BOISSEVAIN NEWS USA

O Spike, as we look at the years all gone –

Which in your case is 81,

We reflect on the tender care

You took of travelers by air[1]

The help you gave to refugees[2]

And to retired employees.[3]

But more than that, when you moved here,[4]

In peaceful English atmosphere,

You blossomed as your wife’s best fan,

Producer, and advertising man

Acquiring frames, entrancing buyers

And nursing her artistic fires.

Your children too, with gratitude,

Feel your paternal attitude

Your helping hand – held out with speed –

Is always full of what you need.

And grandchildren, some grownup men,

Seek to hear your acumen

And worldly wisdom,

Which you share,

An antidote to all despair.

You have no peer

No one you're like

You are unique…

My darling Spike.

On His 82^nd Birthday (1991)

Dear Spike, you are now 82

Minus two days.  What can we do,

To honor you as you deserve?

Your upright ways and steady nerve,

The care you take of those you love:

Wielding broom and oven glove

Going to market to buy fish

Or a prefabricated dish,

Mowing the lawn, digging the soil

And all such hard domestic toil,

To give your wife the time to paint:

Take care you don’t become a Saint!

The studio also knows your care

The many panels you prepare,

The frames you buy[5] – advice you give,

Without you, how would Hilda live?

So what to do, as you’ve enough

Of cakes and candles and that stuff

To give you thanks and appreciation

And proper birthday celebration?

So I present you with this verse

Hoping you do not think it worse

Than candles or that sort of thing,

Or worse than when I sing!

On His 83^rd Birthday (1992)

Dear Spike, you’re almost 83 –

Almost as old, not quite, as me.

Together, we weathered 60 years[6]

With smiles and luck and also tears.

Many creeds and races met in us,

Living in harmony, and thus,

You might say we are and were

A proper ecumenical pair.

Ecologically we were bad

Because of all the kids we had.

But look at the good they do:

The works of art of number two,

The schools and feasts of number four,

Her pictures too.  And what is more

In Canada our number three

Teaches its youth philosophy.

Then there is our number five,

He and Alice always strive

To give us economic truth

And do away with: “Tooth for tooth”.

While number one in the Third World

Has the banner of the Lord unfurled

Then Liz, our sixth, applies her skill

To cure us all when we are ill.

So were we wrong to be so fertile

Or think you it became quite worthwhile?

And now we drink to darling Spike

Who was the springboard, if you like

Without whom you would not be here

And so give him a rousing cheer

Him whom we all love dearly as

Our own Pater Familias!

On His 84^th Birthday (1994)

Spike, today you’re 84

And, what can a wife do more

Than, with joy and no regrets

Remember our words: “Shall us? Let’s!”

And all the hubbub that came after

The wedding, boat trips, tears and laughter

Though people said we were too rash

To marry without job or cash!

Our New York flat brought Mrs. Spider

Who, when Hilda’s baby grew inside her

Helped out after Spike was gone

To try his luck in Washington.

But, though the squeak was sometimes narrow,

God fed us as he feeds the sparrow.

Once Uncle Sam took hold of Spike

You have never seen the like!

His career began that day –

Regularly came his pay,

Though babies came, and with them bills.

And though our life was without frills

We were able to help others,

My dear brother, both our mothers.

Spike was generous and good,

We never lacked for clothes or food

But life never is a fixture

War came to spoil the pretty picture.

Spike went away.  His wife, as best

She could, guarded the nest.

But not alone, for there was Miffy[7]

Who came to help us in a jiffy

When Elisabeth’s birth caused great commotion

(While Spike fought fires across the ocean).

But all things pass, and Spike came back

His life then took another tack.

As he joined the PICAO[8]

And moved into the land of snow.

In Montreal we learned to freeze

And like it, with the help of skis,

Struggling with language and education

While Spike improved our aviation.

This done, we moved to Britain’s Isle

And there we’re living now in style,

Our children round us, yet apart,

But always with us in the heart.

In Castle Hill we two together

Face Britain’s so uncertain weather,

But looking back upon the past,

We know God’s best wine is the last!

[This was the last poem Hilda wrote for Spike, who had a stroke in December and died on December 12, 1994.  A service was held for him in Berkhamsted and a second one in New York City.  He was buried with his sister Ruth and his parents in a family plot in Paterson, New Jersey.]