Looking Back

Looking Back, as the title suggests, is a glimpse back in time to some of the author's experiences as a young person, a middle-aged man, and finally, a happily retired senior, and the writing that continues to evolve as I tell these stories. I have always lived with the idea, in the back of my mind, that one truly does not know what you have until it's gone. With that I mind, I decided to write a book that explored some of the experiences in my life that clearly shaped my thinking and in many ways determined many of the outcomes in my life. Simply put, I love words and I love to read and write. Always have, always will, although I often struggle to compose. As a child, I use to love to read the dictionary, and sometimes I think I innately realized words were going to be the building blocks of my world. My favorite words were inspiration and create. I loved the sounds of these two words, and I realized early on I had to be inspired to compose. Oftentimes I would hear a word I liked the sound of, or its meaning, and I would quickly research its language ancestry. My mother spoke and wrote four languages, and I grew up in a household filled with relatives who spoke French, German and Spanish, as well as perfect English! Maybe that's why I was so intrigued by the words I was hearing, those familiar and those completely new. I was curious as a cat about language as a child and, in many ways, never have lost my affection and interest in language. I remember listening to Martin Luther King speak as well, and admiring his writing and public speaking skills. I have never forgotten the words that he used to describe the Black American experience in our country, the accents of Southern American speech, and the unique speech and vocal patterns of my relatives in Philadelphia. The world of words and speech patterns clearly captivated me as I grew up. Perhaps ironically, as much as I loved words, I have always struggled to compose and in fact did not enjoy writing as a high school student. I did my writing assignments, of course, but I did not know my work was a topic of discussion with my teachers, until one day I met an English teacher from the school at an aunt's house who was very impressed with my papers and thought I should attend college as a Journalism major. My parents agreed, so off I went, but during my Freshman year, I knew Journalism was not for me. Deadlines amused me, and the 20-25 word lead was just not the way I began my stories or interviews. Eventually I began to develop my own style as an English major, but it wasn't until I became interested in song writing, particularly traditional folk songs, and the poetry of Frost, Plath and Dylan that I began to embrace the art of writing.
Looking Back is surely my most introspective book. The poems and short stories are like a road map of my personal journey from early adulthood to my senior years. They encompass the memorable moments of life: marriage, fatherhood, my careers as a public sector folklorist and a public school teacher and administrator, the birth and maturation of our children, and life as a husband and parent. Along the way, there were also stories of love and happiness, joy and sorrow, spiritual awakening, and the continual onslaught of Father Time. In between, a life well-lived for which I will be forever grateful, and the realization that I am just plain lucky to have experienced all the words I have heard and learned during the seventy some years I have been on this wondrous planet, all the while enjoying a wonderful life of reading and writing.

As an older writer, I am grateful for the time I have had in my later years to write without the constraints, worries and responsibilities of the working life. As a result, I have had many minutes, hours and days to ruminate over the thoughts in my mind, poems by other writers, current events, family history and personal experience. The selections in Looking Back have reached the light of day in my retirement years but encompass my whole life. I love reading a wonderful poem and then having an idea for another pop into my head, usually in the early morning hours. And as I have aged, I make no apologies for what I produce. As they say, it is what it is. I am also thankful, now, for the countless hours I spent in school and in libraries reading what others wrote. These days, I am consumed with the diligent dishonesty I see in others. I write to confront those who chose to ignore the truth as if it does not exist, and then expect others to just accept that. I cannot, and will not. My words come from the heart, and I write to express what I think, before I lose a specific train of thought, or idea, or glimpse of something I may or may not understand in the future. Writing is really the only process in this world where I feel I can be creative. Some days I am content with what I produce, some days I am not. I suppose one cannot ask for more than that.