REMEMBERING FLORENCE BECKER LENNON

It was my second year at the university.
I had rented a room in a house where an elderly widow lived.
Her husband had passed away years ago.
He had taught either political science or sociology (I forget which) at the university.
She told me that she was one of the first camera operators for silent films.
When I moved in she told me not to have any food or do any cooking in my room.
I bought a hot plate and kept cans of food in my closet.
When I went to my classes I'm sure she knew about my hotplate and the canned food, but she never said anything.
We rarely saw each other, and I can't remember ever talking with her except that one time when she told me about her husband and her involvement in silent movies.
I do remember her tea kettle whistling every morning.
I remember her dog who slept in the bathtub (I took showers on the campus).
And I remember all of her cats.

But all of this is just a preface to the woman who I really want to write about...and remember.

She is Florence Becker Lennon.
I forget how I met her, but it is most likely that it was through an advertisement that offered a poetry workshop taught by her.
It was only coincidental that I lived so close to her on the same street called Rose Hill Drive.
The poetry group met at her house one day each week.
We sat in her sunny front room that was wall-to-wall books (just like every room in her house).
I remember writing a poem in this front room.
She had asked us to just write something right then and there, and then read our product to the other aspiring bards.
Mine seemed silly and ordinary.
I was a little embarrassed, but deeper inside I sort of liked what I had written.
Here's what I wrote:

Sitting in the Living Room of Florence Becker Lennon

Spider . . .
A breeze
Twists
These
Minute
Tightropes
In
The
Sun.
Flower . . .
A spider
Must
Delight
In
Climbing
Her
Soft
Green
Stem.
Ms. Lennon didn't seem too impressed (or depressed) by what I had created. She made some comment that I don't recall now.

Florence Becker Lennon must have had every protest button ever made plastered on the outside of her house.
She also had buttons on the hats that she wore.
She dressed in bright colors.
She wore B I G sunglasses.
Even in her early eighties she walked briskly.

I forget whether it was before or after the poetry workshop when I asked her if she would like to go with me to a Pablo Casals concert.
She didn't hesitate and said "Sure".
She actually knew Mr. Casals.
We walked to the concert arm in arm.
I was 20 and she was 80-something.
Big deal.

After the concert I think she wanted to visit with Mr. Casals, and so we parted ways.
I didn't see her again until years later.
I was walking down a sidewalk beside a cemetery.
I stopped and said "Hello Ms. Lennon!"
She stared and said "Who in the HELL are you?"
I said "Remember, I'm the one who went with you to see Pablo Casals!"
She didn't seem to remember, but politely said "Oh".

It was only years later that I found out that Florence Becker Lennon wrote a book about Lewis Carroll.
I've tried to find her own biography and any poems that she may have written...without any luck.
I don't know why, but during this Thanksgiving holiday, I started thinking about Florence Becker Lennon.
Here's another poem that I wrote about her.

My Date With Florence Becker Lennon

Feeling bad I told her I had reached level
Zero and offered her some of my ginger beer.
We were going to see Pablo Casals
And I told her I hoped it
Would cheer me up.
On our way down the sidewalk I saw
An empty gerbil cage with its door open.
Except for a little pile of hay inside
Where had the poor little gerbil gone
I wondered at the stoplight.
The Casals concert was o.k. but
Life still exists on the streets
Like that sad-looking gerbil cage door open
On the street.