This post about Longfellow and Cleeves and Peaks Island is reposted here today for Bill West's Great American Local Poem Genealogy Challenge. Click > HERE < to find links to each of the blogs that participated in this challenge.
The story behind the 1987 movie, The Whales of August, was based on the memories of the author, David Berry . . . regarding time spent at the family cottage on Peaks Island . . .
The water-themed postcards on this collage are images of Peaks Island . . . which is the most populated of the multiple islands that dot the surface of the waters of Casco Bay . . . clockwise from the upper left, the captions on these postcards are as follows --
- S.S. Merryconeac landing at Pier, Peaks Island, Me.
- General view of water front, Peak's Island, Maine
- The Steamboat Landing, Peaks Island
- On the float, Peaks Island, Me.
Based on the few words scribbled on the back of some old family photos, it seems apparent that my New England maternal kinfolk spent time on Peaks Island at least through the 1920s . . . the sepia-toned image in the lower right corner is a photo of my maternal grandma . . . the words on the back simply say, "Elizabeth and Beauty, Peaks Island, June 25, 1925."
Another photo from the same collection, dated the same day, is the black and white image towards the left which is simply inscribed with the date and the words . . . "5th Me." . . . when I first saw those words, I had no idea what they meant, or what the building in the photo was . . . but after a bit of detective work, I found that this is a photo of what is now known as the Fifth Maine Regiment Museum on Peaks Island . . . Elizabeth's maternal grandpa, Peter Brackett (1838-1927), had enlisted in Co. B of the Fifth Maine infantry in 1861 . . .
Regarding Peaks Island itself, A history of Peaks Island and its people . . . by Nathan Goold (1897) says that --
The history of Peaks Island commences almost with the settlement of Portland, and perhaps before. . . . George Cleeve and Richard Tucker settled Portland in 1633 and built themselves a log house near the spot where the poet Longfellow was born in 1807. . . . In 1637, by a commission from Sir Fernando Gorges, for letting and settling of lands and the islands, Cleeve leased Pond (Peaks) Island to Michael Mitton for sixty years, and stated that the name should be Michael's Island for Mitton, who had married his daughter, Elizabeth Cleeve. . . .
George Cleeve is a 9th great-grandpa of our Elizabeth (1912-1932) . . . and his daughter, Elizabeth, and son-in-law, Michael Mitton, are our Elizabeth's 8th great-grandparents . . .
At a meeting held in Portland on Monday evening, February 27, 1882, the Maine Historical Society celebrated the seventh-fifth birthday of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . . . it was the desire of the members that Mr. Longfellow himself might honor the Society by his presence on that occasion . . . but he was prevented by illness from attending . . . and he died less than a month later . . .
The following is excerpted from a tribute read by James Phinney Baxter on that evening . . . I quote it here because it waxes poetic about the sea (water) as well as about our great-grandpa Cleeves --
. . . Dear Master let me take thy hand a space,
And lead thee gently wheresoe'er I may;
With the salt sea's cool breath upon thy face,
And in thine ears the music of the spray,
Which rapt in days agone thy sould away,
Where hung full low the golden fruit of truth,
Within the reach of thy aspiring youth.
Thou knowest well the place: here built George Cleeves
Almost two centuries before thy birth;
Here was his cornfield; here his lowly eaves
Sheltered the swallows, and around his hearth
The red men crouched, -- poor souls of little worth:
Thou with clear vision seest them, I know,
As they were in the flesh long years ago.
Surely the shrewd, persistent pioneer
Built better than he knew: he thought to build
A shelter for himself, his kith and gear;
But felled the trees, and grubbed and ploughed and tilled,
That in the course of time might be fulfilled
A wondrous purpose, being no less than this,
That here a poet might be born to bliss.
Ah! could he but have tracked adown the dim
Long, weary path of years, and stood to-day
with thee and me, how would the eyes of him
Have flashed with pride and joy to hear men say,
Here Cleeves built the first house in Casco Bay;
Here, too, was our Longfellow's place of birth,
And sooth, God sent his singers upon earth. . . .
Here will I bid thee, Master, fond good-by,
Wishing thee soul-health and full many a day
Of blissful living, ere thou mayest try
The scope of other joys. And now I may
This wreath from Deering's Woods, O Master! I lay
Upon thy brow. God speed thee while the sun
Shines on the faithful work which thou hast done!
It has been said that Longfellow used words to paint visions of the New England coast and its waters . . . a talent which is well illustrated in an unpublished passage of blank verse from his journal dated the 18th August 1847 --
O faithful, indefatigable tides,
That evermore upon God's errands go,
Now sea-ward, bearing tidings of the land,
Now land-ward, bearing tidings of the sea,
And filling every frith and estuary.
Each arm of the great sea, each little creek
Each thread and filament of water-courses,
Full with your ministration of delight!
Under the rafters of this wooden bridge
I see you come and go; sometimes in haste
To reach your journey's end, which being done
With feet unrested ye return again,
But recommence the never-ending task,
Patient, with whatever burdens ye may bear,
And fretted only by impending rocks.
Another Longfellow poem -- A Gleam of Sunshine -- simply states that . . .
This is the place. Stand still, my steed,
Let me review the scene,
And summon from the shadowy Past
The forms that once have been.
The Past and Present here unite
Beneath Time's flowing tide,
Like footprints hidden by a brook,
But seen on either side. . . .
P.S. To my ancestors and loved ones . . . see you on the other side . . .
P.P.S. Longfellow is my 5th cousin 6 times removed, i.e., my 10th great-grandmother, Elizabeth (Burbage) Wiswall (abt.1610 - aft.1664), is his 4th great-grandmother. My 10th great-grandfather, Thomas Wiswall (bef.1601 - 1683), is his 4th great-grandfather.
The above postcard collage . . . featuring postcards with a water theme . . . was originally prepared in August of 2009 for the 4th edition of Evelyn Yvonne Theriault's Festival of Postcards . . .
150 years ago today . . . on the 21st day of December . . . in the year 1863 . . . in Houston County, Texas . . . James Madison Hall writes in his Journal that he is choosing to record information on a daily basis (1860-1866) for the benefit of those that come after me, in order that they may see some of the benefits that war brings upon the Country and people . . .
On Christmas Day 1863, J.M. Hall will make reference to their Christmas jollification . . . and will state that all went off as merry as a marriage bell . . .
Meanwile, almost two thousand miles away, while listening to the church bells of Cambridge, Massachusetts toll out the glad tidings of Christmas Day . . . Henry Wadsworth Longfellow picks up his pen and writes the following words . . .
I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along the unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men.”
The following video gives a version of the story behind those words, as told by Edward K. Herrmann and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir . . .
See also . . .
P.S. Longfellow is my 5th cousin 6 times removed, i.e.,My 10th great-grandmother,Elizabeth (Burbage) Wiswall (abt.1610 - aft.1664),is his 4th great-grandmother.My 10th great-grandfather, Thomas Wiswall (bef.1601 - 1683),is his 4th great-grandfather.
They are the roses in December;
you remember some one said
that God gave us memory
so that we might have roses in December. . . .
the people I have cared for most
and who have seemed most worth caring for
-- my December roses --
have been very simple folk.
~ James M. Barrie ~
Fourteen years ago [1996] I had not yet bought my 1st computer. The pages I typed during my Father's last days, and following his death -- e.g., the page shown here -- were done on a portable typewriter.
It was December 1996, our first Christmas season without the patriarch of our family, Forrest Lee Pounders (1927-1996). It had been almost a year since Dad died in January . . .
On that cool, crisp Christmas morning, we drove to the little country cemetery to visit Dad's grave. Mom had planted antique rosebushes shortly after Dad's death -- The Fairy rose -- which was introduced by J. A. Bentall in England in 1932 (the year of Mom's birth) -- and I wanted to gather some flowers for drying for the special project shown here. The delicate rose blossoms and tiny rosebuds sparkled with frost that morning -- as if sprinkled with stardust from the Star of the East.
You have collected all my tears and preserved them in Your bottle! You have recorded every one in Your book. ~ Psalm 56 ~
I refer to the family keepsake ornaments shown here as tearbottles. These opalescent glass globes contain dried rose petals from Daddy's memorial service, as well as the dried roses from his grave. The sweetly scented blossoms are combined with a sentimental mixture of rosemary (for remembrance) and wormwood (for sorrow). And all are nestled in a soft bed of prisma stardust blended with glittering ice crystals . . .
Silently one by one
in the infinite meadows of Heaven
blossom the lovely stars
the forget-me-nots of the angels.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~
Originally written for the
2009 Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories
Freshened up a bit and reposted for the
2010 Advent Calendar of Christmas Memories
. . . . . . . . . .
A picture is a poem without words.
Horace
. . . . . . . . . .
Dear Photograph . . .
oh, how I wish he could ride right out of your borders
and into that pasture again . . .
thank you for holding onto that moment in time . . .
. . . . . . . . . .
In the meadow of life
My acre of heaven . . .
In a place called home
Sailing the waves of past . . .
Rocking chair without a dreamer
A wooden swing without laughter
Sandbox without toy soldiers
Yuletide without the Flight . . .
Meadows of Heaven . . .
by
Nightwish
. . . . . . . . . .
Over the pallid sea,
and the silvery mist of the meadows.
Silently one by one,
in the infinite meadows of heaven,
Blossomed the lovely stars,
the forget-me-nots of the angels.
Longfellow
As I travel on life's pathway . . . know not what the years may hold . . . as I ponder, hope grows fonder . . . precious memories flood my soul . . .
Most of the images in this collage arrived in my rural mailbox on this date . . . the 7th day of October 2010 . . . my favorite Longfellow verse on the front of a greeting card . . . the two heartfelt handwritten messages on the inside of the card . . . and the photo of my dear Hubbie and his Riley-dog . . .
The sender of this treasure? . . . my precious Mom . . . she always knows just the right thing to say and do . . . she picks the best greeting cards . . . and the photo . . . it is cropped from a larger image showing an assortment of my kith 'n kin at a family gathering at my sister's place in the Hill Country of Texas . . . it was Thanksgiving two years ago . . . that's when I met my first-born grand-nephew for the very first time . . . one of my other nieces was pregnant at the time . . . that grand-nephew would arrive the following January . . . we had all been at the Idle Spur just a little over a year before . . . in October of 2007 . . . for the wedding of the now pregnant niece . . .
Precious mem'ries, how they linger
How they ever flood my soul
In the stillness of the midnight
Precious, sacred scenes unfold.
Bennie Everhart
20 March 1948 ~ 07 April 2010
I sure miss you . . .
life will never be the same with you not here . . .
Precious mem'ries, unseen angels
Sent from somewhere to my soul
How they linger, ever near me
And the sacred past unfold.
J.B.F. Wright (1923)
P.S. . . . FYI . . . the lined notepaper on the scrapbook page is from a ca. 19th century journal containing a collection of lyrics and poems, apparently thought worthy of recording by my great-grandpa . . . mayhaps I inherited that fondness for collecting my favorite word arrangements from him . . .
