Spooktober Part 4: Featured Guest Blogger Del Jones, The Cremation of Sam McGee
As a fun way to get everyone into the Halloween spirit, and in a nod to comedian Dan Cummins and his wife Lynze, hosts of my new favorite podcast, Scared to Death, I thought I would present a special multi-part blog series to share some of my own “personal tales of terror.”
For this next installment we are changing things up a bit to bring you a re-telling of a classic, spooky poem.
We are so very fortunate and privileged to have the accomplished writer and author Del Leonard Jones as a guest contributor to our special multi-part Spooktober blog series.
Del Jones Headshot
I had reached out to Del after he had commented on the first installment of the blog that was shared via LinkedIn. Prior to that first blog post being published last week, I hadn’t actually known Del. We had never met. In fact, we haven’t even had a chance to talk on the phone yet. But after exchanging a few LinkedIn messages and checking out the link to the poem that he had shared with me, we instantly connected, partly because of our mutual love of spooky stuff, but mostly our appreciation for the art of storytelling.
So thank you Del for your re-telling of this classic story. It will make a nice addition to our special Spooktober blog series.
For more spooky stories, check out the Scared to Death podcast on Pandora, YouTube, or at scaredtodeathpodcast.com.
And if you like what you hear, be sure to give them a positive rating or review.
A Forward From Our Featured Guest Blogger Del Jones:
I am a champion of old poetry ballads, and when I came across Chris Knapp’s Spooktober blog, I begged and cajoled him to let me write a guest post about “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” the best Halloween read-aloud ever for children and adults alike. Like most great, old ballads – such as “Casey At The Bat” – I think The Cremation of Sam McGee is remembered due to the twist at the end. Anyone who reads Casey for the first time expects him to win the game with a home run. The 1888 poem is remembered because Mighty Casey strikes out at the worst possible time. Likewise, the Sam McGee poem has a terrific twist, which I won’t reveal in case this is the first time you’ve read it.
When I retired as a reporter in the Money section at USA Today, I set my sights on writing two historical novels based on Sam McGee and Casey. Note: These aren’t children’s books, they are for adult readers.
My father (still alive at 95) and grandfather both knew Sam McGee and other Robert W. Service poetry (such as “The Shooting of Dan McGrew”) by heart. Indeed, people who went to school before the 1960s often memorized poetry as part of the curriculum. I have Google alerts set up for The Cremation of Sam McGee and I regularly get notices of the (mostly) men who adored Sam McGee so much that it is mentioned in their newspaper obituaries.
When the late John McCain was running for president, comics from Comedy Central tried a “gotcha” question on the candidate.
“Who’s your favorite poet?”
“Robert Service, I guess,” McCain answered.
McCain, with cameras rolling, spewed forth The Cremation of Sam McGee word for word. A fellow Vietnam prisoner of war taught it to him by tapping code over the walls.
I’d go on about Sam McGee but it’s best that I preserve precious space in Chris’ enthralling blog for the poem itself. Enjoy. If you have children or grandchildren, read it to them aloud. Over and over until they know it.
The Cremation of Sam McGee (written in 1907)
BY ROBERT W. SERVICE (1874-1958)
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
About Our Featured Guest Blogger:
Del Leonard Jones wrote the historical novel, The Cremation of Sam McGee built upon the poetry of Robert W. Service. The novel is set in the 1898 heyday of yellow journalism and travels from Plumtree to Cuba to the Yukon. The narrator is a fabricating newspaper reporter working for William Randolph Hearst during the Spanish-American War and Gold Rush.
Jones most recent novel, At The Bat: The Strikeout That Shamed America is a sweeping historical novel set in the 1888 dawn of professional baseball when Blacks were first banned, umpires were routinely beaten, and the game shifted from a collegial pastime of gentlemen to a nasty fight to the death by gritty Irish immigrants. The novel is based on the ballad Casey At The Bat.
Jones has also edited Advice from theTop: 1001 Bits of Business Wisdom. The book focuses on the leadership advice of Fortune 500 CEO's such as Fred Smith of FedEx, but also gets advice from athletes, coaches and entertainers such as Mandel and artists like Wynton Marsalis.