People Like You

                                           

                                                  People Like You

                                                  Written December   1947

         

                                                   It’s people like you who make life seem worthwhile.

                                                   It’s people like you who help others to smile,

                                                   To bury their fears and their worldly cares

                                                   And look for the sunshine where naught was before

                                                   But sadness and grief and weighty despairs.

                                                It’s people like you who give music its ring.

                                                It’s people like you who help others to sing,

                                                To look for the gay and the bright and the best,

                                                To judge of themselves and look for the ways

                                                 Of pushing their joys to the peak of life’s crest.

                                                 It’s people like you who have knelt at His feet.

                                                 It’s people like you who have learned lessons sweet,

                                                 Who cherish each word of the Savior as gold,

                                                 Who have learned to be happy by giving their lives

                                                 To the service of those whose love has grown cold.

                                                Yes, it’s people like you who help people like me.

                                                 It’s people like you who help me to see

                                                That life isn’t merely a journey for one,

                                               A trip where we travel a long, lonely road

                                               Just thinking of self while others we shun.

                                                I’ve walked at your side with unseeing eyes.

                                                I’ve heard every word without being wise.

                                                I’ve searched for myself for joys I could find,

                                                Learning how terribly hard it could be,

                                                Until I knew you, and I knew I’d been blind.

                                                            Gratefully,

                                                            Elder “C”

         

          Note from Merlin:  I wrote this after I was transferred,  leaving Denver and Avon behind.   I was in a mood where I was remembering all the nice things Sister Avon Allen had done for me,  how she made friends so easily and reached out to others.  It made me reflect on my life to that point.  Was I selfish? Probably.  Did I go out of my way to help others. Probably not. I guess I thought it was enough to be a good missionary, to preach the Gospel and baptize. Sister Allen was different. She cared very lovingly for her companion, made friends with members and investigators, and showed she loved the Gospel by how she lived it. We were not in love at this stage but as you can see our friendship was becoming deeper, and feelings like I expressed here would become more than friendship and not quite love. Our “love by mail” had just begun.

Rain

By Merlin Compton, age 20  

May 10,  1945

Whence came ye, little drops of moisture?

From what river, what lake, what tree,

From what blade of grass were you stolen by your captor,

The fiery red sun?

Did you like it here on God's green earth?

Did you drink in the symphony of loveliness of the green earth,

even as we  refreshed ourselves with your cooling taste?

Or did you rush on as mortals are prone to do,

Overturning every stone searching for power and wealth,

But finding worse than worthless fool's gold?

Searching diligently for that which was  not there,

Not knowing that happiness and love which we really seek are all around us,

Smiling from all of nature's handiwork,

Waiting only for his caressing touch to spring into being.

Perhaps you liked it here on this mortal planet,

But maybe you possess a wandering and restless soul, even as mine is restless.

Then I know your inner being cried with joy at the thought of a new journey,

New undertakings, new joys and new living.

It is when that great red orb turns his full force upon you that you feel his warm rays,

Asking, compelling you, to rise to better things.

Even in this you are like we, who can only climb to God,

When our full spiritual power shines dazzling in mortal soul.

Without this great energy, both you, vagabond raindrop, and we  would remain

Forever in filthy gutters and in the darkness of sin.

What did you see, happy raindrop, while you were there in God's heaven?

Did you see shining angels arrayed in flowing robes of purest white?

Did you hear the immortal and eternal strains

Of praise coming forth from their golden harps?

Did you see the streets paved with precious stones,

The houses constructed of flawless marble?

Tell me truthfully, raindrop, did you see

Heaven as we  picture it?

Or did you see a true Heaven constructed of perfect love,

Where angel's faces shine with radiance, good will, and knowledge?

Where streets are paved with happiness,

And the buildings are spun of the strongest threads of family ties?

You say you saw all of this and that upon the

Greatest One's divine visage was the most

Serene and magnificent of expressions;

That upon His right side sat a brilliant

Personage just as noble as the Great One

And almost as powerful.

Now I see your purpose, sad raindrop, I know

why you are as you are.

In Christ, upon whom you have looked,

You see the reason you drop in your shape.

Yes!  I see it all now.

As the condemned  son raised His Holy body on a cross to die,

God sought in vain to gather enough tears

Together to mourn His death.

And in failing, He appointed you, plentiful

Yet simple raindrop, to forever mourn

The earthly passing and sacrifice of His Only Begotten Son.

But here is your great beauty, lovely raindrop.

Just as Christ's death brought life and hope

To those who have died in the toils of sin,

So your mourning tears bring forth out of the

Rich earth new and vibrant life, new and vital hope.

Your purpose is great, your meaning is even greater.

And here is truth eternal.

Just as the Heaven's most delicate and lovely flower,

The rainbow is seen through these tears,

So life's greatest joys and most worthwhile moments

Must be viewed through human suffering

And tears of regret,

Before the beautiful colors of happiness

Can be seen and appreciated.

Go to your destiny, little raindrop.

Fill, nourish, strengthen, quench thirst,

But never forget your great calling,

Little symbol of sorrow.

Never forget your holy calling

Never forget that you yourself are holy.

It is a simple and solemn charge.

*************************************************************

This poem marked a small turning point in my new acquaintance with Avon in October of 1947.   Avon and I had been serving as fellow missionaries in Denver, Colorado for two months.  Avon was close to finishing her mission. and I was just beginning mine.  My companion and I lived in a chapel where there was a kitchen and living area.  Avon and her companion lived nearby,  so we studied and had meals together in the chapel,  in addition to attending church meetings and doing missionary and service work together.  

Avon's companion Bonny Snow, my companion Elder Bingham, and me,

studying together in the kitchen of the little chapel where Elder Bingham and I lived.

We got to know each other a bit  during this time, especially when we gathered in the chapel kitchen, reading the "Libro de Mormon,"  (Book of Mormon) and writing letters and journal entries. 

Avon wanted to see a notebook I kept, which was full of quotes and poetry--articles, information about music, and all kinds of materials.  She was surprised that a man would keep such a notebook as she said it was usually women who put together such things.

           She came upon my poem "Rain" and read it and then wanted to know who had written it.   When I said that I had composed it, I think she saw me in a different light. I didn't know it at the time, but she had written many poems herself so she could see my poem through the eyes of a poet. She really liked my poem  and wrote her praise for it in her journal.  She even said there, that at that point she began to think of me as someone she might marry. She asked for a copy of the poem, and I printed one out by hand and gave it to her.    She later included it in her journal.

Avon's Missionary Journal

           Avon wrote: 

           "I was almost overjoyed when he showed me a poem and I said, 'Who wrote that?'  and he answered, 'Yours Truly.'  Rain--the message of it was deep and vast and showed me the insight to this boy;  his thots are sterling and deep-rooted in the Gospel.  His understanding of life is far beyond that of my weak comprehension.  How could I sit there and read that loveliness without having a feeling for him;  the fact that he showed me the poem flattered me; and made me wonder just what he thought of me;  sanely I told him I'd like a copy of it some time;  and then left.  My heart was fuller than it has been for many months.  I can't think of him without hoping in the future. . .with him."

One of Avon's companions, Sister Breitling to the left and Avon to the right. 

             A month later, in  November of 1947,  the new District President made some big changes to our daily activities and really shook things up.   My companion and I  were told not to meet with the lady missionaries  except in Sunday meetings.  Then I was transferred to a different town, after which Avon and I  had no contact at all.  When I left for Texas we didn't know what our relationship was all about.  We had a friendship but didn't know if there could be more.  Avon  was confused by her strong feelings and wrote a poem about how she felt.  We didn't know if we would ever see each other again.  We had just experienced  four months of a strange relationship in which neither of us could allow our feelings for each other to grow or be expressed.  We were concentrating on our missionary work and keeping the mission rules.   When I saw her for the last time before she was released,  in November of 1947,  it was very formal. Just a handshake. No hugs, we were still missionaries.

Merlin and the District President leaving Denver

          Poetry was to continue to bring Avon and me closer together, though,  as you will see.

         Note from Tammy:  I picked this poem for this Easter Day because of its theme and imagery.  I like the description of heaven and my dad's use of language.  Its cute what my mom wrote in her missionary diary about the poem and him--I think it went far in making my mom fall in love with him.  I hope you enjoyed it too. 

          I took all the nature photos except the raindrops.

The Past

 

      Note from Tammy-the-editor:  My dad has written some beautiful poetry and I hope you enjoy it as I have.  I liked the poem about "The Past,"  and so decided that was a good one to start with and also a nice explanation of the way his life is  at  present and why he is thinking about the past and writing poetry about it. 

                                   
                                                                 The Past


                             The past is always with me,

                             It cannot let me go.

                             Tell me why this is so,

                             While the present fades away.

                             A novel once I read of a dream

                             So strange it was.

                             Of a man who was two

                             And yet was only one.

                             One watched the other silently.

                             How could it be, he mused?

                             If I am here behind this screen,

                             How can I be over there?

                  

                             Which one of me is watching?

                             And which one being watched?

                             Which one is me?

                             They both certainly can’t be.

                             A strange dream I had one night,

                             It will not let me go.

                             The doctor said in a voice so low,

                             Two hearts you have, my boy.

                             Two hearts, I’ve  wondered since,

                             Can two hearts beat as one?

                             Or rather, if different they must be,

                             Which one is really me?

                             The sands of time are running low,

                             Two of me there are.

                             One is buried in the past,

                             One lives in the world of reality.

                             One a bus knows day by day,

                             One lives in letters of many years ago.

                             Like a patchwork quilt

                             They both make up reality.

                             Which one is really me?

                             By her I sit an hour or two each day.

                             To her I wrote the letters

                             That I read just yesterday.

                             With her I am, but my thoughts

                             Are of long ago;  of moments happy and sad,

                             We shared when love was new.

                             And so life goes on,

                             Her life so limited now,

                             The past he cherishes and relives

                             For her is gone forever.

                             So the question remains,

                             As through life I walk.

                             Is it in the past I live    

                             Or in the present drab?

                             Which one is really me?

 

       Ricardo Palma, renowned Peruvian writer, decided to bury his life in the past when his good friend and president of Peru was assassinated. From that decision was born the motivation to write his “tradiciones,” his attempt to re-create the past of his native country.

       My situation is not as drastic as his but for several reasons I have been living more in the past than in the present. I think it all started at Christmas time 2009, when I was listening to the Tabernacle Choir and music by the Celtic Women. In that very enjoyable atmosphere, wonderful except for one fact, I was alone. And I began to think that as my time on earth was getting shorter, that my grandchildren and grandchildren  and even my children would know very little about me when I would be called home. Yes, there are aspects of my life I’ve written about but an organized life history was not a reality. Who would want to read all of that?

      So I decided to write some episodes of my life that I call “Snapshots,” that would give an idea of what my life has been like. To those I added excerpts from a report my Mother wrote about me. Bless her heart, Tammy produced a booklet of those “Snapshots.” She also produced a CD of me reading the “Snapshots.” I thought it would be important for my posterity to hear my voice. 

       In the meantime I had listened to a CD of an interview of my Mother with my nephew Mike Eckersley. It was a treasure because not only did my mother  tell about her early life in that interview, but I could hear her voice! I’m not sure about the sequence of these events that follow, but that CD motivated me to want to get all my siblings together and record the memories we could share. I felt this was really important because our ages, 90’s and 80’s, meant that opportunities for all of us to get together at one time would be getting very limited. So we did get together in Ogden in November of 2010 and we had a wonderful time.

We brought materials to the gathering that might help us to write the life history of Dad and Mom. That was a glorious occasion and was the last time we were all together as my oldest brother Bud passed away just two months ago.  The sands of time are running out for all of us.

          Physically our bodies showed a lot of wear and tear but our minds were still functioning well, although there are some short-term memory problems.

          In the meantime Tammy had come across the section of Avon’s missionary journal which detailed how we met in Denver and how our “courtship” developed there. Of course those pages took me back to a time of long ago, as portrayed by Avon. Tammy scanned those pages and printed  a book of those experiences. What a sweetheart Tammy is! [Note from Tammy--THANKS DAD!]

                             Avon's original missionary scrapbook and the scanned version 

          On the back burner is the history of “Avonne’s Story Shoppe.”

I’m still gathering what the family remembers of that time in our lives along with pictures and articles related to the “Shoppe.” This brings back another trip into the past. 

          To complete what was important in my life history I began to write up my mission experiences using my journal as the primary source. I thought it strange that my journal stopped when I was transferred to Laredo. A whole year of my mission was missing! Tammy to the rescue! In the boxes stored by her were the letters I wrote to Avon for two years, including my stay in the Lower Valley and Laredo. So evidently I stopped writing in my journal while I was in Laredo because I was telling Avon what I was doing there. Journal entries would have been redundant. So now I could finish my report of my mission. But then something else hit me! Here were letters to Avon that described in some detail what was going on between us, a friendship that became much deeper. So I selected from those letters the portions that portray that relationship and called it "Love by Mail,"  and will make it  available to anyone who wants to read it.   Certainly when I read those letters I am immersed in the past.

         How sad it is that Avon’s letters to me have been lost. So the point of view is one-sided by necessity although many times her feelings are reflected in the letters I wrote to her.

         

         So with all the projects in which I am engaged, it is easy to see that the present sort of fades away. Yes, I do indexing and go to the Temple and go to Church and spend some time with Tina, Jerry, Tammy,  Ladd and the rest of our family.  They are wonderful. They do things for me all the time and want me to be happy. I love them and appreciate them, but for more than 60 years my life has been entwined with Avon’s.

         The past comes alive when I go back to the times when her mind was alert and her body strong. Even when I sit with her and hold her hand my thoughts are of the past we shared, that to her are now emptiness. Lately I have been pulling out Mexican songs I used to sing. Some of them I have forgotten so I have found them on the Internet. So now when I visit Avon I sing to her the  Mexican songs we used to sing together. They bring back memories of the mission, when I learned them and of a happier past with Avon.  Here also the past creeps in and displaces the present.

          So I have written a lyrical piece, not really poetry, in which I have tried to describe who I really am at this stage of my life. Is my personality split?   I sometimes wonder.

Introduction to My Poetry

Where did my feelings for poetry come from?  I'm not sure. I think first of all I have always been a voracious reader and that  was the beginning -- my  love for words -- that is what poetry is all about. In the final analysis poetry is not about expressing ideas, it is expressing one's feelings about what is important to him or her in language that tends to use imagery and plumbs the depths of meaning and forces the reader to see relationships in a new light. In addition, these words are to be read out loud and therefore the sound pattern becomes essential. The poetry must flow and most poetry includes rhyme. Finding the right word that rhymes is always a challenge.

I wrote poetry when I was a young man in military service, about nature and religion.  Later, when I was serving my first mission,   I  shared one of my poems  with a certain fellow missionary,  Hermana (Sister) Avon Allen,  who was very impressed.    She asked if I would copy the poem for her,  which I did,  and that was one of many moments in which we knew that we had much in common and shared something important. 

       Avon and I, Denver, Colorado, Spanish American Mission 1947

After Hermana Allen was released from her mission and I was still serving mine,  we corresponded for two years and our relationship went from friendship to love.  We wrote each other poems and sent them to each other,  which poems bring back happy memories to me of the promise of a life together which we shared  at that time.

             Some of my letters to Avon which I wrote during my mission

After our marriage,  I didn't write more poetry until 2010 when my dear Avon,  wife of sixty years had to take up residence in a nursing home because of her many health problems.  I wanted to express my deepest feelings for Avon now that she was no longer able to live with me,  and I felt that prose would not be adequate. My first attempts were sporadic and not of the quality I desired, but  I set to work in earnest and now have written more poems recently, almost all about Avon.   

I have no illusions about the quality of what I have written. It is just an honest attempt to put into verse what I couldn’t say in prose. I hope that anyone who reads it understands that these verses tell the reader about me and my feelings about Avon. There are others, some of a philosophical or humorous nature that I will share, but my poetry is  mostly about the void I feel now that Avon is  in a world of her own due to the disease of  Alzhiemers.

I have written a prose explanation for many of the poems  which explains how the verses came about.   Writing poetry has been an enjoyable exercise for me, in a way, kind of a catharsis. I have no idea what the reaction might be of those who read it. 

I wanted to share these poems with family members,  and my daughters have encouraged me to share them on this blog.  So here we go.