Editor’s Note: Poetry is something readers of Pulse Peninsula we usually find in our Literature section. It’s not something they’ll encounter in our Community section – at least not 99% of the time.
This week we are changing that. Francha Barnard of Baileys Harbor – poet, community activist, enthusiastic volunteer and supporter of the arts in Door County – died suddenly on July 22 (see her obituary in this issue of Pulse Peninsula). Door County Poet Laureate Mike Orlock wrote a poem in his honor and asked if we would publish it. Following this, we received two letters to the editor honoring Francha which you will find in the Perspectives section, and another poem, also below.
Francha, Filling Every Room No missing her then as there will be now: You can’t erase a personality that large no matter how petite the person like you can a white board with a swipe or two. That would never do for Francha, who filled every room with the power of her presence. She was the essence of the “unforgettable character” who knew who she was and what was wanted to move things along when the rest of us were dawdling, as we were wont sometimes to do. She was the art of organization personified, with a clarity of purpose impossible not to follow, sure of what was necessary to get done today what was needed tomorrow. Now that tomorrow is here without her, this county she made so bright and busy with her being seems that much duller and sedate, as if the sun has lost a lick of light and the lake she loved and lived by has turned to slate. But mourning her would only anger her. Better to remember her by remembering what she’d do: Plan an event, plant a garden, join a march, guide a tour, write a poem, arrange a room. Do something useful. Just choose. — Mike Orlock
Our Little Weaver A tribute to Francha Barnard “She was a walking weaver,” someone said. This spritely Frogtown Lane dweller, disarming strangers with winsome will and leprechaun wink and gleam, adding one more skein of humanity to her patchwork quilt of personality. “She was a weaver of people and words,” someone said. Extending ripples beyond her sunrise and moonrise kingdom. She found me amidst thimbleberries, pierced me with her needle of direct invitation. “Why don’t you join our local lines?” Without regard for my reputation, creed or color she welcomed my words, sprinkled her own, with a touch of chicory, another warp for weaving us — together. This tiny but mighty, igniting spark, flickering and flitting, not long enough, leaving silken threads for all who dare to pick up her needle and tread. — Margaret Philbrick