Poet Sid Hall

A Reflection

Poet Sidney Hall in his office in the early days of Hobblebush Books

When I was a mere baby author all those years ago, only one book to my name, puzzling through the details of my second book, which would end up being a memoir on our Mount Everest hike, a poet by the name of Sid Hall took me for a walk.

At the time, Sid was the owner of Hobblebush Books and he had invited me up to his home in Southern New Hampshire where he ran his publishing company out of a barn behind the house.

He wanted to chat about a few details of the book, which was in production.

“Let’s walk,” he said. He called over his Golden Retriever, and the three of us took a walk on an old logging road out into the woods behind the barn. It was fall, sweater weather, and the woods were awash in yellows.

The dog ran back and forth and every so often he’d toss a stick in the woods for the dog to bring back. We didn’t actually do much talking. Rather, he chatted about the book, wanting to visit Nepal sometime, his life as a poet and of course Hobblebush.

The walk was amiable, pleasant and very New England. And all the while I kept thinking, yeah, maybe I can do this. That walk with Sid seemed like such a revelation, it felt to a young writer me that THIS could be what being a writer and reader meant.

I’d go on to publish seven books under the Hobblebush umbrella before the company closed shop last year.

I mention Sid today because last week I received an email from him. The title of the email was “I’m still here.”

A few years ago, Sid was tossed a tough curve ball. He was diagnosed with ALS and went from walking with a cane to being confined to an electric wheelchair. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple years and somehow expected the email to deliver bad news.

Nope. Sid’s alive and kicking. Well, maybe not kicking, he’d be the first to admit. The email was an announcement of Sid’s new website, where his books are available, there’s some free downloads and some writing about living with ALS.

Forgive my swear in advance, but Sid’s still with us and he’s still writing because despite the sweater vests, he always was a tough son of a bitch. And he’s still putting words down. Despite it all, still a writer. Still a poet. An inspiration.

Here’s his website, have a look: Poet Sid Hall

I recommend his poetry collection, “Fumbling in the Light.” That’s my favorite of his. But certainly download the essay, “The Poem as Marble.”

We are all, each of us, merely a collection of what came before. Sid is one of the more recent variants of what made me, me. Go say hello. By the way, he named his wheelchair, Donkey.

These days Sid is confined to a wheelchair named Donkey. I share this photo with you because this is the photo he uses to present himself on his website, because he’s an unapologetic bad-ass