I Had Been Warned About Jews By

I Can Still Remember The Feel In My Hand Of That Most Wonderful American Coin Ever Minted, A Nickel With A Buffalo On One Side And The Head Of An Indian On The Other. That Nickel Was A Daily Proof Of Our Country's Past. Bring It Back!

Has The Painter Not Always Gone To An Art School, Or At Least To An Established Master, For Instruction? And The Composer, The Sculptor, The Architect? Then Why Not The Writer? Good Poets, Like Good Hybrid Corn, Are Both Born And Made.

Our Small Ears Never Had Such A Workout As On The Fourth Of July, Hearing Not Only Our Own Bursting Crackers But Also Those Of Our Friends, And Often The Boom Of Homemade Cannon Shot Off By Daring Boys Of 16 Years, Ready To Lose A Hand If It Blew Up.

But Maybe It's Up The Hills Or Under The Leaves Or In A Ditch Somewhere. Maybe It's Never Found. But What You Find, Whatever You Find, Is Only Part Of The Missing, And Writing Is The Way The Poet Finds Out What It Is He Found.

All Families Had Their Special Christmas Food. Ours Was Called Dutch Bread, Made From A Dough Halfway Between Bread And Cake, Stuffed With Citron And Every Sort Of Nut From The Farm - Hazel, Black Walnut, Hickory, Butternut.