In My Garden - Her School Years

I am calling Lorrie Brown

Behold - the Poet Laureate of the Spars.
When Uncle Sam put her in uniform She did not need to lay aside her pen.
He found her verses heartened up His fighting men.
And so I see within the mists of time,
Lorrie - what e'er her duties are
Will glorify them in rhyme.

(The above tribute was found on a 2-page memento 'year book' of the 1942 graduating class of Spars)

The Writings of Zelda Lorraine Brown Kline

Edited by Owen A. Kline and Michael E. Kline. Assistant Photo Editor David O. Kline

Copyright @1999 The Kline Family Organization, Inc.

First published in the United States of America by The Kline Family Organization, Inc. 4381 West 5375 South Kearns, Utah 84118

FOREWORD

A Tribute By Her Husband And Best Friend

The very best thing that ever happened to me in my lifetime was meeting and marrying Zelda Lorraine Brown. Without her my life would have taken an entirely different course. We had a very good marriage and I believe that we were somewhat successful in raising our family. Without a doubt we had our moments of disagreements and would flare out at each other but they only lasted for a short time. One or the other of us would apologize. It really didn’t matter who was right or wrong. I cannot recall a time that we ever went to bed mad at each other but there were times that I wish that I had taken her advice. I would have been much better off financially but I over-ruled her because I wanted to help one or the other of my children and my investments did not accomplish what I had hoped.


Zelda was not very interested in worldly ways or worldly possessions. She truly loved her religion and was extremely well versed in the scriptures. She loved the church and tried very hard to abide by the teachings of the apostles.

I’m sure that in many ways that I was a disappointment to her. I did not do the things that would have pleased her most and I truly regret that I did not. I know that she would have been much happier. I pray that in the hereafter that I can make up for my shortcomings and that I can spend eternity with her.

Owen Arthur Kline

Introduction

This work is a compilation of the poetry, prose, stories and editorials written by Zelda Lorraine Brown Kline, along with tributes, and writings by family and friends. We included as many of her writings as we could gather from her manuscripts and notes on notebooks, scraps of paper and box tops. We know that not all of them are of great literary worth to the world, but several are. They all mean something special to her extended family. We hope that you will enjoy them all and find your own special treasures.

Zelda was born in Ogden, Utah eight years before the stock market 'Crash of 1929' and before the 'Great Depression' started. She was in her teens at the depths of the depression. Then, just as her heart was about to find the joy of her life, the Second World War erupted; changing everything about the direction her life was taking. She went from the loss of things to the loss of friends and yet her spirit knew hope strong and bright. Her story is definitely a chronicle of the times in which she lived.

Except for those works published in periodicals which have long since ceased to exist, most of the items in this compilation are not accompanied by any dates. They have not been widely distributed, although most of them have been shared with family and friends. Dates of publication do not accompany most of the items, however, the periods for some of them have been guessed at by the topics.

Easter

"And upon the third day, He arose ---"

Death could no longer conquer man.

For here he was, freed forever from its fear

By Him who wore the crown of thorns

And died upon a cross.

That cross stood upon a hill

So that men, through the ages,

Looking up from everyday tasks

Have seen it.

And seeing it have known that not death,

But life is to be found in its shadow.

The Dreamer

He would sigh as he caught a glint

Of gold in the sky,

Of a sunset in the fall,

And wish that he could put it on canvas

To show us all.

He would sigh again

At the soft musical pattern of rain

And wish that he could compose a score

To pass the sound on to generations more.

He wished that he could wield a mighty pen

And write the doings of great and common men

So that when his time had past,

His memory and works would last.

But all he does is sigh

While his dreams go hurrying by.

All he dreams to do

Very seldom comes true.

Who is this man who dreams so?

Why, don't you know?

Perhaps it is the man next door,

Or what's more,

Perhaps it's you.

Vision

"Where is my mother?", she asked.

She was small,

With dusky curls framing questioning eyes of gray.

I turned my head from her gaze,

Not knowing how to answer.

I was asking too. What could I say?

Fumblingly, the answer came.

"Somewhere in Heaven."

Those eyes lifted then to the blue arch.

"Oh, I see.", she gave a happy cry.

Then a tiny finger pointed up,

And pointed to where a single cloud

Floated like a billowing white dress

On the azure blue carpet of the sky.

Thanksgiving

Early winter and the air frosty,

Pale golden with early morning sunlight…

And I came from the warm, snug comfort of sleep.

This is a special day, my excited pulses tell me.

Yet why?

Then I remember

For already the air bears the faint fragrance

Of spice and roasting fowl.

I find the kitchen warm and gay,

An enchanted place of many colors:

The warm brown ginger cookies;

The crimson of cranberries;

The gold of pumpkin pie,

With flour strewn here and there like a small snow storm,

Mid the gleaming pots and pans.

I do a small jig for sheer joy, for being alive.

Then the woman with the wise eyes,

Filled with patience and love,

Kisses my crown of tangled locks

And lifts my face to ask,

"Did you think to pray?"

I drop my eyes - "No."

"Not even a small prayer

Of thanks for a golden day?"

"For all the blessings you know so well,

For friends and family?"

Then tears come

And I kneel with one word,

"Thanks!"

I, The Earth

I, the earth, am weary.

My face scarred by centuries of marching feet and strife.

Many times I have gathered my children to my breast

And fed and clothed them from my bounty

Only to see them turn to hate.

See them take my riches stored within me

And use them to destroy

What it takes us both so long to build

And the rich red blood of their young ones

Comes back to me

But still they stand

With futile broken sword in hand

Knowing not even yet the price of hate

Nor the message of peace.

Drought

The sky is a blue glass bowl turned upside down.

Soft gray clouds hurry by like silent shadows.

Taunting weary mortals

Who pray for the surcease of falling rain.

The Rockies

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills.

And when all else fails

I shall go again unto them;

For long have they sheltered me.

My first knowledge of strength

Came as I looked to their towering blue heights.

I found infinity in snow-capped peaks

Touching the very dome of heaven.

And peace in the security of green valleys

Beneath their benevolent shadows.

Living

I must learn to live in my own day

Not on the valor of ages past

Nor on the promise of years to come

Without the deeds of this day

Past and future are as naught

And would have and will be in vain.

Heaven

A kneeling child,

Folded hands,

And face uplifted in reverent prayer:

Untouched by hate or sorrow.

But filled with wondering awe.

Oh God!

I would that thus I could kneel again,

And have the faith to find once more

The heaven that that child found.

Two Plates Of Pride

Two plates stood side by side on the mantle. One was made of finely-cut glass with a gown of pink, glass lace. She was haughty and dignified as she stood straight and stiff beside her companion. She was horrified that she, the most beautiful of glass, should be placed so close to one of such age and ugliness as was her companion plate. And, in truth, he was ugly and old. His pewter surface was cracked and stained and his age was belied by the tarnished surface of a once bright face.

One night, when the clock struck twelve and the mortals were asleep, the old pewter plate spoke to the new glass one. To some this may seem strange, but there are others who are well versed in fairy tales and know that at the stroke of midnight it is possible for inanimate objects to speak. They may do so until the fingertips of dawn are seen.

"You're a proud one, aren't you?" His voice was as cracked as his tarnished surface.

"Were you speaking to me?" Her voice was high and shrill. Perhaps it would have been sweet were it not for her dignity.

"Most certainly I was speaking to you." he answered. "Young lady, you have a lot to learn. You are young and new and still beautiful. What do you know of that world that you should be so proud?"

"Why, I have been in a great factory." She answered proudly. "I remember well the first time I awoke. I was lying on a great belt that carried me through many rooms and past noisy machinery. At the end there were pretty girls who picked me up and packed me in straw and placed me in a great dark box with many others of my family. For a long time I remained in my straw and when I was finally unpacked and removed from the box I found myself in a great, dimly lighted store. There I was placed upon a shelf with others of my family. Presently, the beautiful lady who is our mistress came in. She bought me immediately and I was wrapped in white tissue paper and brought here where I was placed on this mantle beside you. It is really a disgrace that I, who am such a beauty, should be placed beside you who has such a homely face." And she almost wept.

"Humph!", the old plate replied, "and you believe that you have reasons to be proud? You are yet a child in experience. Have you ever crossed great bodies of water and seen an Indian attack? I am old, very old. As old as this nation in which you have been made. I have seen children born, raised, have families of their own and die as old men, and still I have stayed. I too remember my first awakening, but it was in no great factory such as you describe. It was in a small cottage with a blue tile floor and a many-paned window above me. See the windmill upon my face? It is a picture of the windmill that could be seen through that very window, for I was made in Holland. An Englishman brought me to America the first time. Since then I have crossed the ocean four times more. George Washington once ate a meal upon my surface. I trembled upon a shelf while the guns of Fort Sumter roared around me. Upon me were placed the first grains of golden wheat of a western homesteader. Many, many are the tales of adventure I could tell if I but had the time."

The plate of pink glass changed her manner of dignity and hurt pride for one of reverence and pride of position. "Oh, please tell me more." She begged. But the dawn was already there. The night was over.

When the night was over and the mistress awoke in the morning, she found that her new plate had rolled close to the old one, as though they were in a spirit of confidence, and indeed they were.