Preface: Who Was N. Scott Thurston?
Before we walk into these poems, a word about their author. N. Scott Thurston was no wandering bard from overseas, nor a troubadour strumming in some band. He was an American newspaperman, son of Norman Ray Thurston and Helen Thurston (my grandmother). A graduate of Ohio University, Scott worked first for the Scranton Tribune, later taught journalism at Keystone College in La Plume, Pennsylvania, and finally became city editor at the Scranton Times. His career was bright, his words sharp, but his life ended far too soon.
In the 1930s and ’40s, his letters home — often addressed to his brother Jim and his sister Margaret “Aunt Moo” Oakey — carried a playful signature: Emil O. Foofnick. More than a pen name, it was a spark of imagination, proof that Scott’s writing wasn’t only about deadlines and headlines. He carried humor, invention, and warmth into his everyday life.
His father, Norman Ray Thurston, was an artist with pen and ink. He designed Christmas cards for the Canton Christmas Card Company in Canton, Pennsylvania, later worked for Eureka Printing in Scranton, and even created designs for the once-ubiquitous S&H Green Stamps. As a child living in Elmira, he claimed he met Mark Twain — a meeting of kindred spirits if ever there was one.
Through Scott’s mother, Helen Thurston, the family story reaches even further back into American history. A relative was present at the Old North Church in Boston, where lantern signals were hung to alert Paul Revere on his midnight ride. Thus, the Thurston family carried not only the ink of artists and journalists, but also the flame of revolutionary light.
From these roots — artistic, journalistic, historical — the persona of Emil O. Foofnick emerges. First as Scott’s playful pseudonym in the 1930s, now reborn as a blend of his wit and my own fascinations: Mark Twain’s humor, Carl Sagan’s cosmic wonder, Elaine Ingham’s soil microbes, Rob Knight’s microbial data, and the practical wisdom of muddy boots in the field.
So when I set Thurston’s poems here and answer them with my Foofnickian commentary, it is not just literary play. It is a family conversation across decades. Scott’s voice still rains down in poetry, and Emil — his old invented name — still answers, muddy boots and all.
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