Three Courses

I bumped into the obituary of Carolyn Boeri, of Vermont, about a week ago. Ms. Boeri’s mother was a Kierstead, and the previous generation included Stocktons. The obituary, which was a lovely celebration of Boeri’s life, included many genealogical details. One in particular struck me, discussing the return of Ms. Boeri’s family to America:

“Their return [from Canada] to the United States ended a 230 year absence. The Stockton family had split loyalties during the American Revolutionary War. One member, Richard Stockton was a signer of the Declaration of Independence, while his first cousin, also Richard, was a Loyalist, of whom George Washington wrote, “the Major has been very active and mischievous.” At war’s end, this Richard was given a large land grant by the king that included Anagance, New Brunswick, the town where Carolyn was born.”

Read the full obituary here.

Seamus Heaney died on August 30th, 2013. He was 74 years old. What follows is in no way a tribute to the great poet, now passed into that great beyond. Heaney doesn’t need praise from me, and I wouldn’t do a good job. Just read his poetry; that will suggest our loss.

I want to write about the time Heaney, famous for his approachability and warmth, spoke to me. I also want to briefly consider his final words.

Many years ago, in the mid 1980s, so about a decade before his Nobel prize, Heaney gave a reading at PENN where I was a graduate student. The room was packed – three or four hundred people I would guess. I was squeezed deep toward the center of a row, sitting next to Paul Korshin. The reading was great. It made me cry. Heaney could speak about an outhouse and make it mean something to me, and to the person next to me. But as the reading went on, I realized that I was pressed for time to meet with my good friend Dave. He went to Temple and we didn’t get together too often, and I really wanted to meet him on time. So finally, with Heaney reading on and on (beautiful words, but on and on), I finally got up and started to make my way across the length of the row. I normally look down on people who do that. Who can’t sit for a bit more poetry? But I really had to catch the bus to catch the train that would take me to Temple. So I got up and made that trip. And Heaney, very pleasant-voiced, stopped his reading and remarked, “Almost done.”

That was the one time he spoke to me. I wish it had been under better circumstances, but hey, he noticed and spoke to me.

As for his final message, a text message to his wife that read “noli timere” – don’t be afraid. Well, it just tickles me. Don’t be afraid (delivered in a dead language). I believe that it’s good advice. I’ll try to take it.