Carl Sandburg and Me

As best I can remember, it was 1955 and fourth grade at Farnham School when I first heard the name Carl Sandburg. Mrs. Gregory, my teacher, talked a great deal about Galesburg's history and mentioned that this famous writer from our town had written some poems about Abraham Lincoln. Being a nine year old, I didn't think much of it; however, as time passed Sandburg popped up more and more in my life. Eventually, my opinion of the prairie poet would evolve until the fact that he and I shared the same hometown would become a source of pride to me, and Carl Sandburg and the literature he created would have a life-altering impact on me. In the 1950's, I saw a program by Edward R. Murrow where the famous journalist interviewed Sandburg. I think it was on Murrow's television program See It Now. A couple years later, Sandburg appeared on TV again, this time on What's My Line. Everyone on the show made over him like he was a celebrity, and that was when I realized that this was an important guy—from my hometown. Watching Carl Sandburg—Galesburg born and bred—on my family's TV in our living room, connected Galesburg (and me) to the world way beyond its city limits. When I entered Lombard Junior High, Sandburg was brought up even more as a topic of discussion. I'm sure that my teachers had no inkling of it, but they were starting to interest me in poetry and especially in Sandburg. Mr. Patterson, my English teacher in both 8th and 9th grades at Lombard, brought Sandburg alive reminding us often that the famous writer, like us, had walked that very campus as a college student. The problem was that junior high is when being popular is the most important concern in the world, and in those days no self-respecting teenage boy at Lombard would own up to being interested in poetry or Carl Sandburg. But I was, although I wouldn't admit it. Actually, most of my friends and their parents had some curious misconceptions about Sandburg. They thought he was very wealthy and only cared about rich people. By the time I reached Galesburg High School, in August of 1961, I knew enough about Sandburg to tell folks from out of town that he was a famous poet from my town. My sophomore English teacher, Mr. Beck, stressed to our class that Sandburg was more than a poet: that he was perhaps the most important biographer of Lincoln. In fact, Mr. Beck said he thought Sandburg would be remembered more for his prose than his poetry. I appreciated that Sandburg was a famous writer, but it was during my junior year at GHS that I began to see a different Sandburg—the political and anti-establishment Sandburg. Mr. Weinberg, my American Literature teacher, introduced me to the this Sandburg. One day, Mr. Weinberg was talking about the writer, when a young lady in the class said that she thought Sandburg was a “disgrace” to Galesburg. Of course, she was asked to explain herself. So she launched into this story about how she had heard that during one of Sandburg's visits to Galesburg several of the prominent citizens had planned a reception for him at the Hotel Custer and instead of showing up, Sandburg was found down at the Alcazar, a local watering hole, playing his guitar for the patrons. Now, I have no idea whether this was fact or more small-town legend, but Mr. Weinberg asked her what her point was, and she replied, “Well, don't you think Sandburg should have attended the reception rather than waste his time playing and singing for the town drunks?” “I disagree,” replied Mr. Weinberg. “Obviously, playing his guitar at the tavern was more important to Sandburg than attending the reception at the Custer Hotel.” The teacher had my attention. Another student suddenly interjected, “Well, at least Sandburg could comb his hair. Why doesn't he take his time to make his hair look better?” “Because Sandburg has more important things to spend his time on than combing his hair to please other people.” The teacher's words stuck with me. By the time I left high school, I realized that Sandburg was indeed, as Mrs. Gregory had said, a famous writer; furthermore, I took a little pride in the fact that, like me, he had been born and raised in Galesburg—and didn't like convention or authority. I left Galesburg in 1965 and went away to college in Indiana. One day while browsing in the campus bookstore, I came across Harry Golden's biography, simply titled Carl Sandburg. I picked it up and read about all those places and things familiar to me and anyone else who had grown up here: Cottage Hospital, Brown's Business College, Knox and Lombard Colleges, the streets and names uttered nearly everyday in my childhood and adolescence. About an hour later, I packed the little paperback up to the cash register and bought it, proudly informing the lady who ran the bookstore that Carl Sandburg and I shared the same home town. She politely pretended to be interested. For the remainder of the day, I didn't do any of my course assignments. Instead, I let Mr. Golden guide me through Sandburg's life, the first years of which had been somewhat like mine. It was like I was back home again. But more important than that, the skeleton of Sandburg, which my teachers had constructed years earlier, was fleshed-out. There was Maury Beck's Sandburg, the Lincoln biographer, and Joe Patterson's Sandburg, the Lombard College student. But it was my high school lit teacher's Sandburg who appealed most to me. It was the 1960s and the anti-establishment Sandburg caught my fancy. Brother, were all those notions we had about Sandburg being for the rich all wrong: He had been an organizer for the Socialists in Wisconsin, a left wing writer for the Chicago Daily News, and the bare fisted poet of the laboring people. This was my kind of man. After finishing Golden's biography, I headed over to the Marion College library and located Always the Young Strangers, called by some people the best autobiography ever written. And there in the stacks of the Marion College library I absorbed Sandburg's own words about his life in his and my hometown. Next came the War Years and The Prairie Years. Then his poems “Chicago,” “Prayers and Steel” and to a “Contemporary Bunk Shooter.” When the college held it's annual poetry competition, Sandburg encouraged me to take a risk. I sat down and penned my best free verse effort— “A Storm is Coming.” I received second prize and shocked everyone on campus. From that time until now, I have tried my hand at most all of the literary forms—novels, short stories and plays. Unlike Galesburg's great writer, I've sold nearly nothing and mastered none of them. But because of Carl Sandburg, I am still becoming a writer, and that is enough. “Carl Sandburg and Me” was a prize winner in the 2001 Carl Sandburg Days Festival sponsored by the Carl Sandburg Historic Site Association and the Galesburg Register-Mail.

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