Peninsula In Passage

Elkanah East Taylor

LIFE “An hour of fear An hour of trust A candle, burning on a sill A smile, a tear A sudden gust The candle’s out and all is still” By Elkanah East Taylor

Elkanah East Taylor, long time Driver resident, chose that poem to open Candles on the Sill , one of her several books of poetry, published in the 1920s. Her body of work and her launch of the Will-of-the-Wisp poetry magazine in 1925 earned her a place in the 1944-45 Who’s Who in America as well as numerous literary honors. Her work and charm also earned a place in the hearts of the residents of Driver where she lived and wrote for 30 years. Taylor’s poetry, often likened to the work of another poet, Emily Dickinson, was critically acclaimed for its spare lyricism, color and emotion. Her love of nature shows in her frequent references to the rural landscape and the hues of the sunsets, skies and flowers. Her nephew, Billy Ritter, 87, drew a life-long passion for poetry from Taylor and claims the above poem as his favorite of all her work. Ritter lost his mother, Taylor’s sister, at birth and his father placed him with a foster family on the Eastern Shore after he had finished the fourth grade at the DeJarnette School in Driver. But he came back to spend every summer in Driver with Taylor and her family. Ritter, a retired professor of modern romance languages, says, “Those were the happiest days of my childhood – Driver was a lovely place to grow up. We were outdoors all the time and went swimming in Bennett’s Creek.” “Keety,” Taylor’s family nickname, sprang from her childhood when she began writing poetry and her father dubbed her “our little Keats.” Ritter remembers that the front porch was the summer living room and that afternoons meant a walk to Arthur’s store to pick up the mail and visit with friends on the way home. The Aunt Keety he remembers stood about 5’6” and had lush auburn hair. She loved to walk every afternoon along Bennett’s Pasture Road or around her own property, swinging a golf club she used as a walking stick. She hated mosquitoes and doused herself with citronella. She was also afraid of being alone and moved back to Norfolk after her husband, E. J. Taylor, died in the winter of 1943. “In a photo Ann Hurff Ballard took of her about then there was a look of terror in her eyes,” Ritter remembers. “I tore up the photo – I couldn’t stand seeing that look.” Taylor died just two years later.

85