Saturday, July 19, 2014

Ogden Nash Poem for Eugene McCarthy

Rare find published in the Women for McCarthy newsletter:

Senator McCarthy's birthday was March 29

Happy Birthday, dear Eugene,
The first to give us a choice between.
Today in you we place our trust,
Not an alternative, but a must.
The kids are for you, glory be,
And so are wise old men like me.
How many statesmen of good intent
Would rather be right than president.
But I will gladly take my oath

That you're the man who can be both.
As your 52nd candle burns,
Many happy election returns!

Ogden Nash

Copyright © by Linell Nash Smith and Isabel Nash Eberstadt.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Superstorm Sandy: Ogden Nash on the Rise of the Vandal

Forty-eight years ago Ogden Nash protested how the Halloween tradition of clever 'trick or treat' pranks had regressed into blunt vandalism.  

Those of us in the Northeast would gladly trade toilet papered trees and soaped profanities from past Mischief Nights for the devastation caused by last week's superstorm Sandy. 

If Halloween ever had an innocence, in Nash's view it was rapidly disappearing by 1964.  The pocket knife has morphed into a switchblade in the October Ladies Home Journal illustrations accompanying the poem.

Here are my favorite verses from  Halloween Hoodlums: Go Home:

There is one old hymn that now arouses my curiosity as well as my
Which is the one that begins, "For all the saints who from their
   labors rest."
Heaven knows all the saints have earned a good rest after their
   hardships on this earthly scene,
But I wonder how much rest they actually get on the
Eve of All Saints' Day, generally known as Halloween.
Despite nostalgia that increases with age, I don't insist that new
   ways are decadent and only the old ways are fit to venerate,
But I do feel that the celebration of Halloween has tended to
I can remember when children got an adequate thrill from ringing
   doorbells and running away, or rigging ticktacks on the window, or even bobbing for apples,
While they now amuse themselves by upsetting gravestones and
    desecrating chapels.
I try to refrain from crabbedness and contentiousness and general
But I find it difficult when the young have ceased to distinguish between
    mischief and vandalism.
What has become of the old-fashioned urchin who terrified his cooperative
   relatives with the aid of an old sheet and a lighted
He has given way to a savage and malicious breed compounded of country slicker and city bumpkin...

Then, of course, no Halloween would be complete without Trick
   or Treat.
This is a system of extortion that has grown even beyond the
   incredible and the preposterous.
It equals the Mafia in ruthlessness and arrogance, it is altogether
   Cosa Nosterous...

With such thoughts in mind I firmly expect that on some future All
   Saints' Eve all the saints will enjoy undisturbed rest from their
And so, I selfishly add, will I and my neighbors.

Copyright © by Linell Nash Smith and Isabel Nash Eberstadt.

Sunday, July 15, 2012

The Search for Ogden Nash’s Birthplace

While it’s true that Ogden Nash was born in Rye, NY, proof of exactly where in Rye has long been lost.  Enter mystery novelist Alan Beechey.  When Alan moved to Rye nearly a decade ago, he was pleased to learn that the poet was born there in 1902.  However, he was soon in equal measure dismayed when he learned that there was nothing whatsoever within the Manhattan suburb honoring Nash.  Not a tree to the man who so beautifully satirized Joyce Kilmer’s ’Trees’ in ‘Song of the Open Road.’  Not a dog run to the canophile who wrote dozens of adoring verses about man’s best friend.  Not a playground to the grandfather who penned ‘Reflections on Babies’ and whose animal verses have delighted children worldwide for generations.  Nary a street sign to the wry wit whose first home was in Rye, NY and his last in Rye Beach, NH.

So Alan set his sights on finding where in town the great versifier was born as a proper place for a Nash memoriam.  That’s where the road becomes full of twists and turns that Beechey’s craft had well trained him for.  The poor handwriting and casual errors of census takers and registrars of births and deeds have foiled many a family roots hunter.  Undeterred by such obstacles over a two year period, Beechey, with the support of the Rye Historical Society, has assembled a plausible case for the exact places of Nash’s birth and childhood that forged his humorous literary symmetry.  One of these places receives over a million passersby each week.

In its day Ramaqua, the estate of Ogden Nash’s father, was an Italianate showplace, designed in 1854 by the English architect Gervase Wheeler. In his book, "Homes for the People in Suburb and Country," Wheeler writes "The reader who may chance to have occasion to travel to or from New York by the New Haven railroad may at any time see this villa-mansion from such a point, as it stands upon an eminence that suddenly starts into view just after the train has passed the depot at Rye.”   Records indicate that the Nash’s lived at Ramaqua shortly after the turn of the century.

Patriarch Edmund Nash was a turpentine baron whose business thrived with the US Navy’s need for varnishing their wooden hulled war ships – a franchise which eventually soured with the ascent of ships being launched with hulls of steel.  In fact, had Ogden not been forced to leave Harvard because of the collapse of his father’s company, the delightfully roguish punster may have had the rhyme-ish adventurer formerly schooled out of him.  As it was he returned to teach at St. George’s on Aquidneck Island where he had spent his prep days.  From that springboard he learned how to live by his wit and his pencil, including supporting a family, for the rest of his life.

Ramaqua survived until the 1950’s until it succumbed to what is now America’s legendary Route 95.  Part of the promontory upon which Ramaqua rested is this rocky outcrop in the highway divider. 

Ogden was not born at Ramaqua.  The mystery of where Matilde Nash gave birth to her first son might have been lost to history forever had Alan not asked Linell, Ogden’s daughter, a couple of years ago.  Linell recalled her father’s cousin telling her that ‘Aunt Mattie’ went to the ‘Hicks place’ when her stork was due to arrive. With this anecdote in hand, Beechey found a corroborating entry in the August 1902 "Port Chester Journal" that "A baby boy was born to Mr. and Mrs. E. S. Nash, of the Hicks place.  Unfortunately neither the town’s birth records nor the Episcopal churches baptism record details an address.
Alan located a sizeable estate on a 1900 map owned by ‘Hicks’. This was the home of Colonel William Hix, Thomas Edison's electrical contractor - the spelling was corrected on a subsequent map.  One can imagine Nash and Hix, leading industrialists whose estates were both in Rye, being acquainted in social circles.  What was the Hix estate and most likely Ogden Nash’s place of first breath in this world, is now a gaggle of more modern homes along Hix Avenue.

If you want to see what’s left of Nash’s boyhood home, you’ll have to try to safely glance over where 287 meets 95 and give it a nod.  If you want to visit the likely birthplace of the 20th century’s most popular poet, you can amble along the Hix Road that displaced the Hix mansion.  Perhaps it was these two historical treasures being bulldozed that inspired Nash to quip in 1959: ”Progress might have been all right once, but it has gone on too long.”

In the course of his real life quest, Beechey has no doubt had to channel the hero of his first two novels, Oliver Swithin, a children's book author and amateur detective with a circle of peculiar friends. ( I suppose I’m one of the latter.) You can follow Beechey’s writing and his quest to correct Rye’s Nashional deficit at

I had the pleasure of meeting Alan at the wonderful Nashional Treasure event he organized at the Rye Arts Center last fall.   A standing room only crowd was delighted by speakers and special guests including Linell Nash, Ogden's daughter and Francis Smith, Nash's grandaughter. The event was written up in the Rye Record and the Sound Shore Review .

As the 110th anniversary of Nash’s birth approaches on August 19th, it would be both comforting and poetic justice to hear that a memorial will someday be established for Nash in Rye.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

NASH-ional TREASURE Events in Rye, NY

Disappointed at the lack of recognition that Ogden Nash has been given by his home town, novelist and Rye resident Alan Beechey has led an effort to organize two wonderful events at the Rye Arts Center.

On Saturday, September 17 from 10:00 – 12:00 pm there will be an Ogden Nash literary workshop for ages 8 and older. Participants will explore the words and unique styling of former Rye resident, Ogden Nash, through a variety of projects that incorporate both the literary and visual arts. The first half of this class, attendees will work to create their own poems and verses in Nash’s style. For the second half, they will create an original art piece inspired by their creation. Artwork will be on display during the September Ogden Nash event the following Saturday.

The cost is $30 for non-members. Space is limited. Register at the Rye Arts Center website.

On Sunday, September 25th, there will be a celebration entitled NASH-ional TREASURE at the Rye Arts Center featuring selected readings of some of his most popular poems, along with performances of music from “One Touch of Venus, which Nash wrote. Artwork inspired by Ogden Nash’s poetry, and created by the students of The Rye Arts Center’s art school, will be hung on the walls of the Performing Arts room as an accompaniment to his literary masterpieces.

Alan Beechey, is chairing the event. He will give a brief presentation on the history of Ogden Nash and the legacy that he has left for his hometown of Rye, NY.

Kudos to Mr. Beechey for his efforts to raise awareness and appreciation to Rye’s accomplished native son. He is further advocating creating a permanent memorial to Nash by renaming one of the town’s blandly monikered common areas to Ogden Nash Park. He outlines the case well for doing so in an OpEd in the Rye Record and on It’s surprising that no place in the world, much less his birthplace, has yes to dedicate a patch of earth to this poet who has brought so much joy to the world. Nash appreciated the individual connections he created with his readers and took time to show his thanks to fan mail with notes like this to Mildred Davis in 1941, who apparently requested an autograph:

This short, silly poem will never appear in a Nash anthology. But you can bet it was treasured by the recipient. It is one of dozens of individual letters to fans that I’ve read where Nash went above and beyond to show his correspondent that he was grateful to them and to make them smile. What star today would take the time today to compose a custom bit of their craft for a fan?

Other than a street in California, the only memorial I’m aware of is the bottom right hand corner of a window in St. Andrews by the Sea in Rye Beach, NH.

It so happens that a friend of mine was in that area last weekend visiting family. He visited Nash’s grave nearby in North Hampton and shared the snapshot below:

Hope you can join the celebration on the 25th and add your voice to effort to rename the Rye park in honor of Ogden Nash!

Sunday, August 7, 2011

Immortalizing Heroes of the Gridiron and Diamond

Recognizing Nash's passion for his hometown NFL team, Life Magazine offered Nash the opportunity to showcase his poetry in 'My Colts - Verses and Reverses', their December 13, 1968 cover story.

Nash penned a poem about Bubba Smith, the 6' 7", 280 lb defensive end who passed away last week, ensuring that Smith's legacy will live on:

Bubba Smith

When hearing tales of Bubba Smith
You wonder if he's man or myth.
He's like a hoodoo, like a hex,
He's like Tyrannosaurus Rex.

Few manage to topple in a tussle
Three hundred pounds of hustle and muscle.
He won't complain if double-teamed;
It isn't Bubba who gets creamed.

What gained this pair of underminers?
Only four Forty-niner shiners.

'Verses and Reverses' was as much a tribute to the nation's adoration for Nash as it was to the Colts. How many contemporary poets have ever been featured on the cover of a popular national magazine?

Nash wrote several poems about baseball in his career. As the story goes, when the St. Louis Browns moved to Baltimore in 1953, the versifier composed this poem for a testimonial dinner:

You Can't Kill an Oriole

Wee Willie Keeler
Runs through the town,
All along Charles Street,
In his nightgown.
Belling like a hound dog,
Gathering the pack:
Hey, Wilbert Robinson,
The Orioles are back!
Hey, Hughie Jennings!
Hey, John McGraw!
I got fire in my eye
And tobacco in my jaw!
Hughie, hold my halo.
I'm sick of being a saint:
Got to teach youngsters
To hit 'em where they ain't.

Copyright © by Linell Nash Smith and Isabel Nash Eberstadt.

Saturday, March 12, 2011

A Fine Synthetic Brogue

Well over a half century ago, Nash lamented how the St. Patrick' Day celebration, as was happening with Christmas, was overshadowing the higher meaning of the day.

It’s a Grand Parade It Will Be, Modern Design

Saint Patrick was a proper man, a man to be admired;
Of numbering his virtues I am never, never tired.
A handsome man, a holy man, a man of mighty deeds,
He walked the lanes of Erin, a-telling of his beads.
A-telling of his beads, he was, and spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn't heard.

The saint was born a subject of the ancient British throne,
But the Irish in their wisdom recognized him as their own.
A raiding party captured him, and carried him away,
And Patrick loved the Irish, and he lived to capture they,
A-walking of the valleys and a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn't heard.

He defied the mighty Druids, he spoke them bold and plain,
And he lit the Easter fire on the lofty hill of Shane.
He lit the Easter fire where the hill and heaven met,
And on every hill in Ireland the fire is burning yet.
He lit the Easter fire, a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn't heard.

Saint Patrick was a proper man before he was a saint,
He was shaky in his Latin, his orthography was quaint,
But he walked the length of Ireland, her mountains and her lakes,
A-building of his churches and a-driving out the snakes,
A-building of his churches and a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn't heard.

But the silver-tongued announcer is a coy, facetious rogue;
He ushers in Saint Patrick with a fine synthetic brogue,
He spatters his commercials with macushlas and colleens,
Begorras, worra-worras, and spurious spalpeens.
I hope one day Saint Patrick will lean down from Heaven’s arch
And jam the bloody air waves on the Seventeenth of March.

Ogden Nash

Copyright © by Linell Nash Smith and Isabel Nash Eberstadt.

Thanks to Kirsten Brady of Morristown
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