Letters to the Editor: Stuart Vorpahl 01.28.16

Stuart Vorpahl

Might be a 1959 Willys Jeep, someone said,

Musing on the truck now cranked to start‚

Well, maybe not cranked literally, but —

Someone, Bub, was leaning over there in front

Doing something, and then the exhaust fumes 

Farted out the back, and chug chug ready to go —

Kick her into first, Donald‚ whichever of them

Was to drive. Proud grandchildren, all, of Stuart.

 

The truck had its sign in bold black letters:

New York State, D.E.C., Political Prisoner. Ah, 

But who was the prisoner? Not Stuart.

More like New York State, fearful 

To bring the damn case to full court. Ha!

He had ’em dead to rights, oh ye sons of liberty!

 

I was thinking of the immemorial words,

“of the people, by the people, for the people” —

The haunting phrase from another civil war

When “people” meant farming and fishing folk

And small manufacturers. B.C. Before corporations.

But don’t get me started. Anyway, this is for Stuart.

Ring the bell, Town Crier. Another of our inimitable

People, Hugh King, spoke also from our history,

Back to some burr in the saddle of the English horse,

Aforetime. Then Franklin adding his crack: “The first responsibility of the citizen is to question authority.”

Ha! 

 

The service for Stuart at the Presbyterian Church,

Amagansett, the Rev. Steven Howarth presiding,

The sanctuary filled with — well, Bub, “the people.”

Good folk, good spirit, good meat and drink waiting —

Presbyterian drink to be accurate. Maybe later

The hard cider of words sloshed with words

In remembrance. Stories. Stories that unite us

With love. Don’t forget love. Of Mary, his bride,

Daughters and grandchildren. With a tear in the eye,

And a knowing laugh or low chuckle of what

Is recognized as true. True to the man, and of Truth.

 

We sang our hymns, then exited into the fierce cold

That day, sharp wind telling us it was January,

The church bells ringing riotously,

And there was that ramshackle truck with its sign

In front of the hearse, to lead the procession. 

Crank ’er up, sons and daughters of liberty, 

Fart the exhaust of politics out the back end 

And look forward to the glory land ahead. 

So the family drove out to touch once more, Stuart’s

“Office” at Napeague, sure as the shimmering sea

That his ghost will rise again at some meeting,

The crowd hushed to think, what now?

And Stuart will say, not unexpectedly,

“Yes, yes, but . . .” and make his point‚

Finest kind, of us, we the people,

And to him the same in the shining catch

Of God. Ha! Ye powers that be. 

Wink and a nod then for the likes of ’im. 

Amen.

ROB STUART