He Couldn't Say

My father passed away last Thursday...after a long, full life of 94 years.,,,.. I visited with him in October and wrote a poem about him at that time.... I sort of .."folded" parts of that poem into this one. Dean Neighbors....12/31/2001 Pleasanton, CA

John was born a farmer’s son,
and learned to work the lands,
in rural Oklahoma where
they made life with their hands.

He learned to tell a story well,
and all the family knows
of model Tee’s, depression days,
and silent picture shows...

of wagon trips and cotton crops
and playing country ball,
of dough-boys who went “over there”
and lived to “bless ‘em all”...

of one room schools and butter churns
and following a plow
behind a team of stubborn mules…
he still remembered how.

The oldest of eleven then...
what could the schoolboy do
but read his books behind a plow
and pray his rows were true.

John married young as some men do
and raised a family
of seven children, seven strong
with quiet dignity.

They moved to Colorado
to find a better day.
He learned to raise another crop,
to live another way.

Then out to California
a blue pacific dawn;

the war was recent history,
the grapes of wrath were gone.

John lost his love one dreary day
but kept his stubborn pride
and lived another  forty years,
though half his heart had died.

He didn’t share his hopes for life,
I didn't know his dreams.
I didn’t know I didn’t know
until today it seems.

But I know faith and honesty,
he carried them inside
with dignity, humility
and unrelenting pride.

And I know well integrity,
he lived it every day…
and in the end I came to know
the love he couldn’t say.