I still can't believe Mr. Sathoff is dead -- I argued with him over naming his son Arthur -- he just couldn't get me to understand why -- and now this baby Arthur is a man named Art!

I wrote plenty of poetry, but don't remember ANY of the poetry he read to us...

I'll share a Sathoff story with you guys - it is even in regards to poetry.  When we were assigned to write a poem, besides not liking poetry, I had nothing to say - so,...I went home and found one of my Dad's oldest books, looked up an old poem and copied it and claimed it as my own. 

Mr. Sathoff ready "my" poem.  (How was I to know that this guy Hawthorne was famous?).  At any rate, as I recall I found myself in detention for what seemed to be an eternity.  Can't recall I wrote anything during detention either.  The first time I wrote something because I had something to say -  was when Dr. Martin Luther King was assassinated.  I've been writing since (my own stuff!)...

The poem I remember from Craig E. Sathoff’s class is the following:

The Face on the Barroom Floor

'TWAS a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,

Which well-nigh filled Joe's barroom, on the corner of the square;

And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,

A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said. " The wind has blown it in."

"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whiskey, rum or gin?"

"Here, Toby, sic 'em, if your stomach's equal to the work --

I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;

In face, he smiled as tho' he thought he'd struck the proper place.

"Come, boys, I know there's kindly hearts among so good a crowd --

To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

"Give me a drink -- that's what I want -- I'm out of funds, you know,

When I had cash to treat the gang this hand was never slow.

What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou;

I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

"There, thanks, that's braced me nicely; God bless you one and all;

Next time I pass this good saloon I'll make another call.

Give you a song? No, I can't do that; my singing days are past;

My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

"I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.

Say! Give me another whiskey, and I'll tell what I'll do --

That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;

But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink.

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame --

Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;

Five fingers -- there, that's the scheme -- and corking whiskey, too.

Well, here's luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you.

"You've treated me pretty kindly and I'd like to tell you how

I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.

As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,

And but for a blunder ought to have made considerable wealth.

"I was a painter -- not one that daubed on bricks and wood,

But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good.

I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,

For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

"I made a picture perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the `Chase of Fame.'

It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name,

And then I met a woman -- now comes the funny part --

With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see

Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;

But 'twas so, and for a month or two, her smiles were freely given,

And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

"Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you'd give,

With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;

With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?

If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,

Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way.

And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,

Said she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown

My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;

And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,

The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never see you smile,

I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.

Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a tear-drop in you eye,

Come, laugh like me. 'Tis only babes and women that should cry.

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whiskey I'll be glad,

And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.

Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score --

You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroon floor."

Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began

To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.

Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,

With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture -- dead.

Hugh Antoine D'Arcy

I certainly wasn’t big on poetry either, but “Rags” stuck with me.   

I had a close friend in Bradford who had the paper route back in about ’64.  His dog was named Buddy, who was a rather large mixed breed that was pure golden.  They were inseparable.  Eventually, Donald got tired of delivering the Register around town and recruited myself to take over the route from him.  In his final days as a courier, Don subscribed to enough extra papers (carriers could get by with this) to win a trip for himself and a friend to Clear Lake, Iowa for Des Moines Register Day.  To my dismay, he chose another Bradfordite named Marlin Furman over me to go with him and that morning, I delivered the paper for the first time solo. 

Donald and Marlin never returned from Clear Lake.   They drowned in 4 feet of water that day. 

My papers were delivered around 5:30 AM in front of the grocery store in Bradford on main street.   I would arrive with my bags, un-bundle them, pack them and head out on my 45 minute route.  Buddy was there EVERY morning awaiting my arrival, and walked the entire route ahead of me.  Don’s father gave Buddy to another Bradfordite and good friend of Donald and myself; Mark Richman.  The Richmans had no choice but to let Buddy out every morning.  I had that route till I got to high school and Buddy never missed a day.  That poem reminded me of that allegiance.

They Called Him Rags
by Edmund Vance Cooke

They called him Rags, he was just a cur
But twice on the Western Line,
That little old bunch of faithful fur
Had offered his life for mine.

And all he got was bones and bread
And the leaving of soldiers' grub,
But he'd give his heart for a pat on the head,
A friendly tickle or rub.

And Rags got home with the regiment,
And then, in the breaking away--,
Well, whether they stole him, or whether he went,
I am not prepared to say.

But we mustered out, some to beer and gruel,
And some to sherry and shad,
And I went back to the Sawbones School,
Where I was an undergrad.

One day they took us budding M.D.'s
To one of those institutes
Where they demonstrate every new disease
By means of bisected brutes.

They had one animal tacked and tied
And slit like a full-dressed fish,
With his vitals pumping away inside
As pleasant as one might wish.

I stopped to look like the rest, of course,
And the beast's eyes leveled mine;
His short tail thumped with a feeble force,
And he uttered a tender whine.

It was Rags, yes, Rags! who was martyred there,
Who was quartered and crucified,
And he whined that whine which is doggish prayer
And he licked my hand--and died.

And I was no better in part nor whole
Than the gang I was found among,
And his innocent blood was on the soul
Which he blessed with his dying tongue.

Well! I've seen men go to courageous death
In the air, on sea, on land!
But only a dog would spend his breath
In a kiss for his murderer's hand.
And if there's no heaven for love like that,
For such four-legged fealtly--well!
If I have any choice, I tell you flat,
I'll take my chance in hell.

This is not so with Craig.  When I got out the Navy my wife had a booth at antique shows in Marshalltown frequently when we lived there.  As some of you might know Craig had an antique shop in his home and did shows frequently and this is when I became reacquainted with Craig and his wife Mary.  Many times he would come to Cedar Falls to visit us and we did when we went to IF.  I had seen Craig just a few weeks before he died and he was telling me about how excited he was about the upcoming wedding he was attending where he eventually died in a car accident. I really value Mr. Sathoff because he is the one person who started me on writing poetry.  Most every year for over 20 years I have gotten a poem in "Lyrical Iowa" which is an annual competitive poetry contest.  The first time I got in their publication was when Craig sent one of my poems in that I wrote for his class.  We still talked about poetry many times as I knew him in later life. He was still always excited for me when I got into "Lyrical Iowa."

So this is for Craig! This will appear in the 2007 "Lyrical Iowa" which is due out in about a month.

                                                    Epitaph of Life

                                            Helpless little hummingbird,                                                    
                                            Your beauty, Death dare not mask.

                                            Found on the garden path,                                                         

                                            Alive, But failing fast.

                                            A million wing beats in life,                                                     
                                            You flew,                                                                              
                                            To do your task.

                                             Body now in my hand,                                                          
                                             Spent heart,                                                                         
                                             Worn out at last.

                                             Now buried beneath flowers,                                              
                                             You'll feed,                                                                          
                                             That fed you in the past.

God bless you and keep you Craig!