* Reading of Poems by Mr. Whaley and HHS Alumni at Main Street Museum, 4 PM

(The Young Brothers on Home Turf)

(Memorial Maple for Matthew Woods at HMMS)

Alumni read many of their own poems and several poems by Mr. Whaley. We won't soon forget the delightful poem about the "Pink House" blushing at Hartland Four Corners authored by an HHS alumna.

Four generations of inspirational teachers attended this event:


Delavan "Ned" Whaley,


Bob and Pat Taylor,


Bob Potter,


and Ben Gardner.





















MAIN STREET MUSEUM (The old firehouse)




Our Dynamic Mr. Whaley

by Sally Marcotte ‘63
Charter Member LPS


To think, to take in ideas so brilliantly presented
As if you have actually heard the sound
Of prolific authors, poets, playwrights cemented
In our newly developed thoughts and ideas
Each day, each book, each title, each think piece
Led us to days thereafter in various analytical endeavors
Each year holds a reminder of those inspirations & challenges
Each season reaps benefits abounding in intellectual strength
Shakespeare, Socrates, Whitman, Thoreau, Melville, Frost
All brought to life & to mind by your knowledge, by your enactment
Some authors banned, some parents objected though in class
You continued to inspire, entertain, challenge, & to teach the lesson
Which endures------ that which is to stretch our minds
















Kathy Young, wife of Bob, wrote this following the first meeting of Live Poets Society at the Coolidge Hotel, May 7, 2011


Reflections

by Kathy Young

I’ve known Ned Whaley for long about
Forty five years now … Well,
At least the Legend, and with
Every telling, the story grew
Like watered grass in springtime
Wet with morning dew.

A quiet man seemed not his lot
But poet bard who dared
Project his love of words
And history rhyme on a
Classroom unawares …
Leaving footprints long behind.

Of what I knew were moldy
Books with well-worn pages—
Dog-eared, marked, underlined
And frayed.

All placed lovingly in a satchel
Tugged from place to place
Around the world and back
Again without a face.

A visage was not a need,
For in those books were
Words of life and love that
Pointed to a man of some esteem
Somehow lost in times long deeds.

Then after years of writing, too,
Bob dedicated his book to you
Once again without a face.
Posthumously, he said his grace –
And I smiled knowing that

The words he said could easily have raised the dead.
Those words, seeded in his heart
By an English teacher’s art of caring.

And today we honor you Ned Whaley
For the things you do and did so
Many years gone past.
By placing in a class deep love
Of words and letters that last
Forever in those young and old
And this one too, who sees your
Face at Last and blesses you!



"Eeek! It's Pink"

Shelia Santaw Cameron

"You just passed by the pink house in Hartland today.
Oh my, I once stood proud - my clapboards white and pristine, my shutters dark green....
Reduced now to looking like a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich - the strawberry part!

I'm so embarrassed! While the trees around me - my faithful friends growing taller,
fuller, their glorious green shading me...hiding my shame...and in Fall dressed in
fabulous foliage....I can only blush... pink!

I want to be a tree again or perhaps someone else will buy me.

The small summerhouse at my side - entangled now in hedge and vine - once a young girl's envy...
such a perfect dollhouse it would be....

There is nothing proud about being pink when once I was white clapboard and green shutters...
Facing the Green at Hartland Four Corners."

Sheila Santaw Cameron
HHS Class of '64






As Read by Bob Young’s wife Kathy at the conclusion of the poetry reading session of the first meeting of the Live Poet’s Society Gathering. In memory of Sue and all our classmates who have left us or were not able to attend.

After the 35th Reunion

by Sue Rising

I saw myself in the mirror this morning:
Smile lines with echoes and echoes with echoes.
Eyes feathered, squinting into long-gone sunshine.
Shoulders heavy, breasts do not so certain anymore.
My hair climbing down my back like
Silver ivy on an old building.
Surprise! Inside I’m eighteen and could play soccer,
Jog up that hill, stay up all night – if I wanted to.

“Remember the Swallows?” Jane asked at reunion.
“Sure, I said. And I do. I really do.
I don’t know if my memory is the same –
Probably her’s is at the Young Twins’ barn.
I recall she and Bob liked each other
While Jack and I shared wary respect.
Not the same thing at all.
Jane and Bob had the better of it, I think.

But I remember the swallows, the barns, the flowers.
I recall fish caught and fires sat around.
I can re-tell stories heard ‘way back then and
See people and places as clear as ice in February
And smell and touch and taste it all so fine.
Sometimes I can remember the where and the when,
But mostly, mostly, it’s the who and the what that lingers
Like wisps of silver hair snagged by the wind.