Act I

How brilliantly the sun reflected from the fragile crystal droplets of rain past, scattered throughout the Spanish moss which clung as heavy draperies across the boughs of the ancient magnolia trees. They stood as silent sentries, protectors of a time we know not as their diamonds in the sun slowly faded, vanishing amid the warmth of a balmy afternoon.

I stepped from the threshold of a two story, balcony encased mansion, with white trimmed gables. My gaze shifting out upon the spreading lawn of lush green, bedecked with mahogany tables covered in web like gossamer their stark white contrasted temptingly against the threatening stain of green.

My gown of yellow taffeta rustled an almost silent murmur. With the exception of a steady whisper which followed my every step as the starched fabric brushed against the cool bare of my ankles and unencumbered feet. I carried a tray of lemon ices. They were already beginning to melt as I descended the wide well aged wooden steps that delighted the mansion’s expression and allure. Pausing I whispered to myself, “what a glorious day to ‘paint me a Birmingham’.”

“Lunch with Pericles!” Mama beckoned from across the lawn, “How divine!”

Auntie Grace was already seated. A coy smiled mingled with childish glee was spread across her somewhat wrinkled yet rosy complexion. “How divine indeed! However did you manage it?”

“With an invitation of course!” Mama made her way languidly to the vacant chair beside Auntie Grace. Her face although shadowed by the wide brim of a casual and worn straw hat still contained the jubilant glee of expectant anticipation.

“Oh I do so hope it doesn’t snow! It always does you know!” With a snap Auntie Grace unfurled her fan accompanied by a clucking sound vibrating deep within her throat a noise she was always guaranteed to make when at a loss for more words. Vigorously she fanned away the balmy air, wisps of gray escaping from a knot at the nape of her neck which fluttered in unison with every wave.

“Really Auntie Grace the very idea!” Who could not be amused at such a thought on such a day as I offered a round of the lemon ices.

Mama now seated was meticulously arranging the flowers she had gathered throughout time. The richness of their hues vividly accented the delicate print of her pale blue cotton gown.

“I do so hope you did not invite that notorious Frenchman as well dear!” Auntie Grace looked aghast at my affirmative nod. “Once the La Mouette has docked… in due time I am quite certain we will see his skiff being moored over there.” I waved my hand in a careless gesture toward the stream which was slowly appearing as if from a haze of memory. What was a party after all without Jean Benoit Aub`ery he was quite a philosopher in many ways.

“But what of the authorities!” Her eyes grew round at the thought. “He is a pirate dear! And you know how authorities are about pirates! They will surely come and then what will you do?”

“Why I shall simply ‘razzle dazzle’* them of course! Ha-ha! Besides Mama said I could invite anyone, anyone that is except hippos.” I caught the twinkle which lit up Mama’s eyes as she gave me an approving nod, before she resumed her focused gaze back to the rearrangement of the flowers. She was so beautiful setting there, placid, calm, and content, merging with the backdrop of the gentle river which was now in full view as it rolled a melodious tune and the wind gave a gentle whisper to the honey suckle vines that were racing about in slow motion.

“Oh I do so hope you invited Mr. Adams at least! He simply has the most fascinating things to say! And will speak of war dear, oh how divine!” Auntie Grace shivered at the thrill, she was quite the old goose.

“You say the most shocking things Auntie Grace!” I laughed in spite of her idolized pessimism. “What else is an old woman for my dear?” She passed a wink in my direction causing me to sigh.

“Auntie Grace need I remind you once again, ‘in Flander’s Fields the poppies blow between the crosses row on row’* I felt a shiver run down my spine… Knowing I dare not continue I sailed on buoyantly, “and of course Mr. Adams is on our list, however he does not speak of war Auntie Grace, he is a passionate man that speaks of an ideal. He is someone to marvel at as any man with an ideal is”.

“Ah did I hear my name?” Mr. Adams emerged from seemingly nowhere carrying a small bouquet of posies which he presented to Mama. “And you Auntie Grace?” He withdrew a bell from his waistcoat pocket which seemed rather large for such a small portion of cloth and dangled it by her ear. “Do you hear that sound my dear? It is the voice, the voice of liberty!” Auntie Grace blushed crimson secretly enjoying her moment at the center of attention before quipping “oh, do sit down John!”

“Yes please do,” Mama echoed delightedly as she fingered the small bouquet of posies, she was pleased very pleased, as was I.

“Now wherever is that brother of yours? He is coming isn’t he?” It became evident how very impossible it was for Auntie Grace to refrain from talking for any prolonged period of time.

“Of course! He will arrive with a rose in his lapel and his hair glistening in the golden light of a brilliant sunset which will be the finishing touch to seal the end of a glorious day!”

“I knew it! He is to be late!”

“Ah…” I bit my lip in an effort to hold back my embarrassment for having written him in with the sunset…

“Give the child her prose Auntie Grace…” Mama came to the rescue.

“As well she should!” My brother’s voice! I turned around and yes there was a rose in his lapel and a glistening shine to his hair as he waved a paper a proud gleam in his eyes.

“The entire page dedicated to your work and rightly so!” My brother enthused.

“Mr. Adams let us speak of war.” Auntie Grace chimed in.

“Auntie Grace let us speak of poetry.” Mama placed her hand over Auntie’s gnarled one, giving it a gentle squeeze.

What a surprise! Catching my brother’s eyes I mouthed the words “Thank you” And fully embraced the moment on this perfect day that was unfolding.

“Yes Auntie Grace! I simply adore speaking of all that is good, beautiful and so very lovely*. It’s as it should be Auntie Grace, as it should be.”

“An ideal my dear, an ideal” Mr. Adams commented.

“I love ideals,” my brother grasped my Mama’s free hand looking tall and handsome with a hint of mischief hiding behind the ocean blue of his eyes.

“Whatever is that hippo doing over there?” All eyes turned towards the solemn river, in the far distance a shadowy skiff was easing its way forward unnoticed by the attention focused on the giant, leathery hippo calmly slobbering humongous mouthfuls of water and looking very confused and out of place.

I raised my eyebrows with a quizzical stare at my brother, “did you invite the hippo?”

“It was an accident” to which reply we all burst into hysterical laughter which reverberated through the clinging air and scared the poor creature frantically yet thankfully to us, in another direction.

“Tea anyone?” Auntie Grace unnerved by the strange occurrence of the hippo picked up another thread of conversation.

“None for me Madame,” Mr. Adams had already turned his cup over placing a spoon across the bottom, before bestowing a wry smile in Auntie Grace’s direction.

How flustered she looked yet again as my brother and I silently enjoyed her discomfort, albeit rather guiltily.

“Is Ben coming?” Mama turned to Mr. Adams

“Ah, unfortunately… No Madame, the gout keeps him constrained this day to his bed. However he sends his felicitations and requests I give you”… He began rummaging once more in that mysterious pocket, producing a small volume, “this” Mama’s eyes lit up.

“The wisdom of the ages” her hands trembled slightly as she embraced the volume.

“Indeed” Mr. Adams replied.

As coffee presented itself I played the part of perfect hostess filling cups with the murky brew as the ground began to vibrate from the beat of galloping hooves. “Arthur!” I screamed nearly toppling the table over as I ran to the dismounting guest embracing him in my enthusiasm. “My lady” came his courteous reply. He appeared rather disconcerted from my overwhelming display. I presented my hand instead, self-consciously aware of all eyes present enjoying this welcome.

“You are just in time for coffee!” I grabbed his arm pulling him towards the group as Mama proceded forward with the introductions.

“Don’t look now my dear, but I do believe your glorious Frenchman has arrived.” Auntie Grace pointed in the direction of the river to the man who was mooring his skiff, a sketchpad clasped under his arm. Such luck!

“I thought we were having lunch with Pericles” Auntie Grace looked baffled.

“What a happy interval I find myself in” Jean spoke approaching the table. I felt gratified that he didn’t bring Donna, but then again perhaps it was not by choice as much as by pen.

A feathery touch of ice alighted on my nose just then causing me to tip my head backwards towards the sky.

“Look it’s snowing!” My brother rejoiced as if he were surprised.

“I knew it!” Auntie Grace sighed her shoulders slumping.

All around us the fragile ice feathery white began to descend. In unison we all turned our palms heavenward arms raised to embrace the cool repose.

“Ten minutes is all” My brother whispered as we let it melt against our skin. It was a rather refreshing and welcome interlude.

“I know you like snow better than rain.” My brother spoke beside me now.

“Thank you… again.”

For ten minutes all was silent, as the world transformed into the glimpse of another season, all was truly calm and truly bright.

Then it stopped and the air resounded with the vibrant chorus of a million peepers calling one to another, each answering in a different key, blending in a concerto which merged into a full blown symphony.

I had returned the favor, on this perfect day. And the party had only begun.

Act II

“Read to us Mama!” Tenderly, lovingly she fingered the small volume her visage transpiring through a phase of unshared emotion. The golden and amber light of the sun’s rays reflected from her expression and as the colors spread the rays rose taking wing to flood the darkened recesses of memory’s vision. The hills broke forth illuminated, birds sang shrill, clamorous, each etching for a scene on the stage. Lilacs joined as well outweighing the scent of magnolias. And as Mama opened the volume we all leaned in a little closer.

“One today is worth two tomorrows”* the words floated on the trembling breeze. It would appear her eyes were focused on me yet beyond my moment of selfish oblivion I perceived they were upon each of us gathered there, personal yet distant. The words slowly began to seep past our exterior and permeate the very souls of our beings as only words with such gift may convey. I savored the moment as I would savor this day…

Mr. Adams seized with a fleeting moment of tenderness, unbiased from lack of social conformity reached across the table to give mama’s hand a gentle pat yet his words flowed for all ears present. “You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket.”*

“Hmm” Auntie Grace strummed her fingers on the table. “If Marie Antoinette were here I am confident she would decree we should eat cake!”

With the solemnity of the moment now officially broken, Mr. Adams cleared his throat perhaps to stifle a laugh.

“Very true” With a raise of eyebrows and an exchange of knowing looks I allowed my comment to cover the fading question as the present one took answer.

Arthur sat in reflection his eyes downcast, fingertips pressed to his silent lips. He clearly appeared oblivious to his surroundings so I commenced to draw him forth from his reverie.

“How are things in Camelot Arthur? I hear tell it never rains?” As if on cue a dark cloud challenging my comment beyond words crossed the sun, Arthur and I leaned our heads back simultaneously.

And before his lips could part to utter a reply—

“Few are my years and yet I feel the world was ne’er designed for me.* A labored footfall fell to ear as the voice dissipated.

“Well you are looking disgustingly pale George dear” Auntie Grace forever the form of discretion… I leapt to my feet hand outstretched. “Lord Byron it is an honor” His wane face and labored step encouraged yet another comment from dear Auntie.

“You need cake! Let us all have cake!” Then in after thought “perhaps crackers and sherry?”

“Auntie Grace really! Besides we are waiting for all our guests.”

“Well is it not crowded enough? I am surprised you haven’t invited Napoleon himself!”

“Bonjour mademoiselles!”

“Now you’ve done it Auntie Grace! Really you are absurd!”

I turned to the short, stout, little man who cast a powerfully long shadow.

“My apologies, Monsieur Napoleon, au revoir!”

With a snap of my fingers he was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. I was after all already in way over my head. Snow and giant hippos were one thing but I had no intention of letting Auntie Grace bathe in Waterloo.

“You ob-liver-tated him!”

She looked like a guilty toddler caught with melted chocolate covering her hands and face just before dinner.

“I obliterated him, Auntie Gr—”

“George Madame I prefer simply George.”

“Ah my favorite exile” I replied before shooting one last look of, mind your manners towards Auntie Grace. “Allow me to find you a seat.” I slipped my arm through his escorting him to a vacant chair near Mama.

“Is Shelley not joining us as well?” Mama questioned once he was seated.

“I am afraid not today, however he bid me console you with, ‘waking or asleep, thou of death must deem, things more true and deep, than we mortals dream.’ ”*

The words floated across the lawn. As a bell now tolled splitting the solemn receding day, vibrating the earth with its echoing peals and all eyes turn to Mr. Adams, whose upturned hands recognize no responsibility for the sound. Yet somewhere near and far away, perhaps beyond the clouds which now obscured the sun or beyond space a bell tolled from a church tower, from a steeple gray, forgotten, cracked, and broken, yet remaining still in memory, and that memory now found voice. As the aura of souls past escaped the confines of time and stepped forth to witness and bask in the light of this day.

Then one above the rest spoke.

“This is in memory. This is in remembrance.

This is for all the lies that have been told.

The innocent blood, the blood that cries from the ground,

Rise up and speak you voices*”

“Stephen?” Mama turned to face the shadows, a small man, suit pressed horn rimmed glasses reflecting his eyes, stepped forward. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye.

“Mama?” the worry in my voice reached for her.

There were many now, I could barely see as faces loomed from everywhere, from the shadows, from the trees, from the dim recesses of the mind they came now one by one to our table to this day that together we created. As Stephen’s voice carried on through the chimes;

“Milton and Whitman Tennyson and Swift,

Mark Twain and Hugo-every one who wrote

With a free pen in words of living fire

From Plato dreaming of his bright republic

To every exile walking in our streets

Exiled for truth and faith

And all of ours, all of our own today

All those who speak for freedom

These are our voices, these shall light the fire

Light the bright candle that shall not be quenched

The never has been quenched in all man’s years

Although all DARKNESS and all tyranny

Have tried to quench it”*

“Who marches with me?”

Mr. Adams stood with a thundering applaud and the peeling bell grew louder, shriller, braver, free. The crowd began to mingle to embrace and converse from every time from every age the message rang true. Now it was rejoicing.

So this is why I told him to come this is the reason why I breathed life once more into the words of forgotten days into the moth eaten essence of humanity, of life, of purpose, for him, for them. Yet he was no where to be seen, as the voices blended into one.

“I thought we weren’t to speak of Flanders Fields”* Auntie Grace retaliated in confusion searching for my face through the crowd. Her voice was lost, yet unconcerned she commenced cutting the cake.

Mr. Adams reflecting and now somber spoke in saddened tones. “But a constitution of government once changed from freedom can never be restored once lost is lost forever.”*

He continued on.

“And the proposition that people are the best keepers of their own liberties is not true. They are the worse conceivable, they are no keepers at all they can neither judge, act, think, or will as a political body” He was perspiring now, clearly disturbed and frustrated as despair laced his voice and began to consume his vision.

“I am in accord Mr. Adams” Arthur confided sorrow lining his face. Perhaps things weren’t going so well in Camelot after all. I missed his smile.

“We must see the world as it’s meant to be, not as it truly is…Cervantes was a great teacher of this truth.” Mama’s voice seemed frail now as if the liberation of the world from tyranny and the hope of past greatness still remained unattainable.

“But Democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts and murders itself. There was never a democracy that did not commit suicide…”*

“But we have our dreams Mr. Adams! We have our dreams!” I reached his side placing my hand on his arm, he seemed surreal now and I felt that if I closed my eyes he would vanish, but opening them could make him disappear.

“Dreams to keep the very seeds of our civilization alive, visions which craft the very key that can never truly be lost and which can unlock at will the mind, the soul, and the freedom to embrace the power to live! You gave us that, all of you gave us that!”

Mr. Adams pointed to the horizon as the sky ignited with more gold and amber rays, the flames of truth or the spark, the ember flaring from the possibility of words.

“It has been lit…” Then aside as if to myself; “Or has it always been yet this day this moment stroked the coals engaging the flame with a cry from the darkness a cry from a blinded world that now tears now devours and feeds upon the souls of brave men and woman who believed and who counted it as gain to sacrifice for that belief. We are all freaks of a past that cannot be changed yet we cower, and brand each other with false lies in order to crush the essence from the dream. We burn the past we shadow it with lies because truth we cannot bear, and for those who stand up and live with the heroes then and now branded freak, we echo crazy we preach insane…” Gazing to the sky I cried, “But I stand with you Stephen, with all of you!”

Together our voices joined to resurrect the immortal words, with the dust scraped away the core now lay exposed.

“Voices of dead and living, past and present

Voices of gagged men, whispering through sore lips.

Voices of children, robbed of their small ways.

Strong voices chanting of the rights of man.

Rebel and fighter, men of the free heart,

We, too shall build a fire, though not in fear,

Revenge or barren hate, but such a great

And cleansing fire it shall leap through the world

Like a leaping flame!

Freedom to speak and pray,

Freedom from want and fear freedom for all

Freedom of thought freedom of man’s bold mind!”*

“Do you hear me, do you hear us?” But I could not see my brothers’ eyes above the crowd…

Though I searched his countenance remained obscured to my vision, though I called, my voice remained lost among the peels and voices now ignited and consumed by a raging fire.

“You are decidedly a woman after my own heart.” Mr. Adams’ eyes seemed to pierce the nerve of my soul. I stared back into the depth of truth.

“Well then Mr. Adams,” taking his arm, “that makes us even”.

“I say let them eat cake!” Her voice filled with childish emotion Auntie Grace seized her moment in the midst of this unusual party that was madness or divine purging fire or perhaps both. The sky was on fire, alive, blinding, the sun slanting from behind the billows of smoke and clouds.  It was a day born on the horizon of illuminating hope and a powerful vision. We gathered around the tables making room for one more. Feeling a gentle tap on my shoulder I turned to face Arthur.

“As I desired to answer my lady… Amor Vincit Omnia”*

Act III

Jean sat beneath the spreading boughs of one of the ancient magnolias that perched on the banks of memory’s river. Intently he was focused on the subject before him with his sketch pad propped on his knee. There in the gently changing tides, statue like as if sculpted from wood, stood a young crane.*

My brother approached listlessly with an occasional gaze over his shoulder. “The party grows loud. But there are no fireworks yet.”

“Give it time… Did you find what you are looking for?” Jean glanced up from his sketch eyes squinting through the rays of light.

“Did you?” My brother countered

Jean gave a deep resolute sigh, tossing his sketchpad to the ground beside him he fumbled through his pockets locating his pipe before answering.

“Once there was a man called Jean Benoit Aub`ery. Who had estates in Brittany, money, friends, and responsibilities, and William was his servant. And William’s master become weary of Jean-Benoit Aub`ery and so he turned into a pirate, and built La Mouette.*

“So you became somebody else? Is that even possible?”

“I have found it so”

“And are you happy then?”

“I am content” Jean leaned back against the base of the weathered tree, stretching his legs out before him and lighting his pipe. In reflection he turned his gaze back to the subject of his sketch.

“But what’s the difference?” My brother seemed confused, melancholy, as if the very heart of life had somehow fled not by choice as much perhaps as by circumstance, yet nonetheless missing still and for this moment he again sought what he was looking for. Although the coals lay hidden within the fire which I had set, inside still waited to ignite.

“Between happiness and contentment? Ah, there you have me. It is not easy to put into words. Contentment is a state of mind and body when the two work in harmony and there is no friction. The mind is at peace and the body also. The two are sufficient to themselves. Happiness is elusive—coming perhaps once in a lifetime…”*

My brother folded his arms across his chest, pondering.

“It grows cold the sun is fading…” He sighed. “Why does she keep writing out the sun?”

“She was having fun, yet now her party is nearing its end…”

Jean closed his eyes.

“Your sister has built for you a fire, warm your hands, and soul.”

“Here is some cake for you” I approached quietly as the solitude of the moment was breathtaking…

We stood together watching the crane staring back at us.

Now I must step apart, speaking to your heart your soul, speaking with a voice I have searched for long and hard, through the bleak winter, barren summers, through pain and dread, through fear and confusion. I speak to you from the memory of what we cannot forget. I speak to breathe life upon the coals and embers which burn within, to ignite courage to build strength that you may stand. That you may hold up your head and feel pride, that you may embrace life in the truest most defining essence of the word.

Do you see that crane? Chiseled, frozen in time, a relic of the past amid a living world around him which is pulsating with life, vibrant, changing, and thriving. How proud he stands. Precariously balanced, one leg plunged deep the other aloof. To place both is to place all, so he stands out of fear? Caution? Or is it wisdom on the verge of extinction? Taking of life that which it has to give, returning back that which it most needs… Remembrance… he is a symbol.

Maybe for some of us we are the cranes, fitting yet unsure of belonging or perhaps as the trees surrounding, silent, yet offering calm offering shade to a parched and desolate world. Or as this river that I paint before you unsure of where we are going but enjoying the journey and change that inevitably makes the sum of us. Merging together to form a whole, rather for good or ill, but each relying on the other for the who of what we are. The past, the future, the days in which we now transpire through are a part of us and someday will become a part of the whole which we call the very existence of time. To remove the crane from the picture is to make the scene incomplete, significance is reality.

We damage the whole inadvertently when in unknown blindness we slice out a piece of that which makes life what it truly is. For we cannot experience true joy, the accent of silver to the presence of sorrow’s clouds, without first having met and known sorrow’s pain which enables us to see all that joy truly is. As we cannot have strength without fear and lack of understanding is all that fear really is. When we understand and embrace truth even when some choose not to, it may embolden fear without, a fear which ultimately causes the printing of the volumes that claim us insane. But how valuable are the rare editions? They may call you, me, and us insane, but tell me what is passion what are ideals if not insane? Who has ever embraced them and been called otherwise? Do we then grant these pointing fingers the honor of sane?

Or do we like the crane acknowledge that there is more beyond what the eye can perceive and because of this we too belong as part of a plan whose prints were manufactured as far back as the dawn of time.

We do not need to know why that crane is there or why he continues to fight for survival, we only need to know he belongs and that each emotion each experience also defines our existence as well joining us together with time and the essence of eternity.

And this I paint for you, resurrecting heroes that you too may feel their light and realize that the very defining points which made them insane in the era in which they were placed and which made them outcasts, is a part of you as well. Although we may never build a country, challenge hypocrisy, or laugh in the face of tyranny, we are still a part of greatness. Dreams are still alive and the flame burns in each of us waiting to break forth, purging the earth with truth, honor, justice, and above all hope, as we gather the flowers of the past, and we keep alive all the passion and integrity that cannot be silenced by lies, pain, or sadness. Because it belongs to us, it is our gift for them from them. So that we may know we are not alone. They are a part of us as we were of them…

A song now floods across the dream…“So does that make you crazy, does that make me crazy?”* Well I hope so…

Act IV

“I must go now…” Mama whispered as the last visage of golden light seeped through her smile illuminating her face in an ethereal glow. “But you shall have a dream, a beautiful dream…”

I reached for her as the sun disappeared beyond the hills that had appeared from the encroaching shadows, and the colors began to drain and fade from my canvas. The faces only moments before so alive so real transpired into memory and as brave as I tried to remain how could I not weep as the whispered names and forgotten creeds embraced my soul.

“But what about Pericles?” The realization slowly dawned that his presence had never arrived that his voice was never heard and my party our party which I wrote into existence was never attended by the guest of honor.

“He was here…” Mama gave a knowing smile as her voice grew distant and my hands reached for her again. I tried to run to her but could not move.

“We will always be here… Remember… For them…” A mere whisper now…

Before my lips could speak her name one last time she was gone. I felt my brother’s hand reach for mine.

As one remaining voice that of Whittier spoke from the darkness…

“The saddest words of song or pen are those that tell it might have been…”*

I picked up the bouquet Mama had left and opened my eyes…

And the music stopped…

Act V

On the winds of remembrance I bring you fireworks breaking the night sky with fountains of joy and colors of gold, blue, and red. Flowers in slow motion that brand imagination with sight it is a tapestry of color shining through the bleak oppressive shadows to rain stardust, courage, and hope within your soul. Here is the vision, here is the light. I carry this for you, you carry this for me, and we carry this for them.

Do you see the little children playing, happy and free, no tears, no tears. Brothers, sisters, families, friends take hands, take hands there is dancing, dancing in the streets. Mamas with their babies pride shining from their eyes can you hear those sweet lullabies. Old people lined with age they are dancing too, dancing for what is, what could, what may…be. So rise up you voices, rise up and sing! Oh chorus of promise, of hope, and life! Let the ground tremble from our marching feet, let the earth shake vibrating and filled with our song, for it is time to let them hear, it has come the dream is ours. It remains immortal.

Gather round my precious ones, let me see those exultant faces as I feel your presence ever with me ever near. There is no distance, there is no pain, there are no hardships, and we will never fear. Sing, oh how you will sing, let them hear your voices. Join hands with me, we will march together, living the legend holding the promise, embracing the dream.

Acknowledgements/Biographies/Information for— Lunch with Pericles

Act I

*“Paint me a Birmingham” cited from a song by Tracy Lawrence, in which he imagines being back in time when things were the way he was happiest.

*Jean Benoit Aub’ery is a fictitious character created by Daphne DuMaurier from her book Frenchman’s Creek.

He is simply, well, a pirate.

*razzle dazzle, is quoted from the Chicago musical.

*Flander’s Fields is a poem that was written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) of the Canadian Army. To this day it remains one of the most memorable poems ever written about war. It pertains to the battle of Ypres Salient which was fought in 1915.

McCrae was the doctor attached to the unit, afterwards scarred by what he had seen and having to perform the funerals for the dead because there was no presiding chaplain he wrote Flanders Fields. After completion he threw the poem away and a friend retrieved it and sent it to a newspaper. It was instantly published and spread across the world.

*all things beautiful and lovely, Philippians 4:8

Act II

*“One today is worth two tomorrows” penned by Benjamin Franklin (1706-1790)

*“You will never be alone with a poet in your pocket” penned by John Adams (1735-1826) as advice to his son who would follow in his fathers footsteps and later become the president of the United States as well.

You don’t really need a bio for John Adams as we all know he was obnoxious and disliked and we love him for it.

*“Few are my years and yet I feel—“penned by Lord Byron (1788-1824) also known as George Gordon. Probably one of the most misunderstood poets of all time. He was born a cripple, disowned by his father because of that and also because he was illegitimate.

While in college he wrote a book of poems which the media of his day scorned for no other reason except that he wasn’t a member of the upper set. This made him upset so he retaliated and ridiculed their snobbery and hypocrisy, something he would have cause to regret for his entire life. Feeling guilty for that he hunted down every copy of the book and burned it, but that was not enough, the press tore him apart, even when he couldn’t stand it anymore and fled from England they still wrote about him, making up stories anything and everything because it was fun and well they just didn’t like him. They pretty much drove the poor guy insane through rumors and lies, and then his wife ran off with his baby.

He lived a very sad lonely and miserable life. And was pretty much an exile in his own country.

*Waking or asleep—- “penned by Percy Shelley (1792-1822) who happened to be Byron’s friend, he was rather scandalous in truth. His first meeting with Byron was when a mutual friend came to Byron for assistance in bailing Shelley from jail. This friend would later marry Shelley and eventually kill herself after Shelley left her.

*Stephen Vincent Bene’t (1898-1943) was the brother of Laura Bene’t and became a famous writer. His play “They Burned the Books” was written as a slap in the face to Germany during WWII. Passages sighted are marked. He was a brilliant genius but lost a lot of credibility when accused of being a communist. He also penned the immortal story the Devil and Daniel Webster.

*And the proposition that people are the —

*But democracy never lasts long—

Words by John Adams

Amor Vincit Omnia – Latin for love conquers all.

Act III

*Crane: The whooping crane stands about five feet tall, and is one of two species of cranes remaining in North America. In the 1950’s the estimated number of cranes remaining in the world was approximately 48. These unique birds can produce a mere two eggs a year and are prone to a wide variety of predators. Before they have matured their feathers are a light brown, giving them the appearance of having been carved from wood.

*Some passages spoken by Jean are marked and have been sited from Frenchman’s Creek by Daphne DuMaurier

*The song Crazy was sited from lyrics written by Brian Burton, Thomas Callaway, Gian Franco Reverberi, Gian Piero Reverberi and sung by Gnarls Barkley.

Act IV

*The saddest words— cited from Maud Muller in Songs of Labor by John Greenleaf Whittier

Books referenced;

Songs of Labor – John Greenleaf Whittier, copyright 1898

Frenchman’s Creek – Daphne DuMaurier, copyright 1943

They Burned the Books – Stephen Vincent Bene’t, copyright 1942

Byron’s Poetical Works – Lord Byron, copyright 1923

Shelley’s Poetical Works – Percy Shelley, copyright 1923