I'm Starting to Look Like ...

HWL

... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-82). Before this hibernation is over, I'm sure I'll look exactly like him.

Let's start with the beard. The young Longfellow did not wear one. (See pic below.) It was only after his wife, Frances, died in 1861 that he grew one. She had burst into flames when a candle fell on her dress (she was melting sealing wax for a letter); she raced across the house into his study; he looked up and saw her in flames. He grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her, sustaining a burn on his neck. She died the next morning. And Longfellow started the beard to hide the damage to his face.

After Longfellow died, by the way, his son found in his desk an unpublished poem about Frances and her death and its devastating effect on him. (Link to "Cross of Snow.") I've memorized it. Love it.

I've told this sad Longfellow story before; it affects me deeply, every time.

Now ... a lighter tale: my own beard

Our son was in sixth grade (1984-85), and one day, innocently (?), he asked what I would look like in a beard. And I immediately commenced to grow one. I'd always hated shaving, and now I could blame son Steve for my not doing so! (I do shave my neck and upper cheeks about twice/week.)

The growth has been "adorning" my face ever since (and turning more and more white). My mother was not (initially?) pleased. She was still teaching at Drake University when she first saw it, and here's what she said (more or less): "All the men around here are shaving theirs off now."

younger, waggish me

Implication: You're out of it, Danny. If you want to be, you know, "with it," you'd better reactivate your razor!

Mom was clever, eh? But ... I ignored her and have been sporting it ever since.

Usually, now, I keep it fairly short. I visit my wonderful barber (Mickey) here in Hudson every three weeks or so, and, kind soul that he is, he doesn't even charge me for trimming it. So I tip him to the max. (Well, my max.)

But now--after about six weeks of No-Mickey--the beard, Santa-Claus white, is beginning to billow out and look more Whitmanian, Longfellowan.

Walt Whitman, 1819-92

Joyce has been ... tolerant--and only occasionally scratches her head furiously after I hug her. That's what love is, you know? Not scratching (very much) after your lover embraces you.

Anyway, a month or six weeks (or more?) lie ahead of us, and I hope I get to see Mickey before I start tripping over this thing that's now hanging from my face.

**

BTW: You'll notice that I have not attached a recent pic of myself. Be grateful.