Ninety-nine years ago an instant of time was snapped.
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A picture of a life just beginning preserved by caring; April 1926, rural Alabama. Her birth certificate denotes, in cursive, under Doctor-Midwife:Mrs. B. A midwife or, who knows now, just by chance a caring neighbor? Is that the birthing sheet hung to dry in the background?
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See the slate-looking stones placed under the rockers and the two pillows in dinge softness framing a newborn life; daughter, sister, mother; an endless array of assignations. See the leather covered seat... the rocker's an inside chair. No flash bulbed cameras back then for poor farmer folks; she had to be brought outside to face the sun...the glare of life's beginnings. See her tiny fingers grasping, searching for something to clutch, to squeeze...always...to cling to?
“She’s a Traveler, for sure.” Nurse sighed through a tired, unpretentious smile. “Gotta chase her down at times to give’er meds.
Other day tried to get in the mechanical room! Course, it was locked... but you never can tell... lord knows why she’s always wheeling around...
looking for somebody, probably you, or a way outta here. Course, we all love’er; she's always sweet’n kind... always saying Thanks Honey!, Hi! and such...
except at night sometimes when she screams and calls for something we don’t understand... yeah, she’s really a Traveler, a Searcher for sure."
Soybean rows paved the fields in tan shades heralding by their dryness a nearing harvest; a crop, a cycle, a promise of a fulfillment. Lean, overalled, old man paces his fields; squatting, testing multiple plants’ readiness. A taciturn self can’t hide the bliss of Harvest.
A seventeen-year-old boy has harvested, with, according to companions, “extreme happiness,” a young, rare albino antelope. Ask about the hunt, the harvester said, “I‘m was so happy! I couldn’t git a breath!” Culls blood runs thick-red over white hair.
“News! Breaking news! News just for you! An illicit harvesting may have just occurred! Apparently, the Harvester did not issue any notifications prior to this culling and states his intent was ‘totally eradicate, not mere persecution, of those sordid, ethic beast!’”.
An apiarist, a priest and a carpenter walked into a bar. OK. What happened then? A cellist walked in, opened his case and shot them with his AR-15. OK. Why just those three? He was stung by a bee, touched by a priest and his father was a carpenter. OK. Was that his trial defense? Oh, never caught and the three weren’t regulars, anyway. OK. Did you just make all that up? What’s your job? Gotta go, due at the Symphony Hall.
Memories do blanch, change, slip to nonexistence but one still remains clear as a straight razor edge. 1953 probably. 1st grade, small wood, rural rental with an old outhouse...but we had running water!
At my new school we had "duck and cover" drills and every Sunday service the preacher screamed at me words directly from God; if deemed an unbeliever, I would endure forever a lake of fire and brimstone.
My dreams of fire came at night way before I slept. I knew my small bed and handmake quilts offered no protection, only a sweaty taste of fire to come as I clutched them in fear tightly around my neck.
One way or the other, I was destined to be burned, by The Bomb or by my inability to accept gods will; to be a red seething char as those in our coal stove, only screaming with all the others in our agony.
I am no longer six. I am 76. Accepting the inevitable is a process accomplished by most; a natural process, not taught in schools. I went to a funeral home today and purchased a prepaid cremation plan. Hello, Fire!
Once again, the Final Edit begins;
a rearrangement...Cut...Copy...Paste...Delete
and regretted words are revised, changed...denied.
Perhaps, they or I said that but meant the other;
new words I just remembered; was it just a joke!
Ha! Ha! Did I appear to be laughing?
Anyway: a beginning is always the beginning
and the ending is never, ever really the ending.
All Vegan of course! Eggplant Roulade with Sweet Potato Cheese Sauce and Bread and Butter Pickles
Fuzz saw, no, smelled it first, the cruel pile
of dumped vegetables across our street's ditch
in brushes edge. A couple of deep sniffs and,
not enthralled, he yanked my leash to leave.
Vegetables, still pee-free, were not enticing.
"Waite!" I snapped, offering a Milk Bone to halt
retreat. Cucumbers, yellow squash, even eggplant
lay among a scattering of pinkish sweet potatoes.
Inspecting the trove, I found only one eggplant
past saving; the rest lay yearning for fruition.
The suspect perps live across the street, but
were gone. "Dammit!" I wanted them to witness my
smile as I stuffed three cucumbers in my pockets
and hastily returned with an Ingles bag to save
the discarded; glorying in my self-righteous.
Tofu and Eggplant Stir-fryBread and Butter Pickles
Yellow Squash Casserole with Sweet Potato Cheese Sauce.
Having neither reference nor degree
I’m untethered to roam, to render free,
my taste, my smell, my guts in poetry or song:
iambs so sweet or sugary rhyme,
or esoteric muddle out of time.
The choice is mine as is the reward;
to grin, to whisper, “Yes! Yes!” at rare
sweet morsels of insight, of pithy delight.
Too modest-shy to claim the honor “Poet”,
I’ll wait for it to be bestowed, or not,
and labor quiet, content, secure, alone.
If when I’m gone, melted but for bone,
a soul, naïve or informed, should say,
“He was a poet you know”, I’ll bone clack
in my eternal sleep and hiss through dust
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”
It’s hard to believe this blog has been around for eleven years. My Anthem was included in my first post and still residues on the About page. It expresses what I felt then, what I still do and hopefully will as long as I can maintain some semblance of cognition. Belated Words has helped me through many tough times like those we all must endure.
Belated Words 