What a Night that Was! or Will I Ever Stop Learning?

by Merlin Compton

            Saturday night I went to the historic Assembly Hall to enjoy a concert. It turned out to be one of the most memorable I have ever attended. I went a half hour early because I thought the Hall would be filled to capacity.  I was wrong. Barber-shop music and country and western and blue-grass music shows pack the hall. But not this type of music! What a pity! So what was it? A night of songs. Songs by Bach, Mozart, Handel, Massenet, Liszt, Puccini, Strauss II, Offenbach and others. Doesn’t that make for goose bumps for all true lovers of classical music?  What a rich program! And it was divided into the following sections: Love of God, Love of Life, Loss of Love, Love of Others and Joy of Love. (I would be happy to send a copy of the program  to anyone who might wish it.) I could hardly wait! Concerts of this type often cost a lot of money. This one was free.

            Who were the singers, and how many were there? They were all sopranos and there were not two or three, but seven! And they were all very accomplished vocal artists. This is where Will Rogers comes in. “We are all ignorant, only on different subjects.” I soon found out I was ignorant about sopranos. Maybe some of you are well versed in this subject, but I was not. I knew there were mezzo-sopranos, but that was about all I knew about them. So what did I learn? There are dramatic mezzo-sopranos, lyric sopranos, coloratura sopranos, lyric coloratura sopranos, dramatic sopranos and spinto sopranos. And probably more. How will that increase my store of knowledge and how will that benefit me? The next time I hear sopranos sing I will know what style to listen for. How many of you know what a spinto soprano is? I sure didn’t. I had to look it up.

            Some of the songs were my favorites, such as “Rejoice Greatly” from “The Messiah,” “O Mio Babbino” from”GianniSchicct” by Puccini, “Mein Herr Marquis” from “Die Fledermaus” by Johan Strauss II and “Belle Nuit” from “Les Contes d’ Hoffman” by Offenbach. This last number was sung by an ensemble of all seven sopranos. Glorious. I thought I had died and gone to Heaven! It was a night of sheer enchantment. The world with all its cares and trivialities had gone away.

            I wish I had the skill to describe the music I experienced that night. A Chilean author did that very effectively. I think she was a short story writer by the name of Maria Luisa Bombal. (Tim, if I’m mistaken, let me know.) The main character in one of Bombal’s short stories not only heard but “saw” and “felt” the music. A good example of synesthesia. I don’t remember the names of all of the composers (It’s been more than 25 years ago) but I think some of them were Chopin, Beethoven, Brahms, Schubert and Wagner. She “saw” fountains playing, waterfalls, babbling brooks, waves on the sea shore, rivers rolling placidly along. And she “felt” what the water was doing. That was similar to the effect the music had on me that night. Too many superlatives? Probably. But I am sure that a night like that will never happen to me again!   But something else was happening to me.  Even though Avon was far away, I felt her spirit close at my side. 

            That feeling brought to mind the countless concerts and other musical events we had attended together. Especially in St. George. I think we went to some kind of musical event just about every week. There were the Celebrity Series at Dixie College, the Salt Lake Musical Theater, Southwest Heritage Choir under the direction of Floyd Rigby, the Lieto singers under the direction of Norman Lister, the Barbershop singers, the Southwest Symphony, Tuacahn and many others. That was a big part of life for Avon and me.  So now, every time I go to a musical event I feel the spirit of Avon with me, just like when we enjoyed all of those musical events in St. George together. Now, with the help of Tina and Jerry, I am able to enjoy outstanding musical programs by the Utah Symphony and the Tabernacle Choir. How I appreciate what they do for me to fill the musical void!

                                                                                                October 23, 2012

                                                                                                Salt Lake City

Avon My Love

                                                     AVON, MY LOVE
                                                     by Merlin Compton

        The poet wrote: “How do I love thee?
        Let me count the ways.”
        Impossible, I say
        Like counting of the sun the rays.

        Or the countless grains of sand
        That on the seashore lie.
        Or the myriads of stars
        That at night sparkle in the sky.

     Why not count on my head the hairs
     Or the dreams we have dreamed,
     Some with time faded away,
     Others coming to life it seemed.

     So at night I think of you.
     I see the stars, oh how they shine.
     My love for you like a heaven full of stars,
     Each one for me of love the sign.

       

        Sweetheart, when I think of you,
        Not only stars, but the sun and the moon
        You are to me, shedding light,
        Making my pathway clear and bright.

        It is true, my life began
        When first in Denver our glances met,
        Although we did not know
        That those hours we would never forget.

        Of a future we both saw bright,
        Of children, books and music.
        Of homes filled with love
        And every blessing from above.

        How could they know
        That what to them were dreams
        Would one day they would share
        As man and wife, now a married pair.

        Violin music kept him enthralled,
        Poetry they shared enlarged their souls,
        Mastering a language brought great rewards,
        Studying the Scriptures inspired their goals.

        To him a wonderful young lady she was,
        Possessing qualities deep and radiant.
        About her the more he knew
        The more his admiration for her grew.

        But love, how could it be?
        Nothing but a friendship sincere.
        A mission’s labor to fulfill
        So they served the Lord with a determined will.

       

        What could this young man offer?
        It certainly wasn’t much.
        Spanish he could handle well,
        Talks he gave with a polished  touch.

        But money he had none.
        His family, not elite but common.
        Education, very little he had
        And musical talent, really, very sad.

        In that Elder, what did she see?   
        Something deep and solid.
        Something she yearned for in her life,
        Something that promised a future of happiness rife.

        A potential she saw in him
        That he didn’t know he had,
        Qualities she wanted in a mate
        For whom she would patiently wait.
        

        Now he in Texas, far away,
        And she in Utah, both drawing nearer
        By mail a friendship becoming love,
        Feelings for each other blessed from above.

       

        Courtship, marriage, children,
        Diplomas, service in their Church,
        Hardships in a trailer and in homes so small,
        A life so full, they lived it all.

        The wonders of the Old World,
        The glory of the New,
        With art and music their lives were filled.
        With countless hours their lives were thrilled.

  

 

        So many talents my sweetheart had.
        Poetry,  violin music so sublime,
        Sketches so many and so clever
        Artistically pleasing each endeavor.

       

        
        Others there are that must be mentioned.
        So many there are it’s hard to believe.
        Flannel board stories by the score,
        Quilts and tea towels and postcards galore.

        So many qualities did she possess,
        Patience, friendship  and many more.
        Love for all children, no matter the race.
        No matter the color or shape of the face.     

        But most of all, it is certainly true,
        You are so much a part of me now,
        Stronger you have made me   
        And made me more than I could be.

       I love you, you are my angel,
        A touch of Heaven on this earth.
        With wonder you filled my life
        When you became my lovely wife.
       

        The years have passed, how soon they flew,
        Only memories of the past are left.
        In a temple, how holy  that vow,
        Eternity awaits us now.


    Note from Merlin:  With this poem I have tried to express how much Avon means to me. Ever since we met in Denver, or perhaps it was when we were writing letters to each other, I’m not sure, my world has revolved around Avon. She has given me love and support and made my life a wonderful experience.
 

    Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote: “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” I don’t think she could and I know I can’t, it would be impossible. So in this poem I have made an effort to express how her life has impacted mine and some of the ways I have learned to admire her.
  

  Why now? We are both in our eighties. What is really important in our lives lies in our past. That is nothing to be sad about; that is just the way life is. There won’t be much we can do in our remaining time on earth that would be meaningful. So now I can look back at Avon’s life and our life together and try to encapsulate how her life influenced mine. I have said it before. My life began when she entered it. She has certainly “lifted me up.”

Note from Tammy:  My dad asked me to post this poem for my Mom's birthday which is July 13th.   The sketches are  by my Mom, the first  from her  missionary journal, and the second from her  travel sketch book.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!

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.