Daughters of the Revolution

A Ballad of Annie Oakley

August thirteenth, AD 1860

A sweet baby girl, Phoebe Ann Mosey

Born on a farm in Darke County, Ohio

Eight children, two bedrooms, a farmhouse quite cozy

By age seven Annie hunted to help bring in money

This child was a natural with her firearm

Taking her kill to the general store dealer

Eight years, she’d paid off the mortgage on the farm

Spring Eighty-One, to the south in Cincinnati

Marksman Frank Butler arrived with his act

He bet fifty dollars with hotelman Jack Frost

“I’ll beat any shooter, and that, Sir’s, a fact!”

Jack Frost and Frank Butler rode up to Darke County

To Frank’s amazement, a five-foot female

His opponent in shooting live birds 

They took turns, each targeting twenty-five quail

Twenty-four rounds and the two were dead even  

Neither marksman had missed even one single shot

On his twenty-fifth bird, Frank made his sole error 

And Annie then won the whole fifty-dollar pot

Frank later admitted, “She took me fair and square”

Head over heels, he thought Annie so dear  

Adoring his poodle, she gave Frank a chance

The stars were aligned, they were wed in one year

They moved to Cincinnati, found a house in Oakley

That’s where Annie obtained her famous stage name

She joined Frank’s act in Over-the-Rhine

The start of her journey to world-wide fame

Several years later, Frank and Annie moved on

Joining Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West Show

Seventeen years, North America and Europe

Queen Victoria, the Kaiser, and King Umberto

Annie’s marksmanship was other-worldly

She shot dimes and playing cards tossed in the air

Hit targets behind her while looking in a mirror

Snuffed a burning candle and put out its glare

Annie Oakley left the show in Nineteen-O-Two         

She fought for women’s rights, for daughters and sons        

Gave money to orphanages and charities

Taught fifteen thousand women how best to use guns

Annie died in Darke County at age sixty-six 

Pernicious anemia, that was her lot

Frank stopped eating food, died eighteen days later

Darke County, still together in their family plot

Father's Day

Oh Father’s Day, you foolish scalawag

Barely one step ahead of Columbus Day 

But lagging miles behind 

Groundhog Day

or Fat Tuesday or National Pizza Day 

Mothers Day, of course, is another matter 

Mothers deserve their own special day

since the rest of their year is 

such a raw deal 

My thinking, of course, might be

out of date 

since it was formed in the nineteen-forties 

The dads in our crowd, 

just back from the war, 

turned their families into military platoons

Dad were three-star generals

Moms, second lieutenants 

The children, buck privates at best

Just one rule obtained:

Obey every command from on high

Do it quickly and perfectly 

Never ask why

Never talk back

The dads had jobs in the factory or the firm

Bringing home the money 

Thus excused from the menial household tasks 

Moms did the cooking, the cleaning,

the bringing up of the children, 

changing their diapers, washing behind the ears 

Although fathers were in charge of discipline

At least the bodily sort 

Usually with a belt or a ruler

Things we learned from our fathers:

Rich people are superior 

Never show weakness

Stand up, don't slouch 

But here I exaggerate

My father did have a fun side 

He took me along 

to chop down our Christmas trees

and pulled the toboggan behind the car 

Best of all, we went to my uncle’s

drugstore after hours

and created whatever 

we wanted at the soda fountain 

Butterscotch, peppermint, fudge ripple

But I can’t remember 

if I ever got a hug  

Those, of course, were the bygone days

Thirty years later

My dad became a grandfather

I give him credit

He grew to be a much better 

grandfather than a father

Engaged with his grandkids

Interested, affectionate, chummy

Times change 

People change with them

Nowadays there are many more reasons
     to celebrate Father's Day 

Bombs Are On My Mind

              Hiroshima

          August 6, 1945

      the first atomic bomb

80,000 people died in place.

We learned about the A-bomb in our Weekly Reader. 

Harry Truman, Miss Zellinger said,

saved America from destruction.

She taught us about the 

peace-time wonders of atomic energy.

But what stuck in our child-minds —

the firestorms destroying all life on Earth.  

Fourth grade, we had monthly atomic bomb drills

First, we put away all pencils and erasers. 

Then we hid our heads under our desks.

No one understood just why.  

Deeny-Boy thought

maybe radiation can’t go through wood. 

The nineteen-fifties, the superpower arms race.

In my U.P. hometown many believed

we were a likely target of a Russian A-bomb.

From high in the sky, the elders said, we were easily mistaken for

the St. Lawrence Seaway.

If the Russian bombers were off by only a smidgeon…

So long, Menominee County!

My father and Uncle Lars came to a decision.

Our family needed  an @&%*#! atomic bomb shelter.

So, in the basement of my grandfather’s drugstore

they outfitted our room.    

Canned foods, bottled water, graham crackers,

plates and silverware, dish towels, Brillo pads,

flashlights, matches and candles,

extra underwear and socks,

pillows, towels, blankets,

empty paper bags,

comic books, crossword puzzles,

and lastly a portable toilet.

Uncle Lars argued strongly that we needed rifles

in case the townspeople

tried to force their way into our space.  

My father was ambivalent about

killing our neighbors.

So they never did bring in the rifles.

Skip ahead a few years.

My wife and I, students in Ann Arbor.

October 22^nd, 1962, the Cuban Missile crisis.

Nuclear war in the offing.

We were dangerously close to Detroit, a prime target.

Fear, cold sweats.

We thought about driving to the U.P.

to our family bomb shelter.

But then I remembered 

the St. Lawrence Seaway

so we hunkered down with our dog.

Many decades passed

and I almost forgot about atomic bombs.

But now we have a president

who threatens nuclear war with North Korea.

From the air Cincinnati could easily be mistaken for Detroit.

Or Pittsburgh.

Or Cleveland.

   

And we don’t have a family bomb shelter any more.

But at least I learned how to

hide my head under

my desk. 

Marie Laveau, New Orleans Voodoo Queen

Marie Laveau was the Voodoo Queen

Untold thousands were helped by her magic

She offered cures, prosperity, and hope

To lives that were oftentimes tragic

This infant was born in the Vieux Carré 

September ten, 1801

A native Creole by birth

Her gifts were to shine in the sun

        

Her father was a plantation owner

Her mother, Marguerite, a free black

Marie was at first a hairdresser

But luring rich clients proved her knack

She learned to do voodoo from Doctor John

Mixing African and Catholic rites

Marie reached the spirits through music and dance

Rich and poor, women, men, blacks and whites

Marie had a snake she named Zombi

Voodoo rituals at Congo Square

She sold gris-gris and charms and amulets

And was known to arrange an affair

A Frenchman named Louis was her partner

Marie had fifteen children in all

One daughter was later a voodoo queen

But most died before they could crawl

Marie saw her clients at Maison Blanche

They often were wealthy white men

She offered them stunning black lovers

Who were housed in a French Quarter den

Many do view Marie Laveau as a saint

Faith healer, a midwife, a nurse

She ministered to convicts condemned to death row

Helped them ward off a hex or a curse

Marie’s home still stands on Saint Anne Street

She died there in June eighty-one

When buried in Saint Louis Cemetery 

Her life after death had begun