Blues Lessons and Ben Tillman - Chapter One

 IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

This is the first chapter to an unpublished novel I wrote called Blues Lessons and Ben Tillman. Ben Tillman was a notorious, racist, hateful, murderous politician from the late 1800s and early 1900s. He was governor of South Carolina for a while and then US senator. He spent most of his political career trying to disenfranchise Blacks. He was directly involved in the murder of some. He earned the name "Pitchfork Ben" after threatening to kill one of his rivals with a pitchfork on the senate floor. It's a love story, a story about social justice, a story of a young teacher who learns best how to teach from his students and his new friend and mentor, Roosevelt Jackson, a retired widower, peach farmer, and amazing blues musician. Still working on finding an agent/publisher. Maybe. One of these days...

I hope you enjoy the first chapter.

Blues Lessons and Ben Tillman 

Roosevelt

Sunday, June 18, 1978

Roosevelt Jackson put on his reading glasses, knelt gingerly, knees popping softly, and opened the peach wood, cedar-lined chest he’d built for her well over a half century earlier. The hinges chirped from disuse.

The chest had been left closed at the foot of his bed, at the foot of their bed, for five years. The lid was not dusty. Roosevelt was fastidious; sixty years with Bea made him so. 

It had been five years to the day since he’d last seen her. She’d worn her prettiest pink dress. She loved that particular shade of pink. She told him many times during their long lives together that her favorite color was that of a newly ripened peach. While Roosevelt was not a man who dwelt on the anniversaries of death, he figured five years was just about right for him to wake up the memories.

He plucked a leather-bound photo album from the chest, and placed his wrinkled brown hand on the cover, his heart jumping a beat. He sighed and opened it. There was Bea, beautiful, and shiny, and slim, not smiling, but pretty. Her hair in braids, her white church hat tilted, she leaned on the porch railing of their first house. She wasn’t posing for the camera—she looked into his eyes, so a little above the lens of the box camera he held. He remembered that day. They had just returned from the doctor. She’d lost another child and had gotten the news that there would be no children. A tear spilled down his stubbly cheek, dripped off his sharp chin and formed a damp circle on his chinos. He set the album aside. 

He picked up a blacksmith hammer; its maple handle worn smooth, the striking surface pitted, the wedged pein battered. It weighed three-and-a-half pounds and felt heavier than it had the last time he hefted it. Born into slavery, his father had used the hammer almost every day of his life that Roosevelt remembered. He recalled his father’s sweat shined face, and his toothy grin with near perfect teeth.

Roosevelt’s tears had stopped, but memories flooded in as he held each item in turn. His mother’s small cast iron skillet and her Bible, which she’d used to teach him and his brothers to read. His brother’s Samuel’s buck knife with the broken tip. There was a tarnished silver spoon from Tennessee, the farthest he and Bea had ever traveled from Cayce, South Carolina. There were prized books inscribed by people he’d loved who had passed on. 

He held a small wooden box with the South Carolina seal on it. He’d always thought the seal quite beautiful; two ellipses linked by the branches of a palmetto. The left held the image of a palmetto tree standing over a fallen broken oak. The right image was the Roman goddess Spes under the Latin words Dum spiro spero. “While I breathe, I hope,” Roosevelt said. Inside the box was a simple pocket watch his father had given to his uncle Simon when Simon became a member of the South Carolina House of Representatives in 1874. Simon was murdered in 1876. Roosevelt wound the watch three times and held it to his ear. One hundred four years later, Simon Coker’s watch still ticked daintily.

There was a folder with a sheaf of printed pages titled The Race Problem, The Brownsville Raid. Underneath the title it read, “Shall white men share his inheritance with colored races? Lynching for rape justified. South Carolina under reconstruction. Her second declaration of independence. SPEECH OF HON. BENJAMIN R. TILLMAN OF SOUTH CAROLINA IN THE SENATE OF THE UNITED STATES, Saturday, January 12, 1907.” Behind the pages lay a black and white portrait photograph of a portly White man, with large ears, a cleft chin, and a bulbous nose. His graying hair swept back from his forehead; he wore a sullen expression. The man had only one eye. 

Roosevelt whispered, “If you wanna fight hate, you need to look it in the face.”

Next, he pulled a delicate silk scarf from a narrow box, the first gift he’d given to Bea. The scarf was still in perfect condition. He’d paid $23.60 for it in 1919, a preposterous amount of money. She’d worn his proudly on their wedding day. It was peach, of course, and she’d tied it loosely around her smooth elegant neck. Roosevelt touched it gently to his cheek and tucked it back in its box. He placed the sacred items back in the chest. 

Roosevelt pulled a small tin of household oil from the tool drawer in the kitchen and placed a drop on the hinges and latch and worked in the lubricant by opening and closing the lid several times.

He sat in his reading chair and dialed a number from memory. After a moment he said, “Hello, this is Roosevelt Jackson. May I please speak with Mr. Charles Bagsworth? Yes, I’ll wait. Thank you, ma’am.”

After a few moments he smiled and said, “Charles! Thank you for taking my call… Yes, I’d love to play guitar with you again… I do still play with those gentlemen. Have for more than fifty years… Thank you, Charles. I surely miss her too. It’s kind of you to remember her… Yes, she was that. How is your missus doing?” 

After a few moments of listening, Roosevelt leaned forward in his easy chair. “Charles, do you remember when you said there may be a young teacher from up north coming down? You said he wouldn’t know anyone but that he just might teach some children at Benjamin Tillman Elementary?” 

Pause. 

“He hasn’t interviewed yet? What’s he look like on paper?”

Pause.

“He was a good student, huh? Do you think he’s a decent fellow?”  

Pause.

“Remember asking if he could stay with me until he landed on his feet?”

Pause.

“Yes. I think it’s time for this old man to do something besides sell peaches and pick lonely blues on the guitar… Thank you, Charles. Use your judgement, of course. But if you think he might be interested in staying here for a while, I might could just use the company.”

Roosevelt hung up the phone, walked over to his window, and looked down on his peach orchard. 

Catching Leaves

 

 IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

When I was a kid, my mom taught me the importance of catching leaves. I must have been little, and I don’t know where my brothers and sisters were. I have six brothers and sisters. I can’t imagine how I had the chance to be out in the fall on a walk with my mom. Alone. There was probably laundry in, dinner cooking, mending to be done, and a dozen other things that needed her attention. But we were on a walk in the fall, just the two of us. Our neighborhood wasn’t that old, but there were some tallish maples and oaks there.

A leaf came drifting down and my mom caught it. She handed it to me, as if it were a gift. She told me that you were supposed to catch ten leaves every fall. It wouldn’t be fair to shake a tree to make leaves drop or to scoop up leaves and toss them into the air and catch them again. No, it had to be leaves whose time was naturally up and fell in their own time. Catching those leaves was a precious thing, like magic. It was something you should do every year. 

I don’t know if she made that up herself, on the spur of the moment (honestly, it wouldn't surprise me), or if it had been something that her own father had handed down to her. While I don’t remember how old I was at the time, I was young enough not to question her authority on the matter. If she said it, it was true. My mom loved nature. She could sit and watch sunset after sunset—each one was miraculous.

When I was in high school and college she spent a few years photographing and cataloging every plant that grew in our area in Northwest Indiana. I still have that photo album. Under each picture she wrote the scientific name as well as common name in her neatest cursive. If she couldn't identify a plant, she would look it up or ask one of the local authorities. 

Now every year, I catch leaves. I always shoot for ten. Some years I catch many more than my goal. I try to catch them on ten different occasions. It would be too easy to stand under one tree whose time has come on a breezy day and catch all ten practically without moving my feet. While I don’t remember exactly what my mom was teaching me with this catch-ten-leaves-lesson, it was probably something about the importance of being outdoors, about fresh air and the beauty of nature. 

Because while one is outside catching leaves, one is NOT inside watching TV or some other sedentary activity. More than likely, if you are in a place to catch falling leaves, you are also playing baseball, or soccer, or kick-the-can, or cream-the-kid-with-the-ball. If you're catching leaves, you are riding your bike, hiking around in the woods, fishing, or catching crickets. If you are in a place to catch falling leaves, you are in the right place.

I remember one of the last times I went to see my mom in western North Carolina. She hadn't been feeling well. It was October 30. I remember because I went with her to get a bone marrow biopsy, and the people in the doctor’s office all wore Halloween costumes and it was a little hard to take them seriously. I took a day off school to go be with her for her appointment. Her husband Jim had died about three months earlier. She didn’t need to go through a bone marrow biopsy alone. 

That morning, before driving to North Carolina, I was out catching leaves. I probably looked foolish, a 54 year-old man chasing leaves in the breeze—even falling down once. I was still hoping my mom would be okay, that she would have more time with us. She was even thinking of selling her house and moving near our little family. I caught about half of my quota of leaves that morning.

I held her hand during the biopsy. It wasn’t easy. It was like the doctor took a corkscrew and jammed it through her skin and muscle into her pelvis. It had to hurt. A lot. She was stoic throughout. She didn’t even want to take the test. But doctor and I sort of insisted. I cried. She was strong. The news was bad. She was diagnosed with the disease that would end up taking her life in just a little over two months. 

Here it is, 14 years later. This is such a pretty time of year. Heidi and I are ready to take our evening walk. Our old dog died recently, so it’s just us. It’s cool so we’ll put on layers. Our noses will be runny by the time we get back. We’ll probably have our first fire in the fireplace soon. The leaves are turning quickly now. For the next month we’ll be raking, and blowing, skimming them off the pool and sweeping them off the porch.

The time has just changed so at 5:30, it’s already nearly dark.

And if I’m lucky, I’m going to catch some leaves.

Of all the leaves in this big old world

there are none exactly like the ones I caught

on their way to the ground

spinning, spiraling, swirling

so softly – with no sound

and no peace quite so right

as on that day I found

You Are

Some of you may know that my Heidi’s been going through a rough period. Her medical issues still haven’t let up. Another important surgery recently and more to come. She’s someone who feels prayers. I wrote this little love song for her a while ago, and I thought it might be a good one to post again. 

You'll have to click on the URL below. Thanks for listening.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fTNd0PvQ58

You Are

You are the vast salty ocean - And I am lost at sea

The more of you I drink – The more of you I need

You are my dreams in deepest night – When I am fast asleep

As the nighttime brings you near – The more of you I’ll keep

You are the tune that’s in my head – That won’t go away

So your music fills me up – And in my mind you’ll stay

You are the force of gravity – That always holds me down

You are the one who keeps me here – Rooted to the ground

You are the air I need

You surround me night and day 

I breathe you in – you fill me up

You always will I pray

You are the sunlight and the moon – And in my life you shine

My light, my warmth, my beacon – I am yours and you are mine

You are the clouds so full of rain – And I am thirsty ground

And when you let your blessings flow – I will nearly drown

Good Girl, Mallie

 IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

The house feels lonely now, a little empty. There’s an echo with my footfalls that wasn’t there yesterday. The energy has changed. When I enter the kitchen, there’s a spot in the corner that feels like a void. It used to hold the big, cushioned pad that was our dog’s bed. It used to hold a big part of my heart.

I’ve swept the floors and gathered big piles of her undercoat fur. It’ll be there in one form or another for months—traces of it for years. Her last bandana is tacked to the bookshelf in my office. She liked a bandana. It seems to me that she felt naked without it and happily squirmed into a clean one when the one she was wearing got funky. Her chain collar is hooked over the corner of the mirror in our bedroom. We never attached a leash to it—too choky. We used it to hold her bling, her rabies tags, which accumulated over the years. It also bears the HOMEAGAIN tag with her name and my cell number stamped into it. It’s golden in color and shaped like a bone. She liked the clink of those tags, the little metallic chime that was part of her movement.

I’ve cleaned her bowls and set them aside to give away. There’s an unopened bag of dog food in the garage—and, of course, all her medicines and supplements. There’s even a prescription at the pharmacy for her that I haven’t picked up yet. I’ll ask them to put that back.

Mallie came into our lives almost 13 years ago. Our son Devin and his sweetie, Shae, adopted Mallie when she was an energized ball of puppy fur—and teeth. It was finals week of their junior year. Dev lived in an apartment, and of course, Mallie, just removed from her mother and littermates, howled all night. We accepted responsibility and care for the rest of the semester. Devin and Shae stayed with us that summer, but when the school year began again, we became her unofficial owners.

I sent Devin a picture of Mallie lying on her bed last night—barely able to move, looking unhappy and confused, and probably in considerable pain. I told him we were going to have her put down. “This girl was the best gift you ever gave us,” I wrote. “Made this house a home. Forever grateful.” He sent back what had to be one of the first pictures ever taken of her. In it, she’s lying sprawled on the couch, half on, half off a USC blanket, eyes squinched shut—probably exhausted from too much play. She is fresh and white, her whole twelve-and-a-half-year life stretched ahead of her.

When she was about four months old, she went “wompy” when we were out walking. Our term for going batshit crazy. She did that occasionally—just zigzagging around like a dervish. She landed wrong after springing high into the air and hyperextended her elbow. Fractured. Surgery. Pinned. Casted. Thousands of dollars—the best investment ever. She always limped after that. We knew it would eventually become arthritic. And, of course, it did.

She didn’t do any clever tricks other than “sit” (when she knew there was a treat coming). When she was a pup “fetch” meant, “go get it and run away.” We didn’t care. She was smart in other ways. Never once peed or pooped in the house, even as a pup. I put handles on the back porch doors, and she opened them at will to gain access to the backyard. She was never afraid of thunderstorms and would often point at the back sliding door during a storm so we could let her out. She enjoyed the sounds of storms from inside the screened porch.

Once, when we had a family gathering on the porch, Mallie was sitting on her pillow in the corner. People were laughing, telling stories, and carrying on. There was a space in the circle, about the size of a chair. Mallie pulled her bed into that spot, revolved a couple of times, and plopped down—the circle complete.

I never knew her to growl at anyone—so, not a great watchdog. She was foolish enough to eat stuff she shouldn’t—and not just grass and pinecones. Once, when we were in Arizona, we got a call from the kennel where we were boarding her. She was coughing up blood, and we asked if we wanted her x-rayed. Well, yes, we did. Turns out she ate a roofing nail. It passed okay.

Last year, around Christmas, she tore both of her CCLs (like ACLs on a human). We took her to a vet who x-rayed her and proclaimed that she needed a total hip replacement—he assured us that he could insert one that was state-of-the-art—and other serious surgeries reshaping each of her back legs. Each procedure would take three or four months to heal. She’d be casted, probably have to wear one of those Elizabethan collars, and would have to be carried outside and back in to do her business. In other words, a year of her being miserable. She was nearly 12—the average life expectancy of a Labrador retriever.

We opted to ease her pain with meds and to make her life as comfortable as possible. She limped around the house but adapted pretty well to her new condition. She clicked into our bedroom when she heard us stirring in the morning—or when she wanted or needed to go out. Fewer stairs. All walks on the leash. She started asking us to move her bed into the living room in the evenings and spent our early mornings in the sunroom as we reviewed the news over coffee. She waited under or near the table at meals to catch any fallen bits. She followed Heidi around the house and gave—and received—all the love possible.

We always loved her, but I think this last year together made us even closer. It was a precious gift.

Yesterday, she could barely walk. She was uncomfortable. Our son Colin, her favorite person in all the world, came over to say his goodbyes. She didn’t wag when she got a dose of “double petting.” She had to be talked into eating. She pretty much stopped drinking.

Last night, I slept on the couch—knowing it would be her last night. At about four in the morning, she tried to get up and go to the door. She couldn’t stand. She flopped down, confused that her body wouldn’t respond the way she wanted. I was sure she was in pain. My heart was broken, but we knew the decision was the right one.

We called a vet who performs euthanasia at home. She was calm, sweet, knowledgeable, and comforting. Heidi and I cried and held hands while we cradled Mallie, petted her, gave her treats, soothed her, loved on her. Mallie relaxed, breathed more slowly, snored, breathed shallowly—and then just drifted off.

Our lives won’t be the same. The house will never feel as full. That girl’s joy was contagious, her loyalty unwavering, her friendship and love unconditional. I miss her already. While we’ve had a few dogs in our lives together, Heidi said she never really loved any before. I get it. Not sure if we’ll ever get another dog, but I’m quite sure we’ll never share our lives with a spirit as beautiful as hers.

Sure, I’m sad. I can only remember a few times in my life that have hit harder than this one. But I’m also feeling blessed that my life’s path crossed the path of this beautiful animal.

Counting All the Stars

 IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

If you know me, you know that I am a retired teacher. I taught little ones for 38 years. Loved it. After that I turned to writing fiction. I've finished three manuscripts and have been pitching them like crazy. No luck so far. But I'm compelled to continue writing. In between trying to find an agent or a publisher, I've been working on my fourth book. This one is a supernatural thriller. Far different from the other three. 

Here's the first chapter of the new one tentatively called Counting All the Stars. I'd love to know what you think. 

One

Saturday, June 9, 1973

“Stop the car, Liam,” Sean Byrne says in a small voice, an insistent voice, a voice that means he won’t take no for an answer. 

“Just a second.” Liam knows better than to argue. He checks his mirrors and pulls off 57th Avenue deep into the brambles at the side of the road. He pops out the flasher button on the old Chevy station wagon as Sean, not waiting for the car to come to a stop, opens the passenger door and bails out into the wild raspberry vines, heedless of the wicked, hooked thorns ranging across the verge.

Liam throws it into park and hustles to where his Sean sits cross legged on the dusty roadside, something bundled into his lap. “What is it, buddy?”

Sean keens and rocks, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. It reminds Liam of when Sean was a baby, when he rocked and bumped his head against the door over and over. Just the front door, nowhere else.

Liam kneels in the roadside rubble, cinders digging into his knees. Sean opens his eyes and stares into the eyes of a large black and white cat across his lap. No collar, ragged ears, skin and bones. One of its back legs is broken, crushed really, a cracked femur poking out through its skin and fur. Blood oozes from its nose. The cat still breathes—its eyes glazed and unfocused, dusted with road grit.

Most ten-year-olds are self-conscious of their tears. Not Sean. He cries as if he’s lost his best friend. 

Drivers, often heedless of the 35 mile per hour speed limit on this stretch of 57th, fly by in what serves as Merrillville, Indiana’s rush hour. Liam eyes the oncoming traffic. He’s parked off the road but close to it. He’s only been driving without a grownup for about a week. He’s a decent driver, but lack of experience makes him a cautious one. “We can take him to the Crossroads Pet Hospital, Sean. They might be able to save him.”

Sean gazes into the cat’s eyes which are undirected and seem to look far away. “It’s a female. She’s dying. It would take 14 minutes to drive there. She only has a minute, maybe two.”

Liam forgets the cars driving too quickly just a few feet away. He plunks down beside his ten-year-old brother and puts a comforting arm around his shoulders. Sean rarely lets anyone else touch him.  At least not on purpose. “What’s she telling you, Buddy?”

“She has a litter. It’s in the spook house in Maysack’s Woods.”

Only then does Liam notice the teats on the dying feline. “What else?”

“She was hungry.” Sean’s voice is monotone, like he’s translating a foreign language into English, like he’s in a trance. “She’d been with the kittens and hadn’t eaten in two days. She left them to… forage.” Sean’s eyes are still locked on the big mama cat’s. Blood trickles from her snout onto Sean’s leg, already crisscrossed with raspberry bramble scratches. Some are bleeding. But not bad. He wears cutoff jeans. He doesn’t care about the blood. He touches her head tenderly. “She was chasing… a rabbit. That’s all she remembers. She’s… leaving now.”

Liam doesn’t ask how Sean understands these things. He simply does. Liam doesn’t ask if Sean is sure. He is. Liam has witnessed Sean’s ability to read into the lives of others since Sean was a toddler. They never talk about how it happens. Fact is, Liam doesn’t talk about Sean’s ability with anyone. Sean never said not to. Liam simply understands that Sean is already considered peculiar. Sean’s tears roll down his cheeks, which makes Liam start to leak as well. Seventeen is definitely too old to cry in public. Right now, Liam doesn’t give a shit. 

Sean’s voice is emotionless. “She’s… worried about her litter. There are four alive. They’re in the living room near the fireplace. It smells like mold, like rotting wood and leaves. There are broken windows. It’s wet there.” There are droplets of milk on the dying cat’s teats and more frothy blood oozes from her nostrils. 

Sean’s silent tears trickle down his cheeks and chin, some falling onto the raggedy feral cat. The boys have been raised Catholic, go to Catholic school, have spent many mornings serving ad altar boys in Mass. Liam considers Sean’s tears almost essentially a baptism. Or the one Catholic sacrament no one wants to think of, extreme unction—last rights.

For a moment the cat’s eyes lock on Sean’s. There is a fleeting knowing, a recognition, a kinship. Then, those eyes with their bright green irises and vertical slits lose their luster. The eyes dilate and the cat’s body shudders then relaxes. Blood stops drizzling from its snout. 

“We’ll bury her here.” Sean lays the cat on the ground tenderly. “My scout shovel’s in the trunk.”

Liam gets the keys without question.

Sean does the digging with the small fold-out shovel. The ground is sun-dry-hard and chock full of rocks. Cars scream past. A big rig blares its horn at them which makes Liam flinch. Sean, normally sensitive to loud sounds, doesn’t register the shattering reverberation. His mind is still with the cat.

When they finish, Sean drips sweat, his shirt sticking to his back. “We have to go to the spook house.”

“I know,” says Liam. 

“There’re four kittens by the fireplace.” 

Liam has no doubt. 

The kittens are exactly where Sean described them. Eyes still closed; their mews faint and weak. One has died since they found the mama beside 57th Avenue, since the mama remembered them and shared that memory with Sean. There are more tears. They leave the spook house in Maysack’s Woods with three puny, bloody kittens barely clinging to life rolled up in Sean’s t-shirt. He walks into the house on Adam’s Court bare-chested. 

Only one kitten lives to the next morning. 

Sean names her Maxine. 

 

"There is Music" and "Where I'm From"

IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION."  

There Is Music

There is food

           There is water

                   There is air

                           There is music

I heard a tune

In the wind-chime

Familiar, yet elusive

If only I'd had my guitar

Perhaps I could have 

Snatched that phrase

And stretched it

Polished it

Riffed it

Smoothed it

Drawn it out

And searched its meaning

The energized mockingbird

Couldn't seem 

To get locked in

So it kept on singing

And riffing

And mocking

And teasing

Almost there

Not quite right

Another direction

A different idea

An exercise in theme and variation

Here’s a personal variation on George Ella Lyon’s 

“Where I’m From”

I am from Ruck and Jack and a house full of playmates

From backyard games and kick-the-can nights

I am from too hot sand and too cold Lake Michigan water

That greeted you like an old friend, but would kill you if you weren’t careful

I am from beach bonfires and smoke in my eyes

From silly birthday songs and Billy Krump’s candle

I’m from Saturday morning cartoons and merciless teasing

From sitting on warm floor vents on cold winter days

I’m from penny candy and walking home from school

And the too fast cars going down 57th Avenue

I am from Maysack’s Woods and thirsty mosquitos

From hand-me-downs and help-me-ups

I am from show tunes played on the hi-fi

From Zero Mostel and Carol Channing

I am from giant pots of spaghetti 

And hot watermelon afternoons

I am from hippies and peace signs

And “Hell no we won’t go!”

From the Chicago Democratic convention 

And black and white TV

I am from neckties and daily mass

From asphalt playgrounds and confession

I am from altar boys and CYO band

From Biddy Basketball and Kadar’s driveway

I am from Michigan City summers and 

Wearing nothing but shorts all day

From sunburned shoulders and peeling noses

From fishbones in my feet and treehouses

I am from dune grass and blinding sunsets

From giggling bedtimes and “hush up in there”

From trains in the distance 

From drive-in movies 

From moonlight on my blanket

I am from a mess of brothers and sisters 

Best friends

I am from love

A Couple Poems

 IF YOU'RE READING THIS FROM YOUR PHONE, TRY TURNING IT SIDEWAYS TO SEE THE COMPLETE TEXT. OR GO TO THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE AND CLICK ON "VIEW WEB VERSION." 

Here are a few poems written over the last couple years. 

(Inspired by I Love You the Purplest, by Barbara Joose)

Heidi, I love you the pale greenest

the color of spring touching the forest at the tips of the branches

the color of your eyes when we first met among the coeds, that dormitory food, the spring of the bicentennial year, so long ago and so many memories away

I love you the color of centipede grass, of honeysuckle vines, of new cana lily leaves uncurling

I love you the cool color of jade, of the praying mantis, of shamrocks, of moss in forest crevices

I love you the green of an anole when it’s mellow, of a green tree frog in a curled banana leaf

Our first hug in the morning and the last whisper of love at night

Heidi, I love you the pale greenest

How is Your Heart?

A friend of mine asked me—"How is your heart?"

It caught me off guard

Hardly knew where to start

There's laughter and springtime

And loved ones and art

But children are hiding 

From bombs they call "smart"

There's flirting and romance

And families torn apart

There's dancing and loving

And death tolls on charts

A friend of mine asked me—"How is your heart?"

It caught me off guard

Hardly knew where to start

The River

(Maybe not a poem. Just musings.)

He looked out over the space that had become so sacred—those trees, now showering leaves of amber, ochre, crimson, the cabin itself, rustic, smelling of earth, and wood and simplicity. Most especially the river. Would he ever return? Would he walk the muddy bank, smell the freshness, bathe his face in the foggy mist, feel the beloved rocks beneath his feet? 

He was already years older than his own father at his passing. Would the opportunity present itself? Travel, relationships, health… life. There were many obstacles between this encounter with the river and future visits.

He gazed one final time at the mist rising from this water rushing ever onward to the sea. He looked through the sun-drenched leaves, smelled the funky still waters cut off from the flow by recent drought, felt a kinship with the hickory, walnut, and oak. There was the distant aroma of skunk, of manure from the horse pasture. He watched whirligigs and water striders in the small eddies behind the rocks, and a trout hiding furtively under a ledge waiting for the inevitable shiner. 

Would he live to stand in this space, to feel the river’s breath once again?

Tears cooled his cheeks as he climbed the bluff and walked into his tomorrows.