Please answer when you’ve heard “I Am a Rock.”
Please tell me if you liked it, yes or no.
You’ll have to listen more than once to understand it all.
Your Friend,
Reenie Kelly
Wednesday, July 17, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
If I ever was an island, you have landed on my shore. One can’t long be an island with Miss Kelly in the world.
Yes, I understood the painful lyrics very well.
Of course, I am disheartened that such sorrow spoke to you, but then you are no ordinary child.
And you have shared no ordinary song.
Am I a rock? I can assure you, dear Miss Kelly, I have cried more than a rock. And while I might seem to you an island, the fence around my house has not sheltered me from sorrow, nor have you been sheltered by your youth. I know you’ve suffered deeply; I know you suffer still. Letter after letter, on every page I hear your heart. Of course I do not wish to be another Mack McCoy.
You are right: the song is lovely, lovely like a poem, and so much more than mindless rock and roll. Not every song should be shoo-bop shoo-bop. It brought to mind a work that you should read: "No Man Is an Island," by John Donne. Although the piece is in fact a meditation, you might consider it "sort of like a poem" much like your song. I memorized this version as a child, and perhaps you will as well. Surely, you are smart enough. You can comprehend a metaphor better than most minds. Perhaps Billy will enjoy the poem as well. If I remember right, your mother loved fine poems.
The page is marked. The book is yours to keep.
I see now my brief hiatus can’t continue without increasing your distress, but please know I can’t keep pace with your rate of correspondence, and please try not to misinterpret nor disregard my words. ("Advice. Permission.”) Read carefully, Miss Kelly.
Finally, expect some interludes of silence while this former island rests. "No offense," as you would say; I am quite old.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
No Man Is an Island
No man is an island
Entire of itself;
Every man is a piece of the Continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less
As well as if a promontory were
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were;
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in Mankind;
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
John Donne (1572–1631)
Wednesday, July 17, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
THANK YOU! THANK YOU! THANK YOU!
You’re not a thing like Mack McCoy, don’t you worry about that. Mack McCoy would never read a poem. And he wouldn’t use million-dollar words like “interlude” or “hiatus!”
My own book from Howard Marsworth! And there’s your very name on the inside of the cover, it’s that same fancy signature on every letter that you sign. Do you use fountain ink? Is that why your cursive looks old-fashioned? Did you really own this old-time book as a young boy? No wonder you grew up to be so smart! Kids today wouldn’t read a book like this, but I sure will.
I’ll keep your gift forever, my first gift from my friend. Oops, I meant to say my second. I still count the seeds. But a real book of old-time poetry, no one ever gave me that.
I’ll read every word, even if I’m slow to understand it. I understand the poem’s beginning: No one is alone. Not you, or me. But the “clod” and then the “promontory”? I borrowed Billy’s dictionary, but I didn’t show him your book. Right now, I’d rather keep it to myself. Dare has Float, and Billy has Beth Harvey. I have Skip and Mr. Marsworth. No one else has that.
You’re right, Mom was crazy about poems. She loved William Shakespeare, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and sometimes Emily Dickinson, whose poems were more like puzzles. When Mom got too sick to read, I’d sit beside her bed and try my best, but only Billy understood the way Shakespeare ought to sound. Dare found a book of limericks, and those would make Mom laugh. I wish she could be here to read these poems.
Mom would be so proud to see me with John Donne.
No Kid Is an Island,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. *Promontory. A high point of land or rock that juts out into a large body of water.
P.P.S. *Clod. A lump or mass especially of earth or clay.
P.P.P.S. The bell outside your house, it clangs for thee. Do you think John Donne meant “clang” when he wrote “toll”?
P.P.P.P.S. *Hiatus = Rest. Interlude = Break. You might not know this, Mr. Marsworth, but I look up your words.
P.P.P.P.P.S. We’ve had trouble with your mower so your lawn still isn’t cut, but your front porch wall is mostly painted, and every trace of that red “TRATOR” has finally disappeared.
Wednesday, July 17, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Before I go to sleep, I have to make one small confession, because friends should tell the truth, and so I will.
Yesterday at noon, I was perched up in the oak tree in the lot across the street from your brick house. Sometimes I like to sit up there in case you come outside. (I’d just like a glimpse of my good friend.)
Anyway, I wasn’t really spying (Billy hates it when I spy on him with Beth), but I couldn’t help but notice a man that couldn’t be YOU took Billy’s record from your box. At least, I don’t think he could be you, unless you have a mop of shaggy blond hair, and you look closer to someone Billy’s age, than Gram’s.
Is there someone else besides you in that house? Your grandson or your son? Remember when I asked if you had children? You didn’t answer that yet, either. (I remember what I ask.)
I don’t want a long-haired stranger reading what I wrote. I don’t mind Skip sharing my letters with the soldiers because those men are our pen pals, but I only wanted YOU to read my words. Plus there’s things I’ve told you, I hope you’ll never tell another soul.
Are you really in that brick house, Mr. Marsworth? Are you really Mr. Marsworth, or is there another man inside there pretending to be you???
Really Reenie Kelly,
Reenie Kelly
Thursday, July 18, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
I’m afraid your wild imagination has been wasted on my days.
For better or for worse, I am really Mr. Marsworth. The man you spied—and I’d rather you didn’t spy like Nancy Drew—is employed as my assistant, Carl Grace. He brought your record to me, but I listened to it in a room behind closed doors. Well, Clyde may have heard it, too, but Clyde’s a cat of honor. He won’t tell a soul.
I can promise that your words are safe with me. My silence and my sentences—those have been my own.
I am pleased John Donne has found a good home in your hands. The clod and promontory are metaphors as well. No man is an island. That image matters most.
Please don’t labor at the cottage. Today it’s 95 and sunny; put your cottage chores aside and take a swim.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
Thursday, July 18, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth!!!!!!
Skip finally sent a letter, and I thought you’d want to see it!!!!! I wish I could read it to you now, just the way I stood up near the blackboard to read Skip’s words to my class. I’d read his letter, then I’d tack it on our wall. But there are things inside this letter I can’t tell Billy YET. Things like how I wrote to Mizzou mostly, and my Rat-and-Cutler war.
You can read it all you want, because I think that it’s important, and someone else should hear how Skip feels in this war. Some parts I’ll tell to Billy, some I won’t.
Doesn’t Skip sound sweet, a
nd scared, and done in by the war? Doesn’t he sound eager to come home?
Your Pen Pal,
Reenie Kelly
Hey there Reenie Kelly,
I’m sorry it took weeks to answer all those letters, but a guy at war can’t write like a young kid. I’ve got all my friends and family writing, too. The only good part of this war is getting mail, so keep those letters coming even when I don’t quick write you back.
So let’s see where should I start? I’m glad you’re with your gram, or mawmaw as I call mine, because even if your gram gets crabby, family is the best. No one loves you like your family, that’s for sure. I bet when school starts you’ll make a great big batch of friends. Dare, too. Come September you’ll be singing a new tune.
Don’t give too much attention to those boys. Best way to lose a bully is ignore him, didn’t your mama teach you that? It sounds to me like they’re just trying to mark their turf, making sure that you and Dare know who’s the boss. It’s the same way here, except with mortars and rockets, and people dying for a turf war, which makes you see how stupid a thing like fighting is. Especially with kids. Not to say you’re stupid, but you’ve got too much upstairs to waste your time on those two boys.
I hope that don’t sound mean, but if it does I’ll tell you something nice: I’m sure proud you wrote to Mizzou, and I hope the $$$$ comes for Billy before he’s drafted or enlists. You ought to get a medal for Best Sister in the World. Don’t ever tell my little sisters, but they didn’t do a thing to keep me from this war. ’Course they didn’t have a clue how it would be, and I didn’t either. One thing a grunt learns early, it’s nothing like the movies, that’s for sure.
Now about that second pen pal, I’m not one bit jealous. It sure hasn’t kept you from sending me lots of letters, ha-ha-ha. I bet he looks forward to your stories same as me. If I ever get to be an old man, which don’t seem likely here, I hope a girl like Reenie Kelly will be assigned my route.
You ARE the first papergirl any of us know, and I’m all for equal rights as long as they don’t draft girls for this war. I don’t want to think you’d ever end up here. The women serving here won’t ever be the same. No one will, and that’s the truth.
The other day, I watched some young kids playing in the rain, and I thought of you and Dare down at the cottage, and how kids across the whole world really are the same. Maybe everybody is, I’ll never know.
It’s hard to fill a letter when there’s nothing that I’ve seen or done these last few weeks I’m proud to tell. I should be proud to serve my country, but I’m not. If I ever make it home, I won’t touch another gun.
Oh, I almost forgot that thing you asked me:
No, I’m not mad your old-man pen pal wrote the paper saying war is wrong. And I’m glad those kids showed up at that parade to march for peace. Some guys feel betrayed by the protestors back at home, but I’m not one. It’s up to all of you to help us now. We’re here doing the fighting, you get us soldiers home. And keep more boys from coming, your brother Billy at the top.
If they run out of soldiers, the war will have to end.
Pray for me, Reenie Kelly. I always need your prayers.
Your Favorite Pen Pal,
Skip
P.S. You see why I don’t write more often? I can’t be fun and funny anymore.
P.P.S. I almost forgot to thank you for the Life magazine you sent when Bobby Kennedy was killed. It sure made us sad to see him on the cover running down a beach with that black dog. First Dr. King gunned down in Memphis, and now it’s Bobby. It’s hard to know what we’re defending when good men are killed at home. When we got the news on Bobby, Jackie Moon led a little service just like he did when Dr. King was killed. Jackie’s not a real-life preacher, but he could be. He’s not shy with songs and prayers, and he sure knows how to sing. No instruments or nothing, just the sound of Jackie trying to give us hope with those old hymns.
P.P.P.S. I’m sorry that the world is such a mess for a young kid.
Thursday, July 18, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
Yes, I would say Skip sounds "done in." It’s a terrible task we’re asking from a boy as kind as Skip, or any feeling human being ravaged by a war. Whatever I can do to bring our soldiers home, I will. Today I’ll write the president again, our senators and congressmen, although I doubt change will be swift. One old man in Lake Liberty can hardly end a war.
Still, every voice for peace must speak and speak again.
Isn’t that what Dr. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy would want?
As long as I am living, a better world will be my work.
Sincerely,
H.W. Marsworth
P.S. Here is my copy of Life magazine from April. If you didn’t send Skip this issue when Dr. King was killed, please send it now. I’ve included an envelope and postage. If there is extra cost involved, please let me know. At my age I have few heroes, but Dr. King is one. I hope someday you make a study of the good that man has done.
Thursday, July 18, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Thank you for that magazine for Skip. I’m sorry I didn’t send him one in April, but I know he’ll like it now, and I bet he’ll double-like it when I tell him it’s from you!
Before Dr. King was killed, I didn’t know much about him, but Mrs. Lamb said he was a great man with a dream of equal rights and freedom for his people, and he hoped someday his children wouldn’t be judged by the color of their skin. She read some of his speech about that dream, and she told us we should grow up to help his dream come true.
That same cover of Life magazine was taped up to the wall in Billy’s room in Denton.
I want a better world, too, Mr. Marsworth. I don’t know how to get it, but maybe I can learn.
I don’t want this world to stay a mess.
Wondering What to Do Next,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. I just wrote my OWN letter to the president asking him to end the war and send Skip home. Would you mail it with your letter? I keep thinking of the sad sound of Skip’s words, and how he said he’s not proud of what he’s doing, so there’s not much he can write. What exactly did Skip mean when he said that?
P.P.S. Mizzou can drag their feet—it’s been two long weeks since I’ve written—but no matter what they tell me, Billy can’t go to this war.
July 18, 1968
Dear President Johnson,
You probably get a lot of letters about war, because now there’s 500,000 troops in Vietnam, and that’s a lot of soldiers, with a lot of families worried that their boy might not come home. I live in Minnesota, and already just this summer, the paper’s printed stories about five boys that have died in Vietnam. There could be more, but I can’t bear to look. All five of them have families, and when someone in your family dies, every day you live without them you feel a little lost.
Has someone in your family ever died?
If they did, you’d know how bad these soldiers’ families feel to lose their sons, and if you know how bad they’re feeling, don’t you want to end this war? I have a friend in Vietnam who doesn’t want to fight, but he was forced to be a soldier in the draft. Don’t you think that draft you have is wrong? I mean, if a boy wants to be a soldier, let him pick. You’re not drafting any girls. Why should it be different for the boys? Do you believe in sex equality? I do.
You’ll probably say just what my brother Billy says, without the draft nobody would fight. So if nobody would fight we wouldn’t have wars. Or we’d have smaller wars. And wouldn’t that be a good thing? It seems to me it would.
I’m not against all wars, and the Kellys love our country. I understand the Revolutionary War gave us our freedom, and the Civil War kept us all one country and freed the slaves, and World War II helped save the Jews, and my dad fought in Korea although he never did say why, but I’m not sure what we’re doing in this war in Vietnam. I don’t think
the Communists will conquer the whole world.
I’m sorry if I’m wrong about this war. If you could please explain it better, that might help.
In the meantime, I’d like to see you end it. Send ALL our soldiers home starting with Army Pfc. Skip Nichols, and all the soldiers in the Fourth Platoon before one of them is killed.
And STOP THE DRAFT ASAP so no more U.S. boys get sent against their conscience. Not everyone’s a fighter, let the fighters volunteer.
Yours Truly,
Maureen Kelly of Lake Liberty,
Minnesota, U.S.A.
P.S. Please answer if you can.
Thursday, July 18, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
You will be pleased to know your letter has been posted. I wish every child in America would write against this war. No one speaks the truth quite like a child. No one speaks the truth quite like Miss Kelly, I should add.
If you’d like, please tell Skip he will be in my prayers this very evening, and every evening after that. Skip, and Billy, and all our dear young men, and every other soul touched by this war. This world can’t have too many of our prayers.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
Friday, July 19, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
I told Skip about your prayers, but maybe you could say one for me, too. I could use a prayer in this dumb town!!!
I know the war is so much worse than my dumb trouble with these boys, but I’m tired of being hunted, I really truly am. I’ve been beaten up, and wormed, and shot at from a tree, and this morning Rat and Cutler tackled me on Vallacher, then ran off with my sack. I found it down on Maple, but my papers were all gone. I had to tiptoe into Gram’s to get my money for the paper box to replace the nine I lost. That’s money from my savings I’ve kept for Billy’s school.
Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth Page 7
