THE WISHING STONE

Alexis Rotella

                                                                                        In Memory Herman Ward 1915-2007

I met Herman in 1984 when he was secretary of the Haiku Society of America. I was a new president of an organization that was going through a rough spell. In fact, Frogpond, its house organ, was in danger of disintegrating. Herman and I had many conversations, he advising on how to save the journal by taking on the editorship myself. He egged me on, told me it would take a lot of courage to tackle both jobs but with his support and that of treasurer Ross Kremer, the HSA turned around and is thriving today with thanks to all of its subsequent board members, editors and its continually growing international following.

Although I enjoyed Herman’s company (his sense of humor was quick and he had a twinkle in his eyes), I didn’t get to spend as much time with him as I would have liked. Once before a moon viewing in Upstate New York, he and Ross stopped over my house for bouillabaisse and on the way back, we made plans to get together every two weeks to discuss poetry, but Herman soon after had a heart attack and that was the end of that.

In 1989 I met Herman at the Dodge Poetry Festival where he told me he wanted to visit my home in Mountain Lakes, N.J. to see what books I had for sale. I sent him a note telling him how good it was to see him. He finally responded in September 1993 on the same sheet of paper my letter was written. He invited me to stop down and visit if I was ever passing through the Princeton area.

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My husband I would soon be moving to the San Jose area in late 1993 and there was going to be an open house on a sunny day in early October. The realtor didn’t want us hanging around so I called Herman and asked if he’d like some company.

Sure, he said, that would be lovely. I’ve been spending time with you every night anyway, reading your books.

After 10 years, Herman looked the same. He still had a twinkle but he had more aches and pains and ever present was the fear he might have another heart attack. But Herman didn’t complain; he just mentioned these things in passing to let me know what was going on with him. I knew Herman was a distinguished professor of Greek and Irish literature at Trenton State and that he was a careful reader of haiku and one who took poetry seriously (though not too seriously). I realized he was a man of great integrity, but I didn’t realize just how special Herman really was until he showed me around his apple, plum and pear orchards. Instantly I was transported back to childhood to my grandfather’s farmette in Southwestern Pennsylvania where I spent many hours.

There were sheds everywhere, all built by Herman himself. After visiting his cider press in the garage, he took us to the blacksmith shed where he still made his own tools. On we went toward a large patch of pokeweed with its beautiful poisonous berries. Just then Herman’s wife, Marge, came out and told us she used to make ink from them. Herman crumbled a leaf and told us the leaves can actually be eaten in the spring.

On we walked past the delicious apple trees and past the beehives toward a cabin which held walls of poetry and literature books. I noticed a bunch of old American Poetry Reviews that I wish I could have sunk my teeth into, but there was no time. We were on the move. A photograph of Peter O’Toole caught our eye, not to mention Herman’s antique typewriter and pot-bellied stove. Behind his desk was an old slate blackboard.

Since I’m a professor, he said,

Be careful, Herman warned, watch your head going out. Too late, Marge’s head made a thud. She said it didn’t hurt but I knew better.

We walked past woodpiles carefully stacked to a shed that served as a root cellar.

See if you recognize the smell, he said. I notice in many of your haiku there’s an allusion to the sense of smell.

Well, I said, Let’s see. The predominant smell is McIntosh apple with an undercurrent of green bell pepper.

That’s right, he beamed.  I felt like his star pupil.

As we continued on yet to another shed, which he said he built one day on a lark, he invited me to sit in his special chair and to look out the window onto the tall distant trees.

There’s something about this spot, he said, that makes me want to write.

Herman, the only thing missing is a pond.

Just hold on, we’re coming to it.

And then before us, a pond with giant bullfrogs that decided not to show themselves that afternoon.  As Herman and I sat on one of the slate benches he made that faced the water, Robert and Marge headed toward the wishing stone under the black walnut.

Herman said the only time he can rest is when someone visits because there’s always work to be done.  The autumn sun was warm and it felt good to be with this gentle, elfin man. That magic of the Irish was all around and when I got to the wishing stone, he told me that everyone who made a wish got their wish, but he warned not to tell anyone.

Can I make two? I asked.

Yes, he assured , that would be fine.

My wishes sailed off into the deep blue sky and are probably still traveling into the never-ending Void.

By this time Robert and Marge were picking raspberries and as Herman and I made our way up the blueberry trail toward the vegetable garden, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Lemon trees with huge fruit – in New Jersey!

We bought these when they were scrawny seedlings, forty years ago. I’ve been bringing them out here every year, digging them up before the frost and taking them into the greenhouse (which of course he built himself).

Marge told us to feel free to waltz among the corn stalks. Although they had eaten the last of corn for lunch, I couldn’t help wonder if they really didn’t plant the corn so their grandkids could enjoy a walk through the rustle that echoed of so many long agos.

While Robert lingered in the raspberries (more seemed to be going into his mouth than into the bowl), Herman showed me his hammock that hung from a giant maple, its trunk shaped like an “S.” I lay down and looked at the sky, closed my eyes as Herman gave me a gentle push.

Maybe that’s what you need, after being so under the weather.

Herman sat on the grass and I sat up in the hammock as he began telling me how much humor he found in my haiku. It was obvious that he had read my work carefully.

Was your father a coal miner? You mention your grandmother a lot. But not your grandfather.

He was touching on personal areas that few readers ever bothered to question. What I learned in that moment was that Herman was not just a reader of poetry, he was a reader of people. I told him my maternal grandfather died when he was only 49,  that he was a storyteller and played many instruments. My paternal Russian grandfather was distant and didn’t seem to care much for children.

We went on to speak about humor. He said when he’s in Ireland, he finds the sense of humor there delightful. We spoke about the art of storytelling, the human voice, how its seldom heard anymore and what a pity that the oral traditions have all but disappeared. We spoke about the Jewish sense of humor, how the more oppressed people are, the more their sense of humanness develops and in fact, seems to save them.

Marge and Robert were calling. But before going into Herman’s Dutch Colonial built in the 1700’s, he pointed to the Chinese lanterns bordering the greenhouse. He opened one and let Robert taste the orange berry inside. The orange shell on most of the lanterns had disappeared leaving only webs of gold filigree.

Their first Christmas tree towered over their day-to-day lives. I wasn’t quite ready for the inside of the Ward house. Wide maple floorboards shone. Oriental rugs glistened underfoot.  Off to the side of the living room was Herman’s workshop, every tool in place.

Take a hint, I tell my husband. Herman is a Pisces like you so it must be possible to find a place for everything and everything in its place.

Quickly the subject  changed as Robert focused on the stone fireplace, complete with arch for bread baking.

Small landscape paintings caught our attention, each with its own light. A hutch Herman made was obviously the apple of his wife’s eye. A Victorian red velvet couch would fetch a pretty penny at a New York auction. As we continued into the dining room, Herman proudly showed us the book his daughter had written for ballet students.

Before sitting down to a snack of plums, pears, raspberries and ice cream, Herman opened a trap door from the kitchen floor.

This is where we keep the bodies, he laughed.

You go down, Robert. I’ll stay here.

Jars of preserves made by Marge lined the shelves. Robert was impressed by the wire vegetable shelves cleverly designed to keep out mice.

The night before visiting Herman I dreamed of climbing shiny stairs, stairs that made me dizzy. There they were before us leading to the second story. I was really taken aback with Herman’s bed. It was really a sleep-in closet with slanted ceiling and to one side a platform for poetry books and a lamp. But most enduring were the curtains which he could pull to shut out the world.

Four o’clock was drawing near. Herman was going to a friend’s house to listen to chamber music and our open house would be over in an hour, just as long as it would take us to drive back home.

Stop in again before you leave, Herman said, but I made no promises.

I’ll keep in touch, I answered, even if it does take you five years to answer.

With hugs goodbye and a kiss blown from Marge, we drove back to our hundred-year-old mansion, which next to Herman’s historic house felt like an adolescent, still trying to find itself.

We spent that evening in bed relishing our day with Herman and Marge, both of wishing they would live for many years in the paradise they created together.  I was grateful for the idyllic Sunday afternoon and knew I’d always remember it as Robert and I took off for the place, or process, called California, a land where nothing is permanent, where youth reigns and houses are built and gone in a day.

I find his obituary
on the Web–
elfin eyes
still twinkling
at age 91.

(Having spent five strange years in California in a modern redwood house built on a slab of concrete, we moved back to the East Coast. I was in touch with Marge who invited us, if we were in the area, to come and spend the night and to help ourselves to any of Herman’s books. She expressed how touched she was by the above essay which appeared in Modern English Tanka, Volume 2, Number 1, Autumn 2007.) I wished her well, sensing her deep loneliness, but knowing that no one, not even her kids and grandkids could provide the healing balm that a widow might wish for.)