Thank you, Crockett Johnson, for my purple crayon

One young summer evenin' ...


One young summer evenin'

when I was just about seven,

 I found myself in quite a stew,

'cause I was the oneliest
Harold I knew.

Of Mikeys and Bobbys, Billys and Lous

there were more than a few.

Of Jimmys and Joeys, Jackies and Stus
there were always a slew. 

But I was the oneliest Harold I knew.

Each day in school,
teacher called out the roll 

I wished for another Harold to answer instead.

But that second call never came
'cause other than me, little boys named Harold
were not that widespread. 

Of Lloyd and Pinter and Ramis I still knew of not.
MacMillan and Wilson were Brits, an odd, distant lot.

No Reynolds nor Miners had yet lit up my screen

So I was the onliest Harold in my dream.

Ah, Harold.
A name handed down
from the Ancient of Days
that refused to roll 

lyrically,
languorously, 

dramatically,
romantically

Over my tender young
trembling tongue.

Oh, Harold.
Not a name to be sung,  

but rather lamented,

a family name born of the tragic

Lost to history's dust,
bereft of magic
as a bell never rung.

Yet on that same childish day, 

a slim tome fell my way,

filled with tales of another
small boy
who was the very same named
as me.

Of dragons and drowning oceans
turned to sail boats in the moonlight

beaches and picnics,
pies of nine kinds

to share with hungry moose
and deserving porcupine.

Mountains and windows
fell through air

Rescuing balloons lifting the lost
from near to there.

Soaring over forest, town and river beds
cuddling covers gave comfort
all night as I read.

When those precious few pages
had come to an end,
that soft summer night,
I had a new friend
to use as a guide to help turn the tide.  

My dear Crockett Johnson,
though we never met,
I would be willing to bet 

that when they called you class roll,

you were the oneliest kid named Crockett
in your school, too.

Thank you, Crockett Johnson,
on another dream night
for teaching me to carry my name right,
to never fear walking in the moonlight. 

to never let my wits depart,

and to always carry a purple crayon
in my heart.

HL January, 2012