“Skip”

 Neil Harding McAlister                 

   

In grateful memory of Harry “Skip” Parker

 

 

 

Up at the clubhouse every Wednesday night

He taught Sea Scouts to play life by the rules.

With deference and awe we called him “Skip” --        

The Captain of our former one-room school.

 

His landlocked swabs professed a salty myth:

We called the door a “hatch,” the floor our “deck.”

On weekends with the good, old Fifty-Fifth

Our whale boat to a man-made lake we’d trek.

 

We heaved on its big oars and hoisted sail,

While at the tiller, uncomplaining Skip

Upon his ever-present pipe inhaled,

And piloted our clumsy, little ship.

 

Did we once think he’d better things to do

Than spend his spare time sailing with us kids?

His own son was a member of our crew;

We simply took for granted all he did.

 

Men said he’d been a hero in the War --                                          

Spoke vaguely of brave deeds with hushed respect.            

But we knew better than to ask him more:

We took for modesty his meek affect.

 

It’s only now, when we ourselves have sons,

We understand why humble he appeared:

The terrible things he must have seen and done

Were tales unfit for teenage boys to hear.

                                   

But if Skip’s Sea Scouts never sailed to war,                       

And never learned to fire a naval gun,

And watched our families thrive on peaceful shores --

We live to thank our mentors. He was one.

 

 

© 2004, NHM