What a surprise to learn that my paternal grandfather was not just a painter, but a poet.

Dad recently passed some of his father’s verse along to me. The paper is yellowed and fragile.

Some copies are faint, thanks to carbon paper. For the youngest among us, that’s what we used to make copies before home computers and printers made life so much easier.

Grandpa would have taken two pieces of typing paper and slid a purply piece of wispy carbon paper in between. Before typing, the next step was always to go wash your hands – that paper made a mess! But it was all we had.

Dad’s father loved nature.

Sometimes he painted it:

… and other times he wrote verse about nature:

Hilltop Reverie …

I walked upon a hill today where
Trees in autumn dress
Paraded, while a chickadee described
their belle finesse.
A chipmonk chattered bits of news
for high society
Who dwell in penthouse splendor
With breeze-swept luxury.
And crickets, not to be outdone
(In quite a different mode)
Clicked news, down-to-earth tid-bits
In dignified Morse code.
A squirrel scolded from a limb
And made it very clear,
When he was busy gath’ring nuts
I shouldn’t interfere.
A blushing maple flirted with a
Much embarrassed oak,
While from a nearby frog pond
Came a quite disgusted croak.
Shy poplars tinkled merry tunes
For all who cared for dancing.
The milkweeds burst their silky pods
In laughter, at such prancing.

So much to see … so much to hear …
Such joy our hearts to fill!
And – all for just the asking
And a walk upon a hill!
~ Harold E. Vayo, Sr.

Sometimes Grandpa got playful with his verse, as he did with this poem about his namesake:

Evolution of a Name …

He was christened “Harold Edward”
But that sounded rather tame
For a youngster quite so active
So, our “Big Boy” he became.
Thus we called him for a few years,
‘Til he started grammar school,
Then – our “Big Boy” changed to “Harry”
While he learned the Golden Rule.

But, one day a fleeting shadow
From a school-girl’s smiling eye —
And, our “Harry” changed to “Harold”
Minus Edward. (What a guy!)
When he entered into High School,
He became just plain old “Ed,”
‘Til for some quite obscure reason,
Overnight, ’twas “Hal,” instead.

Now, he’s working in an office,
Starting on the road to fame,
And he tells us quite sedately that:
“H. Edward” is the name.
O, it matters not to mother,
Or to me (his antique dad),
For to us he’s still out “baby” —
Far the sweetest name he’s had.
~ Harold E. Vayo, Sr. 22 January 1943

Grandpa wrote that poem when Dad was just 12, so much of the verse was from a father’s imagination.

Grandpa’s “Hal” prediction came true. But what he never could have guessed was “the school-girl’s smiling eye” was but a handful of months away, when the family moved from Lowell, Massachusetts, to New Haven, Connecticut.

And he never could have guessed Mom’s name for Dad. It was a shortcut for the way he made her feel: Hap.

“Hilltop Reverie,” “Evolution of a Name …” © 1943 Harold E. Vayo Sr. All rights reserved.

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