Living Longer

The scientific community must be crazy thinking a guy like me should live decades longer just because they've isolated a gene or two that will give me replacement organs for those I've worn out. Hell, I've already out lived many of my buddies that I grew up with. 

We were from that generation just post depression, pre- WW2. That generation that was too young for a big war- too old for the next, some undeclared conflict. We were big on butter and lard, on hotdogs and bacon, on cigarettes and booze, on drive-in-movies and drag racing; yea, we rarely took care of ourselves.

Maybe, I've outlasted my friends because of my ancestral genes. Genes that were nurtured in the rugged upslopes of Scottish Highlands covered in heather and free range game. Did genes gain their grit from tossing of the caber or wielding a broad sword ?
Or could it be from eating oatmeal and haggis a diet my ancestors cut their teeth on, that produced these genes I possess.

No, most likely it is by chance that I'm here instead of them. Probably it is because of my wife, Constance, who is my caregiver, the mother of our two daughters and a son, the keeper of the homestead, and she remains today the earner in the family. She keeps stresses to a minimum as those who know her will attest to. Please, I'm no candidate for longevity, neither by chance nor choice, so I'm here until I expire from normal causes.

Ronald C. Downie

Not Your Normal Sewing Circle

*The saga of working women in sewing factories a century ago depicting their trials and tribulations :*

Women trudge to work before the dawn
Wakening slips of eastern peeking light .
They'll work to dark for which they're born
Only on Sundays will they daylight sight .

Clutching a meager lunch while dreaming sweets,
Shoulders hunched forward, black shawl draped,
Their children left home must fend for themselves .
Through cold snow, they walk icy sidewalks caked .

Windowed high walls stand five stories tall ,
This building's the tallest towering the town .
It draws them as ants to sweet nectar dew,
They'll squint at dawn by dark they'll frown .

Zig zagging up a stairwell all must climb to
Their sewing machines waiting them in the gloom ,
Settling in, as a tiring long day looms ahead,
Their bodily functions they need hold to noon .

Their rate a must six days each week .
Is there a song their hearts would sing 
Above the din of machine needle strike ?
It's family needs their wages must bring .

Bosses want window's low cost light .
Dust and lint encrusted, dirty they'll be
Worry not that sewers loose their sight,
Cause seekers, a job is really all they see .

A forgotten era, a time so long ago,
These windowed old buildings quiet, silent,
Echoes muted, walls still stand starkly tall,
To the wrecking ball, they remain resilient .

Is there a new tune that we hear being sung
By people who want to live in an apartment
That could be built behind these old high walls ?
Hope ! Please choose a date for your settlement .

  Ronald C . Downie

The shirt factory at South Charlotte and Cherry St.
was most recently part of the Smith Pie Complex. It remains empty today waiting for a positive economic climate before retrofitting can begin.        

"The Man with a Hoe"

"The Man with a Hoe" a poem by Edwin Markham, 1899, was written as a verbal response to an earlier scene by a French painter, Jean-Francois Millet, in 1863. Both painting and poem have been "moving testimonies" to what the too prevalent - Inhumanity of Man - can cause.

Ever since first reading Markham's poem, fifty/sixty years ago, I've frequently conjured up the image of modern man caught in his current escapades of being inhuman to his fellow persons. I think of war, of slavery, oppression, and hunger. I see the sophistication of methods to kill, to oppress, to enslave. Markham saw these too a hundred years ago and wrote his compelling commentary about what inhumanity of humanity can cause. 

I urge everyone interested to pull up on your devise "The Man with a Hoe" and determine for yourself the image Markham leaves with you. During these trying times in Crimea the World fears a return to the warped images long ago displayed in both painting and verse. 

"The World is too much with us; late and soon, ..." are words of another poet, William Wordsworth, who through words a hundred years prior to Markham's expressed similar concern. Those who incessantly rattle sabers inject a fear in me of a life ending, all life ending nuclear winter. It's a given, that my expected lifespan is minimal at best, but I feel for my grandkids and great grandkids who have tasted life and have been told the future is out there alive for them. What do I tell them ?

Ronald C. Downie

Depends Upon

It all depends upon, Henny Penny's sky falling,
And Jacques Cousteau's blue oceans swelling ;

Depends upon, The Rolling Stones' songs playing,
Guardian Angles' protection finds safety amazing ;

Upon, John Updike past his Endpoint, again rising,
Evan Brandt penning each story his Dad's not writing;

The Mercury attending to the poor's needs unending,
And leaders in Washington their ignorance extending;

It all depends upon, the morning sun clearly rising
In a dedicated arc across our sky its energy giving;

Depends upon, grandsons picking up batons dropping,
Left over from attempts to keep live music rocking;

Upon, the fingers at their instruments still plucking,
Viewing the World from a lens in need of adjusting;

Within you, trees feel at ease, grasslands swaying,
Gardens seek pleasure, in soils rich for playing.

Ronald C. Downie

Sonnet 25

Winter Whiles Away 

When weather's left to its white winter's gate,
It's long strides and quick steps in uniform
Cadence, are bent on whiting at a rate
Which brings Mother Earth under a ghost storm :

Then, all agencies of government spring 
Into action : hooking up plows, loading
Salt and calcium chloride on spreading
Trucks. Wonder how long they'll be deicing :

And when roads are clear of treacherous ice,
Which relieves drivers to breath more freely, 
Relaxed about today's drive, going's nice, 
But, watch out for potholes, they're not to choosy !

"A job worth doing is - job worth doing well."
Weather does its thing ; stories, poems will tell.

Ronald C. Downie

Sonnet 5

Long Night's Activity

When, in the wake of dreams unfulfilled,
Looking back, reaching for past memories,
Stirring hidden hollows, hiding strong willed
Thoughts left for a long night sleep pleasantries :

Then, with tossing and turning, sweat arrives
From body heat captured by layers of covers,
Deepened sleep slacks as the mind's eye drives
Piercing nerve endings toward thoughts of others :

And then, over and over we relive day's events,
Real or are they derived of fiction or of facts ? 
A deep night's sleep would have provided vents
For the escape from rewind or rewrite of acts.

Into this netherworld of super active long days
Take deep breaths, relax, quiet, chilling out plays.

Ronald C. Downie

Sonnet 4

Lashed Together

When rolling swells from humanity's wake
Rocks life's boats, tethered safely at ready.
Sailors seek rising tides for sailing's sake
As Moon mass draws up sea waters steady:

They look to stars and charts to map the way
Off shoals, between buoys marking channels.
Seeking guidance demands society's say 
About normal living, choosing panels:

Panels represent will of the people
Who, when lashed together, become stronger,
As bricks and mortar raise up a steeple
To tower cities with shadows longer.

Bundling sticks together will give them strength,
But, bundling thoughts takes wisdom its full length.

Ronald C. Downie