Class: 1966
Major: English
Deceased: December 17, 2003
Alumni survivors: Mr. James P. Harris ’66 (Former Spouse)
Sally was brilliant, adventuresome, precious, funny, unique…and I will miss her for the rest of my life. She was the first person I met at Carleton and we lived our freshman year next door to each other on notorious “First Gridley.” We skated on the flooded Quadrangle in weather of minus 20 (that’s Fahrenheit); we sailed on Lake Michigan; she attended me at my first wedding and was Matron of Honor at my second; I sang at hers. It seems like we have always been part of each other’s lives and now that she is gone, part of me is gone too.
Sally was a poet – I believe of great stature. The poems seem to flash through her like quicksilver. She taught a writing class at Wesleyan University. One of the requirements was getting published – but not for the Professor! She would often tack a poem onto the end of a letter. I pushed her to publish, but she would laugh and put another Medusa poem into a kitchen drawer. I even sent her a stupid verse called “Publishaphobia” which she taped to her refrigerator. It follows: November 2, 1994
PUBLISHAPHOBIA
I know a poet by the name of Sally.
She’s the best by far on hill or in valley.
She has a problem I think kind of silly.
Towards public recognition she is rather chilly.
I appeal to her friendship, love, and caring,
but she has this terrible objection to sharing.
I know it only has to do with her writing.
In every other way she is wonderfully inviting!
My last plea is on the table.
I have done all that I’m able.
In the drawer “Medusa” must languish
and I will remain in a state of anguish!
Much love,
A friend (Chris Erenberg)
I close with Sally’s own fabulous words.
What is green in me
darken, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to
ebb and flow, I fall
in season and now
is a time of ripening.
If her part
is to be true,
a north star,
good, I hold steady
in the black sky
and vanish by day,
yet burn there
in blue or above
quilts of cloud.
There is no savor
more sweet, more salt
than to be glad to be
what, woman,
and who, myself,
I am, a shadow
that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out
on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens
they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket
of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me
in fragrance.
‘Living a life’__
the beauty of deep lines
dug in your cheeks.
The years gather by sevens
to fashion you…They are blind, but you are not blind.
Their blows resound,
they are deaf, those laboring daughters of the Fates,
but you are not deaf,
you pick out
your own song from the uproar
line by line
and at last throw back
your head and sing it.
by Sally Olson Harris
Comments
Sally was brilliant, adventuresome, precious, funny, unique…and I will miss her for the rest of my life. She was the first person I met at Carleton and we lived our freshman year next door to each other on notorious “First Gridley.” We skated on the flooded Quadrangle in weather of minus 20 (that’s Fahrenheit); we sailed on Lake Michigan; she attended me at my first wedding and was Matron of Honor at my second; I sang at hers. It seems like we have always been part of each other’s lives and now that she is gone, part of me is gone too.
Sally was a poet - I believe of great stature. The poems seem to flash through her like quicksilver. She taught a writing class at Wesleyan University. One of the requirements was getting published - but not for the Professor! She would often tack a poem onto the end of a letter. I pushed her to publish, but she would laugh and put another Medusa poem into a kitchen drawer. I even sent her a stupid verse called “Publishaphobia” which she taped to her refrigerator. It follows: November 2, 1994
PUBLISHAPHOBIA
I know a poet by the name of Sally.
She's the best by far on hill or in valley.
She has a problem I think kind of silly.
Towards public recognition she is rather chilly.
I appeal to her friendship, love, and caring,
but she has this terrible objection to sharing.
I know it only has to do with her writing.
In every other way she is wonderfully inviting!
My last plea is on the table.
I have done all that I'm able.
In the drawer "Medusa" must languish
and I will remain in a state of anguish!
Much love,
A friend (Chris Erenberg)
I close with Sally’s own fabulous words.
What is green in me
darken, muscadine.
If woman is inconstant,
good, I am faithful to
ebb and flow, I fall
in season and now
is a time of ripening.
If her part
is to be true,
a north star,
good, I hold steady
in the black sky
and vanish by day,
yet burn there
in blue or above
quilts of cloud.
There is no savor
more sweet, more salt
than to be glad to be
what, woman,
and who, myself,
I am, a shadow
that grows longer as the sun
moves, drawn out
on a thread of wonder.
If I bear burdens
they begin to be remembered
as gifts, goods, a basket
of bread that hurts
my shoulders but closes me
in fragrance.
'Living a life'__
the beauty of deep lines
dug in your cheeks.
The years gather by sevens
to fashion you...They are blind, but you are not blind.
Their blows resound,
they are deaf, those laboring daughters of the Fates,
but you are not deaf,
you pick out
your own song from the uproar
line by line
and at last throw back
your head and sing it.
by Sally Olson Harris