Great Grandchild

Erin Christin Atchison was born the 21st of May at 9:48PM, weighing in at 6 lbs. 9 oz. and was 18 1/2 inches long. I am a PROUD Great Grandpa!
Erin's parents are Nathan and Megan Atchison, Fred Jr.'s middle son.

New Glasses- March 13, 2009

Mrs. Rosemary Carroll, from the Meadowlark Hills Retirement Center, writes a column for a local newspaper. After I shared my writing with her, she allowed me to read one of her columns. I was so impressed, I asked her if I might use it on my blog. She graciously agreed, so enjoy:

The phone rang and I lunged out of my easy chair to answer it. A staff member was calling from first floor, "There's a gentleman here to deliver some groceries to you." "Send him on up," was my instruction although I couldn't figure out who was bringing me some groceries. Soon enough my doorbell rang. There stood the Dillons delivery man holding a bouquet of flowers and greenery in one hand and a basket containing a box of Quakers Oatmeal and some very green sugar cookies in the other.

The card read: Happy St. Patrick's Day Mom—remembering Leo. Love Yvonne. Yes, my daughter in Houston remembers things like that. My Irish husband Leo Patrick Carroll had a birthday on March 16, the day before St. Patrick's. He had worked several decades as a research chemist in Chicago for the Quaker Oats Company. What a coincidence, I had been scanning my journal beginning July 2006 when we began to get acquainted. On March 16 in 2007 we celebrated his 81 st birthday at his home near Lillis, KS. We married September 1, 2007 and had five wonderful months together, despite the cancer that interfered and took him away so quickly.

I decided to share my good fortune with my neighbors on the fourth floor. So I rang doorbells, showed them my bouquet and shared one of the sugar cookies with folks that were home at the time. That delivery brought so many good memories to mind, so I thought of calling Leo's brother Gerald who comes several times a month to Lillis. He and his wife live in Kansas City but I figured they probably were at the farm near Lillis for the St. Patrick's parade Saturday. I finally found their cell phone number and got Gerald on the phone. Their sister, Sister Sheila, had also come down from Atchison for the event. There were only three in attendance from the Leo P. Carroll family and none of them rode in the Lillis parade this year.

On Sunday morning I decided that some of my friends at College Avenue United Methodist Church would like to see the gift that was delivered to my door. I took the Quaker Oat box in its decorative cellophane basket along to church-I'd already shared all the cookies with my Meadowlark friends. Apparently none of them had ever received a similar product as a St. Patrick's Day greeting. I confess the only green garment I could find to wear was a white turtleneck top with little green ducks on it, and I added a gold Celtic pin one of Leo's daughters had given me.

One Sunday School class member wondered outloud which it is easiest to be~a pessimist or an optimist. I thought it was particularly appropriate that the daily devotional (Upper Room) I read most mornings concluded today's lesson with, "Every loving act changes the world for the better." Would you be most apt to choose the preceding statement or, "Every unloving act changes the world for the worst." As for me and my house, give me the optimist. Yvonne, your thoughtful remembrance rippled out to a lot of folks and brought to mind so many pleasant thoughts.

Evolution

In 1895 Langdon Smith, a member of the staff of the Sunday New York Herald, wrote the first few stanzas of his poem, "Evolution", and they were published in the Herald. Some four years later he came across the verses and was struck with their incompleteness, whereupon he composed additional stanzas, increasing the poem to his present length. At that time he was with the New York Journal. He submitted the poem to his editor, but when it was published it was found buried in a page of want ads. But the poem was destined for a bit of fame, and found its way into many other newspapers and magazines. It was widely quoted for a time, but was not seen lately. It follows in complete form:

Evolution
By Langdon Smith (1858-1908)
When you were a tadpole and I was a fish In the Paleozoic time,And side by side on the ebbing tide We sprawled through the ooze and slime,Or skittered with many a caudal flip Through the depths of the Cambrian fen,My heart was rife with the joy of life, For I loved you even then.
Mindless we lived and mindless we loved And mindless at last we died;And deep in the rift of the Caradoc drift We slumbered side by side.The world turned on in the lathe of time, The hot lands heaved amain,Till we caught our breath from the womb of death And crept into life again.
We were amphibians, scaled and tailed, And drab as a dead man's hand;We coiled at ease 'neath the dripping trees Or trailed through the mud and sand.Croaking and blind, with our three-clawed feet Writing a language dumb,With never a spark in the empty dark To hint at a life to come.
Yet happy we lived and happy we loved, And happy we died once more;Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold Of a Neocomian shore.The eons came and the eons fled And the sleep that wrapped us fastWas riven away in a newer day And the night of death was passed.
Then light and swift through the jungle trees We swung in our airy flights,Or breathed in the balms of the fronded palms In the hush of the moonless nights;And oh! what beautiful years were there When our hearts clung each to each;When life was filled and our senses thrilled In the first faint dawn of speech.
Thus life by life and love by love We passed through the cycles strange,And breath by breath and death by death We followed the chain of change.Till there came a time in the law of life When over the nursing sodThe shadows broke and the soul awoke In a strange, dim dream of God.
I was thewed like an Auroch bull And tusked like the great cave bear;And you, my sweet, from head to feet Were gowned in your glorious hair.Deep in the gloom of a fireless cave, When the night fell o'er the plainAnd the moon hung red o'er the river bed We mumbled the bones of the slain.
I flaked a flint to a cutting edge And shaped it with brutish craft;I broke a shank from the woodland lank And fitted it, head and haft;Than I hid me close to the reedy tarn, Where the mammoth came to drink;Through the brawn and bone I drove the stone And slew him upon the brink.
Loud I howled through the moonlit wastes, Loud answered our kith and kin;From west to east to the crimson feast The clan came tramping in.O'er joint and gristle and padded hoof We fought and clawed and tore,And cheek by jowl with many a growl We talked the marvel o'er.
I carved that fight on a reindeer bone With rude and hairy hand;I pictured his fall on the cavern wall That men might understand.For we lived by blood and the right of might Ere human laws were drawn,And the age of sin did not begin Til our brutal tusks were gone.
And that was a million years ago In a time that no man knows;Yet here tonight in the mellow light We sit at Delmonico's.Your eyes are deep as the Devon springs, Your hair is dark as jet,Your years are few, your life is new, Your soul untried, and yet --
Our trail is on the Kimmeridge clay And the scarp of the Purbeck flags;We have left our bones in the Bagshot stones And deep in the Coralline crags;Our love is old, our lives are old, And death shall come amain;Should it come today, what man may say We shall not live again?
God wrought our souls from the Tremadoc beds And furnish’d them wings to fly;He sowed our spawn in the world's dim dawn, And I know that it shall not die,Though cities have sprung above the graves Where the crook-bone men made warAnd the ox-wain creaks o'er the buried caves Where the mummied mammoths are.
Then as we linger at luncheon here O'er many a dainty dish,Let us drink anew to the time when you Were a tadpole and I was a fish.

A Joy to Hold & A Joy to Behold

Fred was our firstborn and brought indescribable happiness into our lives. Everything centered around him. We lived in a very small Boy Scout cabin in Merriam, Kansas. Life was sweet -
we were proud parents.

As Fred grew, he was joined by five siblings -
a sister and four brothers. They, in turn, accepted his leadership, which was good.

Fred met his wife, Sue Nielson, at Fort Hays State University. They were married after graduation & now have three grown sons. They will become grandparents this fall.

Fred is Director of Manhattan Public Library. Sue retired as Riley County High School art teacher & and now teaches art at Kansas State University.

Thank you Fred & Sue. I am proud of how you have raised your family and your contributions to society.

Reincarnation

Years ago at a time my wife Rita and I were visting my son, Bob and his wife Melissa in Mountain View, Arkansas, I heard Glenn Ohrlin, recite the following poem:

Reincarnation
"What is reincarnation? a cowboy asked his friend.
"Well, it starts," his old pal tells him, "when your life comes to an end".
They wash your neck and comb your hair and clean your fingernails.
Then they stick you in a padded box, away from life's travails.
Now the box and you goes in the hole that's been dug in the ground,
And reincarnation starts, my friend, when they plant you neath that mound.
The clods melt down, as does the box, and you who are inside,
And that's when you're beginning your transformation ride.
And in a while, the grass will grow upon that rendered mound,
Until someday a upon that spot, a lonely flower is found.
And then a horse might wander by and graze upon that flower That once was you and's now become your vegetative bower,
Well, the flower that horse done ate, along with his other feed,
Makes bone, and fat, and muscle essential to this steed.
But there's a part that he can't use and so it passes through,
And there it lies upon the ground, this thing that once was you.
And if by chance I happened by and see this on the ground,
I'll stop a while and ponder on this object I have found.
And I'll think about reincarnation, and life and death and such, And I'll go away concludin', "Heck, you ain't changed that much!"

As told by Glenn Ohrlin

Storytelling

This past Monday, I respresented the Storytelling group from Meadowlark. We visited Theodore Roosevelt Elementary School. I was accompanied by Pilar D'Asto and Marina Pecar from Kansas State University. My trip was to present a story that originated in Georgia. When I was a boy we had an old mule that we used on a small farm in central Georgia. The class fourth or fifth grade, and they were quite receptive to my story and the antics that accompanied it. The children gathered together around in front of me, and sat on the floor. They were very attentive and seemed to enjoy the story.

This coming Friday, at 7:00PM, in the Community Room at Meadowlark, our entire group will present their individual stories.
Stop by if you can!

A Tribute to Wyeth - Future Hero

My grandson Wyeth, wrote a tribute to me, many years ago. I ran across his essay as I was going through my pile of memories.

My Hero - by Wyeth Lee Atchison, 1996

I believe my grandad, Fred Atchison Sr., meets the criterion
of a true American hero in several different areas.
First, he is a brave man. He was part of the invasion fleet on North Africa,
during World War II. He was the drive of a boat which emptied
troops onto the beach. Next, he is resourceful, because he has
learned how to make various instruments out of wood. He made a
xylophone, a harp, a dulcimer, and a drum out of different woods.
Last, he has a strong understanding of nature. His profession was
as a forester so he knows a lot about any kind of trees found in
this part of the country. I feel that Fred Atchison Sr. is brave,
resourceful, and has a strong understanding of nature, which are
all qualities I feel make him an American hero.

Even now, I am greatly humbled and very proud to be considered his hero. I am very proud of Wyeth's accomplishments and believe that he has all of the qualities necessary to become a hero in his own right.

KU Grad - Hero by Fred Atchison Sr., 2009
Truths come & truths go
but when it comes
from your grandson
you want to believe
it's SO!
always strive to promote peace,
and become the greatest hero
I am proud of you Wyeth!

Grandad

Abou Ben Adhem

I believe that I first came across this piece, my first semester of high school. That would have been around 1938 or 1939. For some reason it stuck in my head, and a couple of weeks ago, it just poured out. My computer teacher googled it on the internet, and lo and behold, it was there!

Abou Ben Adhem

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:-
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

James Leigh Hunt

Looking Back

Came forty-five years ago with apprehension -- even reluctance. The first problem with identity was in trying to answer the question," What's a forester doing in western Kansas?" I finally learned that crying was not an acceptable response. I searched for Quivira, thinking that it must be just over the next hill. When I reached Elkhart, Tribune, Sharon Springs, and St. Francis and found no hill, I decided my values needed adjusting. Like the tourists hurrying to the mountains, I had accepted someone else's (not a Kansan) mistaken opinion at western Kansas is a part of the "Great American Desert". After rearranging my thinking I was able to see and appreciate the beauty of... the wind driven rain that lashes the dry prairie soil into frantic growth -- -- -- the grain elevators that sit Shepherd like tending the flocks of golden wheat heads... tumbleweeds on fences that build bridges for tomorrow into the next field. I felt the security of the blue prairie sky penned neatly along the horizon -- by grain elevators. I found the people tough in body and resolve and gentle in spirit. I found a purpose and renewal within myself. I found the fulfillment of working sharing with the people of the prairie. These 45 years have been the most rewarding of my entire career.

Prairie Spring
I am hungering after a Prairie Spring
where the wind rustle's low through
the soft golden curls of last year's grass
and air grows warm
in ancient bison wallows.

Overhead, nearly out of sight
a thousand sandhill cranes
turn great, French curves
on gleaming wings
crying their madrigal.

Townsendia would be blooming now,
hidden easter-daisy bright on limey ridges,
and fuzzy, two inch Crimson drabas
opening white, crossed flowers.

Meadowlarks warbling clear and bold
from stone post barb wire fences --
viril
fit to burst
could ease my city winter bruises.

-- -- Roberta Comstock

A Forester's Dream

A vision of lovliness, a dream to behold

a forester's secretary is more precious than gold.

His needs she anticipates, appointments does remember.

Why does she forsake him when he works among the timber?

A forester get lonely working among the trees,

His secretary's presence would put his mind at ease.

A forester has lots of notes to take--an awful bore!

A secretary in the woods could perform this chore.

Secretaries, we love you from January to December

Why do you forsake us when we work among the timber?

Basics

All things contain a "basic unit". Sometimes this embryonic component assumes physical form, and growth results in a complex structure of impressive proportions. Other times intricacy and beauty of infinitesimal smallness rewards the observer.

Basic units are sometimes ideas or beliefs whose evolution shape a spirit of love and trust among people. This intangible unit is not restricted by finiteness of matter and form, but has limitless potential for development. The human being furnished; the only medium for such expression.

Humanness may be manifest in many ways but ultimate fruition is achieved through love for fellow humans and appreciation for the natural community.

The human family can furnish environmental requirements for development of this unique intangible, and in doing so become the basic unit in a conquest for world harmony and peace.

Singleness is contrary to the laws of Nature--union of single cells produce the largest and most complex forms of life. A drop of water does not remain alone but is joined by others to ultimately form oceans. Yet singleness of purpose must be the goal of human society if order is to be restored in our chaotic world.

The evolution of family begins with the union of man and woman in bonds of mutual love and respect. Basic units are doubled, but oneness of purpose is maintained. Progeny resulting from this union further increase numbers, but oneness is synergistically strengthened.

A basic unit, the family, now exists and may be combined with all other such units to create a single world family. Proliferation of the basic unit may still be one. The basic unit? God's love!

The Mule Adventure

About a week later, mother said she was out of cornmeal and that we needed to take some "ear corn" to the mill for grinding. As the oldest, I thought I could ride the mule with the sacks of ear corn in front of me. I hadn't tried this before, so I had to work out another plan. The first step in my plan was to get on the mule's back. She was much too tall to reach without something to stand on. My brothers got the ladder for me. I wanted to climb up onto the back of the mule to straddle the mule, but I couldn't get the mule to stand still: I would start climbing up the ladder, she would start moving and I fell off several times. Finally my brothers held Pore John & got
on her back.

There was another problem, the mule's back was narrow and pointed like the roof of a house. When I sat down, boy it hurt! It hurt even worse when she started to move. Poor John ran around the barn three times with me bouncing up and down and
shouting; "WHOAH MULE STOP, STOP!" Luckily Pore John ran under a tree branch, which knocks me off her back. My mother hearing all of this commotion came out of the house and said, "Fred I think you better take the wagon!" So we hitched Pore John to the wagon, loaded the ear corn, and started toward the store and the "grist mill."

The trip was ok. We reached the mill and took the corn to the Miller. We watched as the miller ground the corn into cornmeal. I still remember the warm smell of the fresh meal. The miller would let us catch and taste some at the end of a spout, and it was so good. We picked up some food items from the store next door and headed home. On our way home, we looked for other interesting things to do, so that out rip would not be boring. Little boys do not like to be bored, so we would get off the wagon while Pore John plodded along. We would pick plums, blackberries, etc. along sides of the road. The mule noticed that there was no one on the wagon, so she headed for the barn at the house. So she took off in a little trot, and we couldn't catch her. We thought about taking a shortcut, but the way the wagon bumped along, things started falling off. We had to follow the wagon to pick up groceries. So we followed the old mule all the way home. When we got closer to home, we saw the old mule, in the front yard with the wagon wrapped around a big post in the yard, broken in half. I knew when dad got home that night I was going to have to explain all this to him.

I know that that old mule was just rolling over on the ground laughing to herself. Mother cooked good hot cornbread for supper, but I couldn't sit down to enjoy it. It took about a week for me to sit down.

The next day I decided it was time to have a serious talk with Pore John. I decided it was time to change my approach. I went out to the barn yard with apples in my pocket. I gave her an apple and said I am sorry we tickled you and got you hung up on the fence post. Lets be friends! From then on we had a good work animal and I had new friend.

Old Pore John has been gone for many years. I hope she is in "mule heaven" and I hope she has three little boys to keep her life interesting.

PoreJohn

I grew up a little barefoot boy in central Georgia and lived on a very small farm. Then one day dad brought home a new mule. Do you know what a mule is? It's a creature who has a broad back, very strong long ears and stubborn. Well, I had two brothers and two sisters. My two brothers and me were a solid team and went out to meet the new mule. And she looked at us and shook her head, and I think she said, “I don't know whether I'm going to be okay on this farm.”

The first job we had with the old mule was to go down in the back pasture and cut some wood for the fireplace and the kitchen stove, which we cooked on. Everything went very well until we took out our cross cut saw and picked out the right tree and began cutting. Oh by the way, a cross cut saw, is a heavy saw with handles on both ends and you pull the saw back and forth until the tree falls.

We cut the tree into lengths that would fit on our wagons. The mule pulled the wagon very well until we reached a small stream. She crossed the stream but when the wagon rolled into the stream and she felt the extra weight she refused to go any further. Now, this presented a problem. How will we get her to move and go up the hill to the house? Now, I had heard that mule's stomach is very ticklish, so I sent one of my brothers to find a good tickle stick, which would reach and scratch the mules’ stomach. We did this, and the mule started laughing and ran out of the stream.

Rita, Rita, My Rita

This picture is of Rita on our first trip to Georgia. She met my family, and among many things that we did, we took a swim in the country club pool. I caught her in this pose. She was not too pleased about it, but it reminds me of the wonderful feelings and experiences of introducing her to my family.

Shore Leave in Algiers, North Africa 1943

We were on shore leave in Algiers, North Africa in 1943, and were sightseeing around Algiers. We ran into these three soldiers and decided that we would like to have our likeness preserved for posterity. In the picture, going from left to right, is a sailor from my ship, and 4 unknown soldiers.

A Journey Back

I have passed you many times standing stark and alone in the field. Today I feel drawn to you and the secrets hidden within your aged and weathered walls. Over the stone post barbwire fence and across the field of wheat stubble, until, like a wounded warrior, your battle scars are revealed.

Now I see your chimney rock, loose and some already on the ground. Heat and cold alternating over decades have drawn the square nails from their holes and boards move in the wind. Your north wall rest against a large cottonwood brace -- leaning, supported as an old man by his cane.

Forging my way through the fireweeds grown shoulder high to reach the sagging steps and stop. Dare I cross your threshold -- do I have the right? The present owner would not care.
I have his word on that -- but what of your former tenants, those who laid your foundation and fastened your, then bright, freshly sawed boards with the square nails? There was a time when they shared their hospitality. I think they would wish it so even now.

I accept this belated invitation. Gathering my resolve, I step slowly and somewhat hesitantly across the threshold and the years.

Once inside the room I pause my eyes to adjust to the dim light and for my psyche to apologize for the intrusion. While I stand pensively -- a current resident shows his displeasure through the sound of scampering feet across loose attic boards overhead. His passing is marked by dust particles dancing on beams of sunlight streaming thru a broken window. Silence descends with a new layer of dust particles, blanketing all save the mournful whisper of prairie wind as it tugs relentlessly at tattered remnants of window curtains.

I feel as a privileged spectator allowed behind the stage of an historic drama. How did the actors play the earlier scenes? What took place on the stage? Oh, would that I could read the script, for I have been cast for a role in the next act!

Journeying slowly back to the present and my own awareness, I move thru the silent rooms surveying your artifacts -- bridge timbers to span rivers of time. Vainly I search for key, evidence that will lead to understanding. Perhaps a faded letter, the scrap of a document, or the receipt of the bill finally paid -- but these are too personal, too precious, too revealing for the eyes of a stranger from another time. The marrying, the birthing, the living and dying with all the accompanying happiness and sorrow will not be revealed -- and that is as it should be.
We must each write our own signature to the contract of life.

I returned to the room I first entered and stop once more to contemplate the prairie horizon thru the broken window. What did your builder see when this window, new, framed his visions? Would he be disappointed with the picture if he returned again to your window? Would my horizons be broader, more distinct, more realistic and attainable if I could have shared his view thru the new window?

With reluctance and regret I turn toward the door, leaving your artifacts intact, but taking with me a much greater gift -- a new resolve. Making a new path thru the fireweed I stumble over an old, half buried, wagon wheel as I hurry toward my car.

Atchison Boys

I'm the oldest of three brothers and two sisters. Shortly after this photograph was taken, Bernard on the left, contracted polio and resulted in we boys being sent to live with relatives. The relatives lived in a nearby town, called Milledgeville, Georgia. We stayed there several months until he was no longer contagious.

Drought

Dust devils ride across the prairie wide

Hot dry winds are burning

Red anxious eyes search the prairie skies

For rain they are yearning

Chorus:
There will come a day when dust clouds roll away

And rain will fall again upon the scene

An offering from above for the prairie that we love

And life will be renewed in lovely shades of green

Beef cattle thin drift with the August wind

In search of grass a-lowing

Sharp hooves have trod thin prairie sod

And set dust clouds blowing

Sun-parched fields promise scanty yields

The mortgage alone is growing

Human spirits bend before the hungry wind

That gleans the fruits of man's sowing

Farm ponds dry neath a cloudless sky

Wheat prospects are decreasing

The windsong sings of better things

But the drought remains unceasing

Fred Atchison Sr. (Fall 1977)

Lest I Forget

One morning, as I was getting ready for a trip away from home. I sat down with my boys to give them instructions work that I wanted them to do while I was away. They started whinning and complaining - and I lost my cool. Later, I regreted the things that I had said to them, and felt compelled to write an apology letter.
This is what I wrote:

Help me to remember my youth and the awkward trial and error approach to maturity. Please renew in my mind the joys and disappointments associated with this turbulent time of growth and change. Remind me that this was a period of search for meaning, for relevance, for identity -- a period of strong frequently mixed, and sometimes frightening emotions -- a time for criticizing status quo and for challenging authority.

May I be reminded that outwardly I knew everything and secretly was afraid that I knew nothing. I would remember the importance of approval, the eagerness with which I sought to please, and the frequency of my failures. I also need to remember the patience and understanding of people who accepted me for what I was, and invested in my future with their kindness. I need to be constantly aware of the strong significance of these investments and the important role they have played throughout my adult life.

Most of all I need to be aware and thankful that these young people are sharing this beautiful period of their lives with me. Please grant me the wisdom to make the proper investments!

USS Thomas Stone

Before I met Rita, my first tour in the Navy was aboard the USS Thomas Stone. We practiced maneuvers with the British Army troops, early November 1942. We set out to make the invasion of North Africa.

As we entered the Straits of Gibraltar, we were torpedoed by an aerial attack. I saw the plane as it circled the convoy. Evasive action was taken by the ship, and the torpedo almost missed us. However, it did hit and exploded, ripping a large hole, which destroyed the propeller and navigational system.

To learn more about the attack read the Dictionary of American Naval Fighting Ships account.