WE KIDS WERE NEVER AS YOUNG AS THEY WERE
(to Duane L. Bay) from nephew Geoff Garwick

They raised such serious children,
These Next-Ken-Gens who were busy
Gamboling about with their sibs,
Introducing people around,
Dating, going to folks' weddings---
Too post-war to do much sedate.

When I first remember Unc Duane,
He's driving a jeep, lightly armed,
With Bowie knife and revolver
Against the Ozark's feral pigs
And venomous snakes--runner thin,
Especially compared to me---
And glam as a lead movie star.
Admittedly, not quite redwood tall---
To a small nephew on Ozark tour
Oak tree height seemed well within call--
Hero worship was always a lure.

Westerling, he moved toward ocean.
Helping California regild
And reinvent itself from schools
On up, with pragmatic magic--
Through luck, he'd lodged in his true state--
Like him, it spoke with  natural accent,
Part Sequoia, academic,
San Andreas, Hollywood, and kelp.

I mean, his kids played, like soccer.
What was that about--Austria, Mexico?
Or probably, just trend-setting, chic.
He played or coached most team games.

Then, harbored for decades in his
(Eventually for him and kin)
Mother school, Stanford's, shadow,
As offspring surrounded the Bay
Even unto far Hawaii---
A solo of desegregation's hymn
He sang amid the snarling of foes.

His prior musiced prize, an oboe gem,
Waltzed from Austria, for John had gamely chose
To grow a new timbre on the clan's stem,
Then passed the woodwind to which Lanette rose.

Duane's gift deepened as he traveled West,
Not perfect, but with progressive, upward zest.
Splashing to the urgent Pacific's beloved brim
Where golden estate takes its bath,
He ran, he walked the land's steep rim,
Waving on toward surf's silver path.

Geoff Garwick, November, 2020