. She knew she fit through
While leaving room for all, for me, for you,
Helping us all in pleasant polyphone.

Her early marriage didn't turn out well,
Nor moving east to Pittsburgh with her man.
Did as much good as anybody can,
While climbing down to alcoholic hell.

Her swan songs sung, she lay her curly head
Down on a pillow, rehabbed, relapsed, dead.

Me

And now I am the last one here to sing
These verses in your too forgiving ear.
A song I felt you really had to hear
To bring you up to date on everything.

Sing it now, the whole thing laid before us,
The harmonies we shared, the joy we had,
Some incidents from life, a kindly dad
Leading the Snydal family chorus.

I had my part in the small roundelay,
Learned to swallow praise and malediction.
Learned that truth is intermixed with fiction
And memory's been known to go astray.

Still, I am lucky to remember this:
Harmony, family, a loving kiss.