Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (August 29, 1809 – October 7, 1894)
was an American physician, poet, professor, lecturer, and author.
Regarded by his peers as one of the best writers of the 19th century,
he is considered a member of the Fireside Poets. His most famous
prose works are the "Breakfast-Table" series, which began with The
Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858). He is also recognized as an
important medical reformer. Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
Holmes was educated at Phillips Academy and Harvard College.
After graduating from Harvard in 1829, he briefly studied law
before turning to the medical profession. He began writing poetry at
an early age; one of his most famous works, "Old Ironsides", was
published in 1830 and was influential in the eventual preservation of
the USS Constitution. Following training at the prestigious medical
schools of Paris, Holmes was granted his M.D. from Harvard
Medical School in 1836. He taught at Dartmouth Medical School
before returning to teach at Harvard and, for a time, served as dean
there. During his long professorship, he became an advocate for
various medical reforms and notably posited the controversial idea
that doctors were capable of carrying puerperal fever from patient to
patient. Holmes retired from Harvard in 1882 and continued writing
poetry, novels and essays until his death in 1894. Surrounded by
Boston's literary elite—which included friends such as Ralph Waldo
Emerson, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and James Russell
Lowell—Holmes made an indelible imprint on the literary world of
the 19th century.
~Georgianna Hawley~
~
Irish
I am German, Irish
Lithuanian, Swedish and Polish.
But whenever St. Patrick’s Day
comes, “I’m Irish” is what I say.
The Irish live in Ireland,
(not green land)
The Irish have their leprechauns,
I don’t believe in leprechauns.
When it is March I like
the color green which I usually dislike.
On St. Patrick’s Day
I wear green, not grey,
I use green things,
and eat green things.
I use green pencils,
and I eat green apples.
~Charity Clothespin~
~
An Old Irish Blessing
May the road rise to meet you,
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
The rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of his hand.
May God be with you and bless you:
May you see your children's children.
May you be poor in misfortune,
Rich in blessings.
May you know nothing but happiness
From this day forward.
May the road rise up to meet you
May the wind be always at your back
May the warm rays of sun fall upon your home
And may the hand of a friend always be near.
May green be the grass you walk on,
May blue be the skies above you,
May pure be the joys that surround you,
May true be the hearts that love you.
~Isabel Delacruz~
~
The Benefactor
A serial by Aelsa Butler
A young widow sees the hand of God providing for her through a mysterious
friend.
Prologue
When a soldier comes home from an assignment, he lands at his local
airport anxious to rejoin his family. Once in the baggage claim, he might
break into a jog, meeting his happy wife with a kiss, clasping his kids to his
heart, or hugging a parent, and when he steps into his familiar house, he sees
“Welcome Home” banners, and a clean, comforting smell fills his nose as
he steps his combat boots back into the hub of his civilian life.
Marine Sergeant Andrew Meadows’ home-going was of a very different
kind. One hot afternoon, an enemy bullet penetrated their camp, hitting
Meadows directly behind his right ear, killing him instantly.
A month later, his young widow, Bryn, and his infant daughter, Josie, stood
at his flag-draped casket on a wet autumn morning. Looking down with
tears frozen just behind her eyelids, Bryn could only imagine how it felt to
greet a returning soldier, and she reached out for her daughter, instinctively
squeezing her as she felt her arms aching for that which she could never
hold again.
That soldier’s house had no banners that night, rather stacks of cards
expressing sorrow. The place was not clean, and Bryn noticed with dismay
the hundreds of wadded tissues strewn all over the floor. A bizarre
potpourri of floral arrangements, cosmetic products, and dirty diapers
scented the home, and Bryn shook her head as she cast a sidelong glance at
the little girl whose head lay peacefully in sleep on her shoulder.
With a sigh, Bryn trudged up a flight of stairs to her daughter’s room, and
set the dozing burden down in the crib. As she looked down lovingly at the
girl with tears filling her eyes, she murmured, “I don’t know how I’m going
to get us through the next seventeen years, Josie. But if there’s one person
I’ve got to be strong for, it’s you, Josie Meadows, and strong I’m going to
be.” Then with a sudden wave of emotion, she sank to the carpeted floor,
sobbing quietly as possible.
Editor/Author Note: This serial is a trial run on my part. If you find
something in my writing style that could use improvement or other mistakes,
please feel free to send me an email through the Lit Wick Gazette email
(litwickgazette @ gmail.com). I would love to hear your opinions as I
perfect this story. You all are guinea pigs! ~A
