Last week, we heard from an Oregonian whose father remembered a poem he had read in the Post 78 years ago. At his request, we dug up the original and sent it along to him. He was nice enough to send us this reply.
You will never know the joy I saw on my dad’s face when he laid eyes on something that he had not seen since 1932. He was trying to memorize this poem while living with his family on their dairy farm in Blodgett, Oregon when the depression forced them to move to Philomath about 10 miles away. During the move, the Saturday Evening Post he was treasuring, became lost forever. He has talked about that poem for as long as I can remember. This is truly an answer to prayer. He will be 93 years old this September and can recite at least a dozen poems he learned as a youth. He never left this area becoming a candy maker, logger, sawmill owner and a pillar of the community. What a gift you have given all of us in locating this treasured memory of my father’s youth. You will always be welcome in Philomath, Oregon.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart.
It’s e-mails like this that archivists live for.
And thanks for bringing this bit of humorous nonsense to our attention. We thought we’d share it with other Post readers.