The author with her Mother and Father, Imre Kalman Photo courtesy of Bobbie Kalman
My father cheated death a number of times.
People called him a hero.
In Hungary, he was my hero.
But our Revolution failed,
and our dreams were denied.
On Dad’s 35th birthday,
we fled our country
in the middle of the night.
“You’re so lucky you got out,”
those left behind cried.
But my father was never the same.
Although his body was safe,
his spirit had died.
We became immigrants in a country far away.
For my father, that was the saddest day.
Although his life was still ahead,
he fled backwards in his mind
to happier times in the place we left behind.
His life became conversations with the past.
Mythical, magical stories filled his head
Stories that took place long before we were born
Stories we learned to dread.
Being kids, we preferred the present instead.
Our new home was a shrine to what used to be,
but it was a place we never felt free.
The rest of us forged ahead with our new lives,
but we felt too guilty to look in his eyes.
Eyes that were empty—showing no spirit inside.
Dad thought he cheated death,
but he just didn’t die.
The doctors called him a “medical miracle.”
They took out organs, cut off his leg,
and started his stalled heart three or four times.
Then, one day, his heart just broke.
His body finally died.
If only he could have realized…
People die for the myths they create.
And then, suddenly, they find out—too late
that love exists only in the present.
I hope you’re in the place of your dreams, Dad.
I hope there is nothing there that
makes you feel sad.
If only you could have read my book!
I went back to the past to have a good look,
at our lives in Hungary,
where you were my hero.
George Ellis, Wife and Girl at Dufferin Islands, Niagara Falls, 1890 Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
Last Thursday night with the weather mild,
A party proposed a sleigh-ride wild,
So they all piled into a two-horse sleigh
And sped to the country miles away.
To say where they went I think’s no harm,
For they landed at the Robertson farm ;
We think their number was forty-five.
Were they noisy ? Well, they were much alive.
Now they took Dr. Wallis, he’s quite a nob,
And always on hand for a tying job.
He went just to help the youngsters through—
A helper good where there’s work to do.
The telephone’s handy, bet your life,
So Wallis telephones to his wife :
“We got here safe, twenty minutes to stay,
And then we take our homeward way.”
It was not so, for the whole bunch
Say we don’t leave till we have our lunch.
So coffee, cake and a sandwich too,
Were passed around among the few.
On Fluvius now you can’t depend,
When you want it dry, the rain he’ll send ;
So, to make them mind their homeward trip,
The rain came down with a drip, drip, drip.
[page is cut off at this point]
Source: Probably from The Welland Tribune. Found in the Misener folder of the Mayholme Foundation
Melvin Byron Misener of Crowland (May 18, 1847 – May 28, 1936), was known by many readers of the Welland Tribune as “the Crowland Poet”. His personal writings span the period from 1869 to 1935. Among the daily accounts of social events, weather conditions and farm chores in his diaries there are numerous obituaries for friends, family and others living in Welland County, particularly Crowland, Thorold and Port Robinson.
Queenstown [i.e. Queenston], Upper Canada on the Niagara by Edward Walsh, c1805 Image courtesy of the Library of Congress
The sun had sunk beneath the western main, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And with a parting ray ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Bid adieu unto the day: ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡ Twilight drew nigh, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And purpled o’er the sky, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡While, smiling in the East, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡The Queen of night arose, ‡‡‡‡Full orb’d;—in modest majesty ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Above the hills’ high head ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡She her silver lustre shed, ‡‡‡‡Mild as the evening taper’s blaze. ‡‡‡‡Sweet contemplative hour! ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Now let me stray,
Unseen by the observing eye of day, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡For mediation dear, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Where the purling rill
Its music breaks upon the listening ear.
Thoughtful I wandered o’er a blooming mead; ‡‡‡‡Reclined beneath a spreading tree, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And cast my eyes around. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡ Full in my face ‡‡‡‡Fair Cynthia pour’d her silver beams, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And e’er I was aware ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡The downy hand of sleep ‡‡‡‡Seal’d fast my eyes in pleasing slumbers; — ‡‡‡‡And something fell upon my soul ‡‡‡‡Which o’er my spirit seem’d to meet ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡ Sublimely soothing! ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And mellow down my feelings, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡O’er which the tremulous chords
Of plaintive sensibility were strung. ‡‡‡‡Then rose the visions of the night,
And, undisturb’d, their free dominion kept ‡‡‡‡Within the province of any brain. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Methought the trump of war ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Was heard to sound no more; ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡The soldier’s shining blade ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Was in his scabbard laid;
The cannon with reverberating roar,
Deep-sounding, shook the vaults of heaven no more;
No more it vomited destructive ire,
Or belch’d out death at each convulsive fire! ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡ The bleeding warrior’s sighs ‡‡‡‡No more to Heaven did arise; ‡‡‡‡The widow’s tears had ceas’d to flow, ‡‡‡‡The orphan had forgot his woe,
And Peace, sweet goddess of celestial birth, ‡‡‡‡Reassumed her reign on earth. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Joy dwelt in every look; ‡‡‡‡Gladness sat on every face; ‡‡‡‡Thankful man the blessings took ‡‡‡‡As a reward for past distress. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡QUEENSTON appeared to rise ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡At once before my eyes, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And wave full fields of grain ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Luxuriant o’er the plain.
The battery strong, where, late the cannon’s mouth,
Just pointing thro’ stood threat’ning — charg’d with fate,
Ready to hurl destruction on the foe,
And rival thunder with its dreadful voice,
Disgorging death’s commission! — these same mounds ‡‡‡‡Where mouldering down to common earth, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And, crown’d with grassy tops,
They spread their vests of Nature’s carpet green ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Besprent with op’ning flowers, ‡‡‡‡And the soft notes of warbling birds ‡‡‡‡Succeeded to the roar of arms. ‡‡‡‡Methought a train of youths I saw, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Each with a garland crown’d, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And on each breast was bound ‡‡‡‡A golden plate, on which engrav’d
Britannia sat, reclining on her spear. ‡‡‡‡At her right hand appear’d an urn ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Of gold beset with pearls, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Transmuted from her tears, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡With the inscription on it:
“Here are inclos’d the ashes of my BROCK.” ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡With solemn silent step, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡In order they advanc’d ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Towards a new-raised pile: — ‡‡‡‡It was a marble monument, — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡A tribute to the chief, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Who fell upon the spot: —
‘Twas built in memory of our hero BROCK. — ‡‡‡‡And here these youths repair’d to pay ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡The debt of gratitude ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Due from a generous mind, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Due from the virtuous brave,— ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Due to superior merit. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡A youth whose graceful mien ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Was pleasing to behold,
When they were gather’d round the monument, ‡‡‡‡In words like these began to speak : — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡“War was our country’s lot : — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡The enemy advanc’d, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And with unhallowed step ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Defil’d our peaceful shores. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Our hero took the field, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And with him march’d a band ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Of generous hearted youths ‡‡‡‡Who, prompted by their country’s good, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡The shock of war withstood. ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡BROCK led these heroes on; ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And, e’er they left the field,
The song of triumph flow’d from every tongue! ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Brave youths! can we forget ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Your efforts generous while ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Our hearts shall beat? — Ah no! —
Cold be those hearts in death that can forget you, —
That can forget your patriotic deeds! ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡“But ah! the fatal day ‡‡‡‡Which saw our country’s enemy ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Advance on Queenston Heights: — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‘Twas then the hand of death ‡‡‡‡Fixt on our hero’s mortal part, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡With his cold gathering grasp, ‡‡‡‡And snapt the brittle thread of life! ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡He rush’d to meet the foe — ‡‡‡‡His bosom caught the shaft of death — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡He fell — he soon expir’d! — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡The saddening news was heard, ‡‡‡‡“Since heaven hath given our country peace, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And still’d the storm of war, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And granted us the means ‡‡‡‡This pile of gratitude to rear; ‡‡‡‡Let us return our thanks to Heaven ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡For all these mercies given, ‡‡‡‡And then the tribute of a tear ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Pay to him whose dust lies buried here.
“Almighty God! supremely good and just,
To whom we look for help, in whom we trust,
Vouchsafe to hear the thanks our hearts would pay
To thine Eternal Majesty this day.
We own the power of thine extended hand,
Which drove invasion from our native land,
And bade contending powers from conflict cease,
And join their hands in mutual love and peace.
May peace continue, and concord abound,
Thou Sire of being! all the world around.” ‡‡‡‡He paus’d respectfully, — then broke ‡‡‡‡The solemn silence, and thus spoke: — ‡‡‡‡Each soldier’s bosom felt the stroke, ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡And heaved in speechless woe! — ‡‡‡‡But gathering like a cloud the foe ‡‡‡‡Advanc’d and thicken’d on the field. ‡‡‡‡Ready for combat our brave band ‡‡‡‡Like lions rush’d amidst the fight, ‡‡‡‡Then ghastly death stalk’d hideous round ‡‡‡‡And fell’d his victims to the ground; ‡‡‡‡Amidst the rage of carnage stood ‡‡‡‡Grimly majestic, smear’d with blood! — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡But e’er the rolling sun ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Sunk down the steep of night, ‡‡‡‡The deaf’ning cannon ceas’d to roar, ‡‡‡‡The clank of arms was heard no more, ‡‡‡‡The joyful tidings flew around, — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‘The victory is ours!’ ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡“But sadness damp’d the joy in every breast; — ‡‡Sorrow sat heavy at each heart; — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡’‡‡‡‡‡‡‡Alas, our chief was slain! — ‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡’‡‡‡‡‡‡‡No more the generous smile — ‡‡No more commanding dignity ‡‡Shone in his countenance, — cold death — ‡‡Cold, icy death sat silent there! — ‡‡Yet still his memory blooms afresh, ‡‡The fragrance of his virtues rises ‡‡In grateful odours to the soul ‡‡That knows to value worth and merit, ‡‡Which he in measure large possess’d.
“When duty call’d him to the helm of th’ state,
He found our country on the brink of fate.
A treas’nous faction burning to display
Rebellion’s ensigns, in her bosom lay:
Without, a numerous and insulting foe,
Threat’ning to strike th’exterminating blow.
He saw the danger — mark’d — pursu’d his plan,
And magic influence with his measures ran:
O’er discord’s strings his master hand he threw;
Faction was silent, and her friends withdrew:
The undetermined bosom he inspir’d;
The lukewarm heart with patriot ardour fir’d;
He taught us conquest in th’unequal strife,
And seal’d us victory with his valu’d life.
“His mind was noble, — all his actions great;
Fitly he held the guiding reins of state;
Compassion, pity, justice moved his soul,
Nor e’er he swerved from their divine control.”
Thus spoke the youth, and with a melting heart
Each stander by sustain’d an equal part;
Tears following tears the soul’d emotions spoke,
While sighs responsive from each bosom broke.
In weeping charms the virgin band appear’d,
Which struck my soul with softness as I heard:
Involuntary tears began to flow;
I join’d in concert in the scene of woe,
‘Till, quite absorb’d in the heart melting theme,
Sudden I woke, and found it all a dream: —
Yet such our Brock, and such the patriot band
Who fought and conquered under his command.
Adam Hood Burwell published poems under the pen name Erieus, the “Pioneer Poet of Upper Canada.” Read about Burwell
Source: MacDonald, Mary Lu. “New” Poems of Adam Hood Burwell. canadianpoetry.org/volumes/vol18/macdonald.html, 5/12/2020. Originally published in the Canadian Review and Literary and Historical Journal, No. III (March 1825)
Delaware and Lehigh rivers at Easton Pa. by Augustus Kollner, 1844 Image courtesy of the Library of Congress Barge being towed by horses in foreground
I’m a-sitting by the tow-path ‡‡Of the days of long ago,
Where the long, green grass is growing ‡‡And the ox-eye daisies blow,
And I see a fading vision, ‡‡‘Gainst the sun’s last westward glow,
Of the schooners and the horses ‡‡In the days I used to know.
Big-boned horses, drooping, weary, ‡‡As they drew the tow-line taut;
Idle sailors, singing, cheery, ‡‡Lounging where the decks are hot;
Trudging tow-boys, cracking whips, ‡‡Cursing when a tow-horse slips;
And the rattling rustling, creaking ‡‡Of the gear upon the ships.
Little schooners with their lumber, ‡‡Going down the narrow ditch,
Out of Michigan and Huron ‡‡Bringing ashes, staves and pitch;
All the forests of the inland ‡‡Floating seaward, hour by hour,
Making way for farms and millers ‡‡To send down their wheat and flour.
And the immigrants go upward, ‡‡Irish, Scot, and Norse and Swede,
Looking to the land of promise ‡‡Where hard work is all they need
For the carving of a future ‡‡And the foundation of a race,
Facing westward, keen and eager, ‡‡To their new, free dwelling-place.
But the sailing ships have vanished, ‡‡And the tow-path sod is green,
Gone are horses, whips and shoutings, ‡‡Giving place to steel and steam,
Rusty plates and smoke and smother, ‡‡Sixteen hatchways in a row,
And a welkin-splitting clamor ‡‡That pursues me as I go.
I have seen as rare a vision ‡‡As the ancient prophets saw,
I have seen mankind in action ‡‡Working out the ancient law,—
“You shall all this earth replenish ‡‡“And subdue its every sod,”—
‘Tis mankind that builds our nation ‡‡But the architect, is God.
Source: McCabe, Kevin (ed.) The Poetry of Old Niagara. St. Catharines: Blarney Stone Books, 1999.
Originally published in the St. Catharines Standard, November 29, 1924
