​On days when life demands too much of you,
Responsibilities and worries too,
So much to bear, you don’t know where to turn,
And peace and solace are for what you yearn,
 
Look to the sky, to clouds, and higher still,
To watch the birds that glide and soar at will,
That turn and dive in the gentle Spring breeze
Then stop to rest atop the tallest trees.
 
And watch them as they sit so high and free,
Content to sing their song and just to be,
They follow the wind wherever it blows,
Are ever heedless of our earthly woes.
 
Then join them if only in mind, alone,
To visit distant lands, never yet known,
And then glide gently back to Earth and land,
Ready to tackle all that waits at hand. 
 

Once upon a time, in the distant future...
 
there was a planet. It was not particularly large or prominent but it was a pretty planet, blue and green. For there was life on this planet: blue oceans teeming with fish and shellfish and many other life forms, as well as plants of all colors. There were grassy plains and high mountains covered with white snow. Even the dry deserts boasted colorful sand, creatures, large and small,  cacti and small leaved bushes, And in most parts, there lived humans, who travelled far and wide and explored to the ends of their Earth. 
But over time, the climate grew hotter and drier. Animals began to disappear. This had happened before when the large dinosaurs had died off but now the humans were involved, for better or for worse. For the humans tinkered with the environment, built cities, created new materials. And these changes transformed the Earth itself. Animal species died from lack of space, water or food. There was less water to go around.
 Soon the changes began to affect the humans themselves. While they were intelligent and ingenious, there was a limit to their understanding and they too began to suffer disease, lack of water and finally lack of food. After a massive die off over hundreds of years, only a few humans were left in pocketed areas. 
In one such area, that the most recent humans had called California, there lived small tribes in the wilderness. There was still enough food from the sturdy oaks to keep them nourished and the rain still brought welcome water to the streams and the lakes, so that these humans lived quite comfortably. Gone was all the technology their forebears had created, but this mattered not. The humans did not miss it because they had not known it. Occasionally someone would come across a small rectangular object with a glass front and would wonder what manner of object this was. It did not seem to serve any purpose but fit in the palm of a hand as though it had been a hand tool. But a tool for what?
In one area, there was a Bay surrounded by hills. There was a space between two groups of hills and over this space was a bridge that had survived earthquakes and bombs. 
One day a woman came from the Eastern hills, searching for salt and shells to use as scoops. She walked down to the edge of the Bay, where the eelgrass grew abundant and fish still darted in and out of the grass. This water had been polluted and many of the animals and plants had died off, but the tide continuously brought ocean water in and took it out again and so the sea life had been restored. As the woman walked along the shore, she became aware of another human, a man, standing atop a little hill above her. He saw her and started down the hill. 
The woman kept walking. She had work to do and needed to get it done before dark. Then she must find a place to eat and sleep before returning to her home the next day. 
She stopped when her footsteps met the water, at the old crane. It was used by humans once, and had stood there ever since, a rusting old piece of metal. Now it stood in water, as the level had risen over time. And there was an osprey nest high up on the crane. There were no more factories or ships or any other humans, but the birds still came to raise a family there. The wars and famine had not reached them. They could fly. 
The man on the hill was now by her side. He did not speak. Indeed, humans spoke only when necessary now. But his eyes were kind. He stood next to the woman, looking out over the Bay. 
The mountain the old ones had called Tamalpais, nobody really knew why, lay against the sky, still, in the shape of a woman lying down. There had been a legend, the woman had heard, but she knew it not. The mountain had been there when humans were abundant, had been there even before, when there had been a few original human inhabitants, before the hordes came. 
And even before that perhaps, before there were any humans on this land.
The mountain would remain, until it was covered by the Ocean. The crane still stood. And across the Bay, the woman could see the old bridge crossing the strait that led to the ocean. It would be inundated one day, but for now it stood, a reminder of the human industrial life of the past. 
And so too, the crane. 
The woman and man stood at the water's edge, a few feet before the crane. The rain stopped and a rainbow appeared to the South. The man pointed at the rainbow and the woman nodded. Then she pointed. Far off, they saw a large bird flying in. It flew steadily until it  reached the crane. Then it landed upon the nest high up on the crane. It was a female osprey.  She  sat and looked around. Then she  called with a  high pitched two-tone whistle. Then another. And from the Bay, beyond the breakwater, came another osprey. It flew steadily toward the nest, while the other called. Then it landed and the two birds greeted one another.
The woman turned to the man and smiled. 
"The ospreys have returned," she said. "As always."
He nodded. "Yes." 
They paid silent homage to these birds that had survived the wars, the floods, the famine and  all the destruction caused by humans, by flying South every winter to return in the Spring. 
Then the two humans gave thanks to their Earth goddess and, as the sun began to set,  turned for their long trek back to the hills where they dwelled. 

                                                                   Star of Peace
 
Some  children were drawing and coloring. But more were sitting with their heads down or just staring into space. A few were crying quietly. 
The teachers stood watching the children. What should they do? Let them be or try to entertain them somehow? 
They children had, of course, been fed and cleaned up first when they arrived. Their clothes were dirty and torn, their faces streaked with dirty tears, some even had blood stains on their hands, the shirts, their heads. They had been tended to and cleaned up, while the seriously injured had been transported to the hospital. These children at the school were the “lucky” ones, who had escaped injury. Most had arrived with their parents who were now being given spaces to make their own, a tiny makeshift home in this place of peace amid the war. The teachers had taken the older  children to the playroom so the parents would have time and quiet to settle into their quarters. 
The teachers watched and talked quietly among themselves. How could they best soothe the children, help them ignore what was going on outside the school’s doors, help them go back to being children for a little while? The circumstances of this war were such that the children came from many different lands of different languages and customs, with little in common. All were strangers in this land. 
But they were children after all. And children all share many things in common, one teacher said. They like to play, they like to sing, they run and shout. And they like to draw, another added. That’s it, let’s give them paper and let them draw.
So the teachers put papers on the tables and put crayons on some tables and paint on others. They went over to the children and quietly, gently suggested they come to the tables. A few did so. Then a few more came when they saw what the others were doing. Soon most of the children were drawing. Some just scribbled, others drew standard flowers and trees and stick figures, and  still others drew images of war, the war they knew only too well. 
Then something new happened. One child looked at another’s drawing of a flower and in his language, said, “That’s a pretty flower.” And he drew one too. Another child drew a family then turned to the teacher and pointing to each figure, gave their name. The teacher repeated each name after the child.  Another child furtively looked at her neighbor’s picture and began to copy it. The other child saw this and moved his paper closer so the other child could see better. She smiled at him. 
Then it was time to stop so the children could go to their parents and be served dinner. A few children had no family there. One girl spoke to her mother and father then  gestured to a boy that he should join her family. The boy smiled and nodded and the girl took his hand. 
The teachers cleaned up the tables then hung the children’s  art work on the wall. 
The art time went on for the next few days. The teachers added outside activities such as soccer. It seemed that kids all over the world knew how to play soccer. Now they began to open up and use their voices, communicating any way they knew how. Some girls began to play jacks with stones. It appeared that all knew the game in one form or another. 
But it was the art that brought out the deep emotions in these war-scarred children. More and more pictures were of buildings being bombed, drones and airplanes, rubble, people without arms or legs. And blood.  Oh so much blood that the red crayons were worn to stubs. The teachers wondered what to do about this. They knew the children needed to draw these things to work out their emotions but they also wanted to lead them to a more positive view, to promote healing. 
One day, a girl drew a flag of her nation, with a blue star in the middle. The boy next to her pointed and said, “star” in his language. Then he drew the flag of his nation, with a yellow star on a red background. Another child saw this and drew his country’s flag, also with a star, but a green one.  This school for refugees, where all were right now, was a school run by the United Nations. The teachers too, were from many different countries. They were also teachers. They knew that children love flags for their colors and designs. Most of the children at the art table were too young to know the political meanings of their country’s flag. But all were soon noticing the stars on many of the flags. 
One teacher had an idea. What does a star represent, she asked the other teachers. Peace, answered one. Hope, said another. Freedom. Light. Yes, light, the light of freedom, of the people, of a nation at peace. 
And now the teachers had an idea. Here was something concrete these children had in common. And tomorrow was the Winter Solstice, which would occur  in the heavens all over their hemisphere, over half of the Earth, while the other half experienced the Summer Solstice. An event observed and celebrated by people since ancient times, one many cultures and religions had  adopted and turned into a holiday of light. Tomorrow, they too, would celebrate this event that all would have in common, no matter the difference in their language, their culture, their religion. 
So the next day, the teachers called all the children together into the large courtyard. They invited the adults to join in as well.  They put out chalk of many colors and told all to draw a star, one that represented their hopes,  a brighter future, their dreams. Everyone worked with intense concentration. Many even ignored the sounds of renewed bombing, so intent were they on their creations. They were well used to the sound by now.  And when the teachers called time, all stood up and stepped back. A parent took her child’s hand. That child took the hand of the child next to him. Who took the hand of a man he had never seen before. The man smiled at him. He knew the child was from the other side, but this was a child, not an enemy. Soon all the people in the circle were holding hands.
One of the teachers started singing a song of peace, a song she knew from her culture but that was a tune known by many. The people in the circle joined in. It was a simple song, with repeated words and a simple melody and soon almost all were singing it as well. 
Up in the sky, the clouds parted. The moon had not yet risen. And up in that dark expanse of space, the stars began to appear. One star, in particular, shone brightly. All looked up, watched the star and fell silent. 
For some reason, the sound of bombshells stopped just then as well. 
And for a moment, just a moment, peace reigned in this little space, this haven, this war torn region. 
And now, in the middle of their circle, a couple of the nurses and doctors knelt down to draw. One outlined a very large star. Another drew a star atop it at a slight angle. Then a child’s father knelt down and drew another large star in a different color. One by one, the adults knelt down to draw another star atop the first ones. Until they had one large star with a multitude of points and in every color of any flag. This was their star. A doctor and a nurse, tired as they were from the day’s duties, stepped into the center of the star. The doctor spoke:
“This is our star, not the star of just one nation but the star of all nations, all people on Earth. Let it be called the Star of Peace.”
The people didn’t cheer. Instead the children stared in wonder while the adults bowed their heads and each in their own way lifted up prayers that  the world might know peace again and offered thanks to this place of peace, where all were welcomed and cared for, no matter their religion, beliefs or nationality. Then all watched in silence as the Peace Star  glittered and glowed in the setting Winter Solstice sun.  And after the sun set, they continued to watch as the brightest star appeared In the sky, shining its bright light upon them all. The Star of Peace.
 
​MW
December 2023

​                                                      The Solstice Doves

 
Once there was a woman who lived alone in a small cottage in the woods with her little dog. She was quite content with her life. Although she was a loner, occasionally she was lonely and wished for human companionship. For while the dog was a dear companion, she did not speak and so the woman had little conversation. 
One evening the woman fell and hurt her arm. It was not a serious injury, but it needed medical attention. What should she do? Should she just bear the pain or should she find a way to the doctor?  But the doctor was in the city, a long way from her little cottage. And she did not think she could drive her little donkey cart that far. 
As the woman sat, trying to think through the pain, she saw a bright star in the darkening  sky. One she had never seen before. Then to her wonder, the star’s points broke apart and began to fall towards Earth. Had the star exploded? Would it engulf the Earth?
The woman and the dog went outdoors and watched in wonder as the points of the star turned into white doves that fluttered down to them. The doves flew around them then  settled on the woman’s  head, her hand, and at her feet, cooing among themselves. 
One dove flew up and was now a shimmering white angel. 
“Come, “ she said to the hurt woman. “Come inside and I will tend to you.”
And she did. She got the woman into a chair, brought her water, and  bandaged her wound. Then she played soothing music on a lyre until the woman fell asleep. 
The next morning, the woman awakened, with the dog at her side. She felt better and wondered if it had all been a dream. But no. The moment she turned on her side, her arm wrenched  and she called out in pain. And there was the angel standing in the doorway.
“I will help you,” the angel said. “Stay right there.” And the angel set out clothing and helped the woman wash and get dressed. 
When they went into the other room, there sat two other angels. One said to the first angel, “I will go get food.” The third angel bustled around the house, cleaning and tending to the chores. 
And so it went. The woman could rest and walk around the house, while the angels did all the work. The first angel received a call from Heaven to go help elsewhere. But meanwhile, the third, fourth and fifth points of the star had materialized and each one did her part. Two took  the woman wherever she needed to go, the second angel continued to provide food, and the fifth helped her with any heavy lifting she needed done. Whenever the angels had finished helping, they would turn into doves and fly in the sky or perch on the tall pines. 
With all this help, the woman healed quickly. Soon she was able to dress herself. Then she began to prepare her own meals. And finally one day, she tried driving her donkey cart.
As the woman  became more independent, the angels became doves more and more often, letting the woman tend to herself. But they still checked in with her and helped as needed, as well as providing comfort and solace. 
Soon it was the time of Winter Solstice. The angels told the woman that it was time for them to go perform their celestial duties. So they all went out into the dark night. The woman watched as one by one,  the angels turned back into doves and flew high in the sky towards the North Star. 
As she watched, she heard them sing, “Good bye. We will be here if you ever need us and we will come to visit once in a while just to see you and the dog. Watch for white doves.”
The woman was so happy.  She not only was healing and had received the help she needed, but now she knew that the angel-doves would always be there for her. She turned to her dog. “I think we made some friends.” The dog wagged her tail in agreement. 
The woman and her dog went into their little house and the woman lit a Solstice candle In the dark. And ever after, on the Solstice the doves would come to the little house to pay a visit and celebrate with the woman and her dog. 
 
                                                                                                    midi
                                                                                                Solstice 2023
 
                              With many thanks to my doves, who helped in so many ways                                                             

​Autumn Again
 
         The last apples have been picked                    
         The last pear hangs on the tree,             
         Ready to be picked, by me                       
         The deer, or the squirrel                                    
         Whoever first shall be.                                
 
 
         Clinging to the drying branch,                 
         Gold tomatoes split and fall          
         To the ground before they’re picked. 
         One  tomato  heavily                  
         Hangs on a scraggly plant too tall.              
 
         Behind rain freshened leaves,       
         I can just  see yellow          
         Fruit on the lemon tree,    
         Buds on the mandarin   
         And  an oval  kiwi.           
 
         One season begins      
         As another ends,         
         Endless cycle of rebirth,
         Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall, 
         With the spinning of our  Earth.
         
         So too, this year, may war cease,
         May our precious  Earth know peace.

​                             -MW

Photo by Toaster28, (photoshopped) Osprey flying over the Bay  at sunset

 The water is wide, I can't cross over .
Neither have I the wings to fly.
So sail alone now, Clipper Rover,
Across the sea, 'til you meet the sky.

And there you'll find, those who've gone before,
Born and fed on the Richmond shore,
Whirley, Tam, Peace-Up, Gamma Ray,
And last our dear little Molate.

And you shall fly feather to feather,
In the sky that goes forever,
Free of stress and free from cold,
In the place where you never grow old.

The water is wide, I cannot cross over.
Neither have I the wings to fly.
So sail alone now, Clipper Rover,
Across the sea, 'til you greet the sky.

​Gingko Tree​
 
            Autumn returns 
            As it does every year,
            But I too  have returned 
            Home to my house,    
Alone, with only the garden
            And the dachshund for company. 
 
            Is it return 
            To my old life, routine?
            Or the beginning of 
            A new chapter?
            I fall into old habits but 
            My routine includes the dog.
            Have new habits, 
            New friends and memories.
            And I enjoy them all.
            Take time for each:
            Solitude and Socializing. 
            I remember and I move on. 
 
            Amaryllis bloom
            As they do every year,
            The pink flower from the 
            Old country blooms too,
            And the new yellow ginkgo
    Grows vigorously.
 
            It will lose
            Its leaves soon but
            Sprout new ones in the Spring
            Fresh and green, life anew
            A new season,
            A Memory and Reminder
            Well then heart, take leave and be well.

​Early Years
 
Joseph Mileck was  born in a small German speaking village called Sanktmartin in Rumania in 1922.  The village was a peaceful one, where life proceeded in an organized predictable pattern honed over hundreds of years. Joseph was a happy, energetic child, with an older sister, two hard-working parents, and loving grandparents nearby. Farming was the main occupation and the Catholic church the center of activities and the yearly calendar. 
In 1926, the family left for Canada. Joseph's father had left earlier, working on the prairies of Canada. He soon learned of opportunities in Hamilton, Ontario, working for Dominion Foundry and Steel Company (known affectionately as Dofasco).  He found work there and sent for his family. Joseph, his sister Mary and his mother travelled to Hamburg, Germany to catch the ship to Halifax. Joseph had no memory of that trip. 

​The family rented a house a few blocks away from the factory and established a routine. In need of money, his parents rented out rooms to fellow emigrants, mostly Germans from Rumania and Yugoslavia. At times, there were up to 14 people in a house of three bedrooms. The living room was  often used as a bedroom by family members .Joe’s mother took care of the children, cooked  for the family and boarders, cleaned the house, and did all the laundry. All this while suffering migraines.  His father worked ten hour shifts at the factory which was operating day and night. Joseph enjoyed the many people in the house. He also  wanted to go to school and the school accepted him, although he was only four years old.  He soon proved himself quite able in the Kindergarten.
Joseph had many friends in the neighborhood and soon learned a few words in Hungarian, Ukrainian, and Polish. He picked up English in school from the teachers and thus acquired good pronunciation and vocabulary. Swearing and other salty language was done in the East European languages of his friends.  It was a happy life for the children.
In 1930, Joseph and Mary were sent back to Sanktmartin to live with their grandparents. The Depression meant his father might lose his job and the parents planned to follow the children back. Joe remembered being very sad  riding  on the train to Halifax. The next memory was of arriving in Arad,  Rumania, where their grandfather greeted them in the wagon drawn by spirited black horses. Joe remembered jumping off the wagon to pick the mulberries that grew along the side of the road.
Thus began the happiest year of Joseph’s life. He and his sister Mary were known as the Amerikaner. They were special. They didn’t have to go to school since they didn’t know Rumanian, the language used in school. Their grandparents were indulgent. Joseph never really said what his sister did that year. Perhaps as a girl and older, she was put to work. Did she enjoy the year as much as her brother did? I never found out. She did seem to have fond memories of Samktmartin. Joseph spent his days playing. His parents sent—one wonders how—his scooter from Canada and that made him everyone’s friend of course. His grandfather made him a whip and set him to work herding the pigs. Well, that was disastrous and he never had to do it again. He was free to explore, to play with his friends, to tag along after his grandfather, to join in wherever he wished.He even had silkworms as pets for a while.  He enjoyed the structured rhythm of village life. The women worked in the house, cooking, cleaning, helping each other, while the men tended the fields, the vineyard, and the livestock. Sunday was for church, the bell ringing to call the entire village together for worship and socialization. It was an honor for a boy to be chosen to ring the bell. Saturday night was for music and dances. There was the yearly calendar too, driven by the church, but allowing for merriment as well. Christmas, Easter, wedding and funerals were times to congregate, for music, for timeless rituals. The cemetery was all important as well, a symbol of the continuity of the village. When in 1990, the Germans began to leave St. Martin, they all regretted most leaving their departed ones in the cemetery and they appointed someone who was staying to tend to the graves. Emigrants to Germany regularly visited St. Martin when it was politically  feasible and raised money to keep the church and cemetery in good shape.

​But all good things must come to an end. In 1931, Joe and Mary’s parents decided they would stay in Canada. The factory had not shut down and his father still had his job. Meanwhile, war loomed on the horizon in Europe. So the parents sent for their two children and arranged with a woman emigrating to Canada to accompany them on the trip home. Joe’s one memory of that trip was the waystation where they stayed in Hamburg waiting for the ship and his sister Mary lamenting that she had left her underpants behind in the building. 
Back home, Joseph was now behind in school. He had forgotten all his English and had had no schooling for a year. He remembered his friends all gathering around him to welcome him home and the only word he could say was “sure.”  He started school and worked diligently to catch up. He was not one to sit back on his heels. This drive to catch up and to succeed was to remain with him for the rest of his life. His sister was behind too and older, and she developed a dislike for school, dropping out at age 14. But Joseph persevered and was soon at the top of his class .He loved to read and checked books out from the mobile library that visited the school each week .He liked the stories of the Royal Mounties in the North. He relearned English and modelled his language on that of his mostly British teachers. In the summers, Joseph worked on the farms, picking fruit. He enjoyed this work, was competitive and excelled at it, and never felt exploited. He was proud that at one point he was earning more money per week than was his father. 

Around 1932, the family bought a house in a nicer section of town. It was nearer to Ottawa Street where all the stores were, so that Joseph's mother could just walk there. They also did not take in boarders regularly now,, although the occasional newly arrived immigrant from  Saint Martin would stay with them. Joseph got his own attic room at one point, so that he could study in peace. Here, two more children were added to the family. In 1932, Joe's brother Martin was born then two years later, his sister Rose came along, born on the kitchen table. Their mother fell quite ill after this birth and was bedridden. It was up to his sister Mary, now 14 years old, to tend to the household and her baby brother. She and Joseph were well versed in the housework, as they had been helping wash dishes, wash the kitchen floor and other duties since their early years. Luckily, their mother recovered and soon took over the housekeeping once again. 
Joseph graduated from elementary school after the eighth grade.  Most of his friends went on to the Technical High School. His sister had entered the Commercial High School. But Joe was determined to follow the mostly British students to Delta Collegiate. After a few weeks, he found it too daunting, and he tucked in his tail and went to Tech. But this didn’t please him, so he tried Commercial. Typing was boring. So several weeks into the school year, he headed back to the Collegiate. Here he had to scramble to catch up, but he did so and soon loved the challenges of this academic high school. 
The tone was set. For years, Joe would enter school a few weeks late because he was working on the fruit and then tobacco  farms ,and he would have to hurry to catch up. But he did so and excelled. He studied French, German, and Latin, as well as English, Math, History and the Sciences. He played basketball for a while and played violin in the school orchestra .He studied hard and was at the top of his class.  
Joseph was awarded top honors each of his final three years of high school, and at the end was offered a four year tuition scholarship by the province of Ontario to attend the local McMaster University in 1941.  He had planned to go to Normal School and become an elementary school teacher but the scholarship persuaded him to go one step further. 

Adult Years
 
That McMaster was not far from Joseph’s neighborhood meant he could live at home and take the streetcar to school.. He got his own attic bedroom now  where he could study in peace. Just as In high school, he excelled at his studies. Joseph liked the rather formal British atmosphere at the university, where women wore dresses and stockings and men wore suits and ties. The professors and seniors wore robes. There was a daily chapel which most attended and which Joseph enjoyed. Most of the faculty was British and he continued to model his behavior and language after them. The college was also small, with only 700 students, so that the faculty and students got to know each other well.There was little time for socialization.. Joseph no longer had time for sports and violin. But he enjoyed his school work and continued to excel. 
The summers continued to be for manual labor. The summer after he graduated high school and each subsequent summer, Joseph worked at the Dominion Foundry and Steel Company, where his father and many other relatives and neighbors worked. He did have some time for other pursuits as well. All physical fit males were enrolled in the ROTC as well and took military classes two afternoons a week. In the summer, they had several weeks in camp. This appeared to have been more fun than toil and was conveniently located at Niagara by the Lake, a quaint little town by the touristy Niagara Falls. One incident that always remained in Joseph’s mind was war related. He was working night shift. One day, he was awakened by two Royal Mounties standing at his bedside. They insisted on searching his room. They found and took the family’s correspondence with family in St. Martin and took the little bit of American money that Joseph had from working on a cruise ship on the lakes in the summer. Indignant, Joseph went down  to the central office and demanded the letters back. He was told that he had better shut up and leave or they would jail him. Joseph’s father did listen to German radio and he did subscribe to an American German language newspaper, but he had nothing to do with Germany other than the language. He had been born and raised in St. Martin, as had his wife and the children, and their forefathers back to the 1700’s. 

​n 1945, it was clear that the war would soon end. Joseph had planned to go to the Teaching College in Toronto and become a high school teacher. But ever one to set his goals high, he decided instead to go on to graduate school, to study literature. He applied to, and was accepted by Harvard University. 
His first year at Harvard was difficult. He was away from home, in unfamiliar surroundings, rooming in the homes of strangers and eating in a cafeteria. The university was large and impersonal. For more than a month, Joseph was homesick. But he soon made friends, got to know the professors, and rose to the challenge of a rigorous graduate school curriculum. He studied Gothic, Old High and Middle High German, and brushed up his Latin and French. Literature study spanned all eras, from Old High German through the 2oth Century. 
By the end of his first year, Joseph was well acclimated.  He met the academic challenges, received a Master of Arts and was accepted into the Doctoral program. A teaching fellowship would help pay for his housing and tuition. He continued to study hard but was now more confident. He also found time for some socialization He found housing in graduate dorms and made friends,  he would visit the undergraduate houses for meals, and he even dated a bit. I heard stories about his dates with he daughter of a steel magnate. They sang opera together in the car, chaperoned by a family member, of course. He spent a memorable weekend on Cape Cod, went sightseeing in New York City and visited the sights of Boston. On Sundays, he visited churches of various religions, enjoying the ceremony and the music, but unimpressed by the dogmas and sermons.
 But study came first. His days began at 9 am and ended at 10 pm. his. He taught two elementary German courses three mornings a week and  took his own classes in the afternoon. Evenings were spent studying and writing papers in Widener library until it closed at 10pm. On at least one occasion he was locked in because he failed to heed the closing signal.. 
Joseph’s last two years at Harvard were the most enjoyable. No longer required to take courses, he focussed on his dissertation on Hermann Hesse, deciding to write  on Steppenwolf.
He submitted and defended the thesis  in 1950 and was awarded a PhD. that June. The timing was propitious. Post war, student enrollment at colleges and universities had grown rapidly and there was a shortage of professors. Joseph received offers from Brown and Northwestern Universities, but always one to accept a challenge, he chose instead to accept the offer from University of California at Berkeley

Becoming a professor meant more challenge and more grueling work. Joseph was given the elementary classes to teach, which met every day, and expected to produce articles and a book in order to advance to the next level. Then there were committees on which he was expected to serve. As with school, or even more so, his daily life was devoted to his work. He faced challenges too from senior faculty who were all too ready to find fault or to impede his progress due to personal reasons, not rational scholarly assessment. This only made Joseph try even harder. He taught modern German literature and began to focus on three authors: Hermann Hesse, Franz Kafka, and Thomas Mann. Student evaluations were positive and his courses on Hermann Hesse proved to be most popular, requiring large classrooms to accommodate all the students, and much to the chagrin of the professor trying to impede his progress. Joseph wrote and published a comprehensive biobibliography of Hermann Hesse’s works, including all his letters, articles written about him and so forth. This was a monumental undertaking that took many years of painstaking toil  and, unfortunately, took some time away from his family as well. 
In the end, Joseph became one of several internationally recognized Hermann Hesse scholars. He then wrote a shorter work : Hermann Hesse: Life and Art. This book was popular not only among scholars, earning praise even from a rival, but among the general reading population, and is still in print today, 
During the course of his career, Joseph also performed his duty to serve on committees or in various assignments.He was in charge of the teaching assistants for a number of years then undergraduate advisor then graduate advisor. He chaired the German Department for five years , was assistant dean In the College of Letters and Science for three years and the University’s ombudsperson for four years. This latter seemed to be a favorite position. He liked students, and liked helping them, while remaining fair-minded. 
All of these duties required time. Joseph was no stranger to long hours and hard work, so he applied himself continued his long hours, working fifty or more hours a week. In the summer, he did his research and prepared courses. Despite the long hours, Joseph found time to meet a Danish woman, whom he married in 1951. They bought a house in the Berkeley hills and soon had three children. This required a larger house, so they bought three lots in the Berkeley hills  for a thousand dollars each and had a house built to their specifications. Now he and his wife, a doctoral student, had to meet the demands of their scholarly work as well as take care of a family and home.

​
​I will leave the next part to Joseph’s own words:
​
But neither my wife (a doctoral candidate in the German Department and a Danish instructor in the Scandinavian Department) nor I were inclined to rein in our careers enough to meet the demands of home and growing family. For a number of years, continuous domestic help and childcare seemed to make possible both family life and careers. However, while careers flourished, family life was clearly more casual co-existence than warm interaction. Parents had too little time for each other and children were too often left to their own devices. That my wife was manic-depressive and suffered a breakdown in the sixties and again in the seventies, did not help matters. By the seventies, it was obvious that marriage had become too great a burden for my wife. She left home, husband and children in 1975 and filed for divorce the following year. Divorce was a godsend, a painful relief for all concerned. In the years following, my erstwhile wife fared better on her own, and I, in turn, became a more interactive father.
Left to our own devices, my children and I became quite domesticated. A house had to be kept in order, meals had to be cooked, and a garden and hill had to be tended to. We all had our duties and all went reasonably well. More time for family meant less time for profession, but this, fortunately, had no negative impact on my teaching, and my scholarly output, while slowed, continued satisfactorily until I finally retired in 1991.

 Post retirement activities: housework, gardening, cooking dinner, as well as continuing his research, writing and publication.

​
​Retirement  (in Joseph’s words)
 
Before retirement, University salary and good real-estate investment returns had made for a financially carefree and materially comfortable life, and had made it possible to see my children through college and to assist my ex-wife monetarily. After retirement, pension, social security and savings, together with investment and stock-market returns guaranteed a financially secure old age, and enabled me to assist my adult children and ailing ex-wife, and to see my three grandchildren through college. Being of help rather than being in need of help has been gratifying, but the freedom, in retirement, to preoccupy myself with whatever and whenever I please, has been absolutely exhilarating.
In the nineties, long-time academic interests shifted very quickly to a more mundane and more personal engrossment. Over the years, I had maintained contact with my Rumanian birthplace, had visited Sanktmartin numerous times, and had carried on an active correspondence with relatives and friends. I had also acquainted myself with the political, economic and general social lot of Sanktmartin in a Rumania become communist after the Second World War. After several more investigative returns to Rumania in the early nineties, I edited a collection of articles that focussed on Sanktmartin's lot in a communist Rumania. The book was published in 1993. A subsequent preoccupation with the eighteenth-century German dialect spoken in Sanktmartin culminated in a book-length linguistic study published in 1997. I then edited a collection of articles that dealt with the mass emigration of Sanktmartiner shortly after the assassination of President Ceausescu in 1989. Rumania's Germans were finally allowed to leave the country unharassed and without recourse to bribery, and they left en masse. A German Sanktmartin became a Rumanian Sin Martin.
Having paid my respects to my birthplace, I then turned my attention to yet another long-time interest, to poetry. My love of poetry began in high school, I started my own poeticizing while at McMaster, and then for decades and but for the occasional poem, the private interest lay fallow for want of time and active interest. Retirement rekindled my interest in poetry. I had written mostly romantic poems; I now began to put existential reflections and socio-political commentary to verse. Three booklets of rather piquant poems and epigrams appeared in print from 2008 to 2012.
I had become a citizen in 1953, but had for years, for want of interest and time, paid very little attention to the socio-political state of America. It was not until my retirement that America received the serious attention it merited. My preoccupation with its domestic and foreign policies, capitalism and individualism, its materialism and consumerism, and with its imperialism and militarism, found its way into America: An Empire in Disarray (2013), my latest and perhaps last book.(he went on to pen four more books of epigrams)
While the pace of my post-retirement writing differs little from that of my pre-retirement years, the pace of my private life has slowed progressively. I still tend to garden, house and kitchen, but ever more slowly and with less zest. My circle of friends has become painfully small, but children and grandchildren have remained a comforting compensation. Mary, my treasured bosom companion of the past thirty-five years and Píccola, my playful dachshund of the past four years--the last of my four-legged friends--have been and continue to be a constant joyful presence. But for the removal of tonsils, thyroid and cataracts, I have never really been sick, and do hope that I continue to be blessed with good health for yet another few years, for I plan to tarry yet a little while.
All in all, life was good and I was fortunate. Pain and sorrow were more than balanced by well-being and joy, and struggle had its ample rewards. I was blessed with good genes and fate was kind. And when my time comes, I hope to leave with thanks upon my lips.

written in 2013

 ​Final Years

Joseph continued to write epigrams up to the last month of his life. His last book, Catchy Thoughts, was published in time for his hundredth birthday in May of 2022. He filled one more lined paper pad in the ensuing six months, dictating them to me in the last few weeks. He would be sitting there at the dining room table, silent. I would think he was sleeping then he would open his eyes and say “Write.” I would take up a pen and he would dictate an epigram. His mind remained sharp up to the end. But he was more than frustrated with his failing eyesight due to macular degeneration. And just as determined to remain in control of himself. He continued to cook, albeit with my help, he watered the garden but now left the harder work to his son Paul, and  he was helping with the housework up to the last year of his life. 
He had a few falls, none serious, but became aware that he needed someone else in the house and asked me to move in on Solstice 2020. I did so and we soon established a pattern, two loners who liked to work in their studies, but met for meals and shared household duties. We had always done the grocery shopping together when I visited on the weekends. Now, when Covid hit, I took over all outside errands to protect him from contagion. We continued to do the housework together. Little by little, I took over more of the work, but he was cleaning his own bathroom up to a month before he died. I took over more of the cooking as well, making the recipes he had always liked, but he continued to make his salad with its many ingredients and plenty of olive oil and vinegar. It was when, in the last month, he stopped making and eating salad that I knew the end was near

Still cooking at age 99, December 2021.

​In May of 2022, the family gathered at the house for a birthday celebration of Joseph’s 100th year. He appreciated the presence of the family and listened intently to the epigrams each had chosen from his many to highlight and explain why they liked that particular one. He, in turn, had his last book of epigrams ready to hand out. In my opinion, some of the finest ones he ever wrote are in this volume. Over his retirement  years, he had honed the art of the epigram, enhanced by the wisdom that came with age, experience and clarity of vision. 
Joe had for quite a while lost his sense of taste and ate only dutifully, not from pleasure. Then food started to not be tasteless but distasteful. Nothing pleased him. In November of 2022, he spent a few days in the hospital for jaundice. Tests showed three masses in his digestive system. A procedure was performed to clean out the masses but it was clear that this was only a temporary fix. Upon leaving the hospital, he was unsteady on his feet and I could no longer leave his side. I moved my computer upstairs to his study to be within earshot and we enlisted the help of our weekly housekeeper to come every afternoon. He regained his appetite for food briefly and I was cooking  real suppers  for him again. But after a few weeks, he found all food distasteful again and he would eat only canned soup, jello, and watermelon (yes, one can buy watermelon in November!). Whatever he asked for, he got. Previously,  he had developed the habit of spending several hours  on his lounge chair outside in the sun, but now the weather turned cold and he could not do so. So he now spent his days either in bed or on the sofa, covered with blankets and with a heating pad against his belly.  And his faithful Piccola glued to his side. 
But he still dictated epigrams, he still was in charge telling me what to do, and he could walk with a cane and my aid. I would joke that we were going for a promenade. 
It was only the last two days , December 21 and 22, that things changed. He could not walk even with aid, he couldn’t eat at all, and he stayed in bed. Piccola’s eyes were clouded with worry and she huddled ever closer. Anne, Joe’s daughter came down, we ordered a hospital bed, his son Paul brought in a wheelchair and we enlisted the aid of hospice, with whom we had contracted just a week earlier. 
The night of December 22, Anne stayed the night. Joseph slept more peacefully than he had been doing. He awakened once in the night and was convinced to stay in bed.  He fell back asleep and didn’t awaken until 6 am. He died peacefully at 6:15, with Anne and me each holding a hand and Píccola forever at his side. 
Joseph Mileck’s ashes were interred on January 6, 2023 at 12 noon at Sunset View Cemetery in El Cerrito, California.

​Joseph, I do not wish you to rest in peace, for that is not your way. Instead, may you journey on to distant heights, beyond the stars, to find your fellow souls Hermann Hesse, Thomas Mann, and other spirits whose achievements outlive them.  And may  we continue to learn from you, as we pursue our own paths.
Yours was  truly a life well-lived. 

"Each life has its trail and each trail has its tale."
​"Be someone and do something."
 -JM 2022

Last withered apple on a high branch, the tree drops its leaves.
Acorns and dry leaves litter the ground under the live oak.
The wildlife comes to forage: deer, squirrels, turkeys, towhee.
In high foliage, jays and crows argue raucously.

The sun sets early, its last rays light the supper table.
Dark settles, the air grows cold, outdoors all is quiet.
Hour earlier, we turn on the lamp above the table
And we sit quietly in companionable silence.

I arise, reluctant, a half hour late, but before dawn,
Walking along the dark street, the early wildlife greets me:
A two-pronged buck stands its ground, watching,
More worrisome, to a white and black skunk I give wide berth.
Songbirds awaken with soft musical morning greetings.

​Golden Autumn, last bright colors, has fled,
​Cold white gray Winter enters in its stead.

Thanksgiving

​Watch the news and see
Inhumanity
People huddled around
A meager fire, spooning
A small cup of soup, 
Their bombed apartment
In shambles behind.

In desert land, sand,
No green to be seen,
Children suckle at 
Withered breasts,
Mothers offer their souls,
Nothing else is left.

Soldiers, men young and old,
Huddle in foxholes, 
Bravery laced with fear,
Dream and long for home.

Homeless sleep under
Cardboard box shelter,
Resigned to the cold
Hard pavement sidewalk.

Then turn off the TV
To gather and eat
Thanksgiving dinner.
Give thanks for the bounty,
Feel guilt for the meal
That would feed a village,
But also gratitude
For having plenty,
For family and friends,
Untouched by cruel war,
For peace and safety,
Hopefully to last.
And then vow to give
More generously, 
Next you are bidden. 

The poets wish you and yours a happy Thanksgiving filled with good food, good company, peace and goodwill. 

                                                         Summer’s End 
 
 
                                  The summer ended in  September blaze.   
                                  The leaves changed color under hot sun’s rays
                                 The Autumn wind blew them to the parched ground                                 
                                 Then swirled them up again, up and around.                                                            
            
                                 A blinding  sun burned in cerulean sky. 
                                 An east  wind swept in fiercely, hot and dry,
                                 As the last apple dropped down off its tree,  
                                 I saw pears ready to pick above me                                         
 
                                 The acorns brought the squirrels, the  jay, the crow
                                 The doe with speckled fawns who browsed  below.
                                 They all came to partake, calmly in peace,
                                 And giving their thanks to the oak, to feast.  
                                                                                                 
                                 Then just in time there came the winter rain,
                                 And parched brown earth soon  sprang to life again. 

​                                                                                                                -MW 

       Summer’s End
 
            They stored the lawn chairs, kiddie pool and barbecue.
            Then ate a last burger on the patio.
            While the children, popsicles dripping down chins,
            Chased fireflies on the lawn damp with evening  dew,
            The elders sat on the screened porch, rocking, talking, then telling stories
            When the children, tired, came to laps to rest.
 
            They went inside to bed, the windows open wide, for the heat lingered,
            But they slept long, as the sun was late to rise.
            And when they finally awakened, they felt a new coolness in the air,
            Smelled chimney smoke, heard migrating geese calling,
            Saw white frost dampening the fallen Autumn leaves, scarecrows on porches,         
            And they knew Autumn had arrived

-MW

 
In Autumn I think
Of my mother:
Born in September,
Lived in New Hampshire,
Land of red and yellow maple leaves,
Of maple syrup, you gathered
Blueberries in the woods.
As mother, you baked cookies
To put in our  back to school  lunch bag,
Sewed Halloween costumes for whatever
Crazy ideas your kids had: witch, Statue of Liberty,
 panther, tooth, Pied Piper,
(but Dad took us out to trick or treat)
Taught me how to wax leaves
To preserve them for Thanksgiving.
Gave me an empty oatmeal box
So I could make a turkey then
Write a story about it. 
Cooked a full Thanksgiving dinner
That took three days to prepare:
First pies then rolls, then cranberry sauce,
And stuffing, got up early Thanksgiving morning
To stuff the turkey and put it in the oven
Then all day preparing green beans with almonds,
sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and last, the gravy. 
(I set the table, with cornucopia and waxed leaves as centerpiece.)
And you were not done, for after dinner, the dishes 
Had to be washed. But you did it all willingly, lovingly
For your family. 
And then Fall was over
But Christmas  and Winter
were fast approaching

​MW

Wisdom from a 100 year old:

The old slip into somber silence, as a once familiar world slips rapidly away.

It is only the moment that is of moment, all else is memory and speculation.

A culture in twilight is a game without fixed rules.

​Life is its own purpose.


Píccola says, "Leave me alone. I'm sleeping."
​

All photos except as noted were taken by MW. Photos,poems and music  are the property of MW.