this be the verse

Plans are underway for my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary. Admittedly, it's a momentous occasion and a sign of endurance. Five decades is a long period of time and a substantial part of anyone's lifetime -- in fact exceeding the lifetimes of many who have walked this earth. So this is a reminder that time goes past. However, the significance of the time from June 12, 1959 to now could easily be overblown. And there are personnel on hand to ensure that this will happen. For example, here's an email from the principal instigator of this affair:

• I plan to have a "Memory Jar" for Mom and Dad. Small pieces of paper to write down memories from you about times with Mom, Dad, and/or family.

This puts a considerable amount of pressure upon the eldest child. For one, there is no way these can be anonymous. For another, there will be a subtle competition among the slips of paper swimming around in the jar. Furthermore, since there is considerable historical revisionism within our family, there will not be a premium on truthfulness. Finally, there is ample evidence that one person's profound memory would be someone else's unnoticed event. Therefore, there are scant incentives to write with honesty or brevity. In fact, with same name changes, a few minor episodes from The Brady Bunch would probably pass by unnoticed as fraudulent.

On what should be an unrelated note, I was flipping through an anthology of poems trying to find one that might complete my trilogy of Crossroads performances. It was there that I uncovered a poem that might be short enough to fit onto a slip of paper. It is also entirely inappropriate for a family reunion. Apparently this is a fairly well-known poem. But since it's new to me I thought I could capture it here ... and perhaps delight and/or horrify others with the thought that this could be textual equivalent of a turd in the anniversary punchbowl.

This be the verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Philip Larkin

Just imagining the fallout of including such a verse might be enough to take the edge off the inevitable interpersonal flare-ups. It's never a question of "if?" and often even "who?" is not really uncertain -- there will be spats that will probably be fueled by alcohol. After this June weekend, I'm going to need a really big hug from someone who has not been swimming in our gene pool.