Remembering What Was
I Hear America Singing.
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off
work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deck-
hand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing
as he stands,
The woodcutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morn-
ing, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work,
or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Walt Whitman 1819-1892
While growing up in the 1950s I remember this kind of country. I remember Ike Clarks Esso service station where I drank at the water fountain on a hot summer day. I watched the mechanics busy at replacing parts on Fords and Chevys. I remember how the place felt, sounded. Across the street was the Drug store. I’d buy a small coke for 5 cents at the counter. Sometimes I’d hide by the comic book rack and read a superman comic. The druggist would chase me out, and later tell my dad of my misdeed. Dad didn’t allow me to purchase comic books.
All of this has been gone for sometime now. Replaced by the spiffy Northgate mall with Gap and Limited. Which is now a shabby, virtually deserted property quickly being replaced by the internet.
I do not hear any singing.
