I must say, I was shocked, overwhelmed, taken aback, and not even out of my pajamas when the Committee rang the bell. Well, it wasn’t a “Committee” it was Mrs. Brown, from the middle of our cul-de-sac. I hadn’t seen her since the previous summer when her husband, Clarence, passed. 

But widowhood looked good on her as she stood on my porch with a clipboard, neat blue pants-suit, a library pin on the lapel of her blazer, solid, sensible shoes, and a purse the size of a shopping bag chock full of paraphernalia.   

Me: Hi Melva, how are you?

Melva: I’m fine. And you?

Me: Good, good. What can I do for you? Is it already March of Dimes season? 

Melva: No, that was last month. I’m here to say “Congratulations!” 

She then set her clipboard down on the porch and reached into the bag. She looked a bit like Mary Poppins as she rummaged, pulling out objects; a brass book end, a set of pens thick as a small cord of wood secured with a twist of twine; a snow-globe of San Francisco, a giant silver serving spoon—I was waiting for the coat rack to appear when she reached down, made an “aha” exclamation and pulled out a plaque. 

Melva: Mister FreddyMac, on behalf of the Sherman Street Poets of our cul-de-sac, I’d like to award you the title of Poet Laureate. Of…our…cul-de-sac.

She made a sweeping gesture behind her toward the circle of houses resting like tired little dinosaurs that needed make-overs. She then handed me the plaque. I’ve only won one thing in my life, third place in a debate in the eighth grade at Our Lady of Lourdes Debate Tournament. I won said plaque that Saturday morning, me dressed in my St. Francis suit coat, white shirt, clip on tie and sensible shoes, a plaque that looked surprisingly just like the one Melva was now handing me. (My topic that Saturday: “Hell is assured for Non-Catholics”: Position: Against.)

“This is to acknowledge” the writing said in that formal you-win language, and it scrolled down the plaque in gold letters until there was a blank space—the kind where when you paint your front room and you don’t move the picture and then, you move, and you’re packing up the picture and the space glares out like a Cyclops eye. She pointed at that space.

Melva: We’ll get a little mini-plaque with your name. Put it there. I have it ordered. It was two ds in Freddy, right?

Me: Yes. Um, thank you, but I’m not sure I…deserve this…honor. 

Melva: Well, our Committee certainly feels like you’re the man for our job.

Me: Hmm. And who else is on the Committee, if I may ask? 

Melva: So far, me and my sister, Charlotte. Like Bronte? You might remember her from the church picnic? She brought that plate of deviled eggs with the low-fat mayonnaise, and she had that cute little poem stabled on the Saran wrap? The one about dogwoods and crabgrass?

Me: Can’t say I remember. Who else?

Melva: Well, we have two other members under consideration. Mrs. Pfannenstiel from the church office. We’ll vote on accepting her just as soon as we read her application poem on daisies, paprika, and infidelity. She’s recovering from gallbladder surgery. And Mrs. Marston, right at the end of the cul-de-sac. Her poem is about how traffic is the work of Satan and his minions. More religious than we usually care for, but you know, she wrote it as a villanelle, so, that pretty much guarantees acceptance. 

I took the plaque from her, heavier than you’d think—African Blackwood? Live Oak? I had to ask her: 1) Why she thought I was a poet  2) Why I’d want to be a Poet Laureate. She smiled and said she remembered in church, when I wrote that nice verse for the newsletter. I was confused, I hadn’t been to church in years. 

Then I recalled, when our postman passed, Father had canvassed the neighborhood asking folks for good thoughts to print in the funeral commemorative. In a sweet gesture, he’d collected the remembrances, put them in letters and stuck them in Oscar’s postal bag at the front of the church. My “poem” was attached to the bag. It was Shakespeare’s Sonnet 71, the bit about “No longer mourn for me…” I realized she somehow thought I wrote it. And now she was starstruck, reciting it back to me.

Melva: Your mastery of the language, how you managed to make it sound so…old, you know? Do not so much as my poor name rehearse; but let your love even with my life decay. Only a Poet Laureate could write such lines.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was the Bard and not I who had written such glorious verse about death and worms. I smiled, thanked her, and figured we wouldn’t see each other again until the next cul-de-sac oldster in waiting passed. But, she had one more request.

Melva: So, as the new Poet Laureate of Sherman Street, we were hoping, the Committee and me, myself, I, that you might render a poem.

Me: Uh, ok. I guess I could.

Melva: It would be a dedication for the new pine I planted in my backyard. Charlotte chipped in of course. Next week is the…christening. 

Me: So, something about trees?

Melva: Absolutely. That would be lovely. Something formal, rhyming, you know? None of that…free verse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that—

Me: Sure, sure. So like “I think that I shall never see…um, a poem as lovely as a tree.” Something along those lines?

Melva: Oh my. How marvelous. You are a wonder. A wonder. I knew we picked just the right poet.