Poems and Thoughts    by Frank Maurer

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Flying II. A Trip to Buzzards Bay. Being quite young--perhaps 4 in 1945, I remember one trip with my Dad to Buzzards Bay, MA. We were in the high altitude equipment production plant, I, standing next to his right side, As he expounded some directions to a coworker. My Dad always had soft, large hands, With a particular scent. I will always remember that sweet, masculine scent. I am not sure what moved me at that moment, But I recall moving closer to his side (I was tall enough to reach his hand on his extended arm) And nuzzled my nose into his palm, Inhaling his delicious scent; giving me a childlike high And a basic mammalian feeling of belonging To another of my species: To another whom I knew had accomplished important and great feats-- And to whom I belonged as a child of my dear Father. Frank Maurer 3 June 2023 1345 Hours.