My granddaughter recently asked, "Why do you think there are so many presidents born in February?" Ignoring for the moment that I too was born in this month (and just survived to be 86). As a biologist the answer came easily: "BECAUSE ABOUT NINE MONTHS AGO IT WAS SPRING."
Born just between Lincoln and Valentine, my mother said I just escaped an even odder name then Robert Maurice (pronounced Morris) Chute (pronounced as chew, not shoe).
Being personal, here is a personal poem. (And, S.P., I will try to post more frequently.)
Remembering What You Don't
How much do you remember
of that year
when you were little more than four
and how much
is what you've been told by
There's no call to feel guilty even
if it was
that year, that summer, your last
If you'd been older I'm sure
not only her death but her — her
My brother Phil did but
he was ten
and I'd always been six years
Was she sick, couldn't hold me,
as grandmother's do?
In memory, which can't
why do I feel her
her arms stiff, her bosom
Had I told myself this or
had someone older?