Sorry, Sorry Harlan!
"Pathfork Branch led up into the endless dark pines of the Black Mountain Coal Company’s holdings near and around Harlan. Damn Harlan. Mines shut down through anti-labor forces’ control of the local economy. Ya live in a company house & ya gotta get yer every commodity, flour, meal, sugar, fat, whole nine yard from the Company Store & the only way to pay is with company issue script. Scab dog strike busters prowling round the mines and hollers menacingly mounted on dull black Indian motor bikes, just to make sure ya don’t bring any one thing up the holler but what ya bought at their store. Bad as all that might be, worse things happen up round them hollers, worse things ya don’t wanna tell. Dark days in Harlan. Terrible oppressive days, pushing people past their limit, actions beyond their control."
Pale blue eyes opened to pale blue eyes, the morning hushed and still held close. He thought it a dream that happened upon him, her body an escape from here and now, slow and so sure, and all from within, as though meant to be, as though it all had to happen so true. She thought it a Sunday best bright new beginning, his arms now so gentle. Mother always swore by new beginnings. His body never so familiar and kind, a wonderous grand escape from the cruel demands of life in death.
The grey shroud of morning pulled slowly from the bare plank three room hovel torn into the hillside a near mile yonder from Pathfork Branch feeder line. Through the pale mist, sky tall Hickory Cane sweet corn stalks picked near clean, the round orange/green promise of autumn pie melon thickly covering the ground. Along the path, opposite the garden patch, tall dark hollyhocks flanked the yellow hillside. Mud/grey plank walls surrounded their rooms. On the porch itself, a lone hound silently acknowledged the approach, slowly raising up, lumbering from the way. The door opens into the soot darkened room, grey walls layered in cardboard and torn newsprint. The warm remains of a morning wood fire begged attention. He pulled the pint bottle from the pocket of the blackened worn canvas overcoat and sat it on the table. Produced a dark revolver, it too he placed on the table. He hung his coat over the back of one of three split bark chairs. He twisted the metal cap from the bottle and drew the clear liquid. From behind a pulled curtain, hushed whispers announced the presence of others. Nicklaus ripped back the curtain to expose the horror of mirrored guilt and shame. Young bodies rushed to clumsily hide themselves beneath indigo grey cowboy patchwork. No words were spoken. The commandments broken, demanded harsh judgment. Hell no! This wasn’t to be. His intent was clear as he raised the revolver and fired on the bed. The retort rang through the hillside again, and again until the revolver was spent, repeating down the holler toward Pathfork Branch, the morning clearing the way.
“There was such a desperate gnawing hunger then, an always great need for any assurance of continuance in the face of such great oppression. And the fear that when salvation comes, it comes not so less horrible. I was made to stay from school and turn toward smoke thick darkness, heavy silica so closely oppressing every breath so very deep within the earth, I cried for fear at the thought of deep darkness, the heart pounding knowledge of ever present possibility of live burial!! What terrible Christ could allow such going down into the earth? I begged Mammy to not let me go the next day, to keep me safe after the night. Her sock puppet frown hummed a nursery rhyme lullaby in soft whispers : ‘Rock-a-bye Baby…when the bough breaks…the cradle will fall.’ Bough broke desolation, despair, an end to possibility. After she passed, there was no complaint ‘lowed voice in that house. Nicklaus ruled, with every angry breath, as though his family, his children were to blame for the state o’ ‘fairs up an down Pathfork Branch ."
"They said there had been an accident while hunting. That Isiah was up the mountain with Clemet, a cousin o’ sorts. I saw nothing else, heard nothing else. Knew nothing contrary to what was said. Anyway, Isiah’s demise came early one August morning, and they said he was found shot through, his young dear beautiful heart pierced and torn, the heavy mist hanging close throughout the holler, close beyond the rolling bow of truth. There had been an accident & I’ve nothing to tell. But what of that iron bedstead shot through, hidden from the truth.
Killin’s not that unusual, really, lots o’ killin’ all through Harlan these days, in the mine fields & everywhere. That came in with the god damned scab deputy antiunion thugs, true criminals. The worse of the worse, hired to force the company line. God damn murderous scabs They talked of her disappearance from Black Star Mountain Company Pathfork Branch. Story was, after Isiah’s accident, she ran off with some short time would be scab from Cincinnati. Damn, if true, we should all know such luck. All this happened late that summer. Two family members, mysteriously gone: one shot through while out hunting squirrel fer Nicklaus’ supper; and her, near the same age, thought to be twins, so alike in appearance: Thin sunblessed sublime towheads, first take/double take. As though one person is twice missing from our gathering, two individuals so in sync in thought and action, there was little need to identify either separately. Course there was an inquiry, o’ sorts, one of the local constables stopped in to see Nicklaus, likely had a sip & a chaw, ‘fore getting around to the details of the accident. Little more than a show of authority, the real business of the day as usual, had to do with managing the influx of strikebreakers the mine bosses had brought in to kill the union. Sad fact be that business included killing the very heart of these mountains, those men that labored in that horrible darkness. And they weren’t dying not just deep within the earth, but in the very beds they’d bought from the Black Star Company, same damn company now supplying the very bullets tearing through the morning.."
“Where was he hunting and who was he with,” the constable might ask.
“Out for squirrel up the hill.” Nicklaus would answer matter of fact. “Clement went with him. I guess young Clem tripped going up the hill and his rifle went off. I can bring him to ya if need be” He’d actually go so far as to say that. Hell, only truth in all that was that Isah was shot dead, and he weren’t hunting squirrel.
Truth was never told, never repeated, the story stands as Nicklaus spoke it: a hunting accident took the life of a dear towhead angel, his oldest son. And how his would be twin, must have took up with a short time scab from Cincy, anything they say to leave Harlan. Truth was, the evidence still stood where the younguns breathed their last. The iron bed stood silent witness behind the tattered soot grimed curtain, testament to blazing bright light.
I had to get the hell out o’ Harlan and away from that damn mine. I wasn’t going back into the ground if I could at all help it. Murderous pit, I recall when the Star pit collapsed and buried so many. That Fieldpot boy that everyone was crazy for, a wonder to be near, smart as ever, a real pistol, he went to the pit, sure as all damnation. And I sure as hell didn’t want any youngun o’ mind going down there. I had to get away, that’s why I went to the war, joined up. I was turned down at first; my weight was too light. A solid two weeks eating bananas and oatmeal to put the pounds on. I finally made weight and enlisted. Left my woman pregnant and went to war. That other hell. What other choice was there? Learned to deal with machinery and engines. Got the damn hell out o’ Harlan."
Generations of Sons
Dark County Rural Route 7
The lane to the house ran west, past an ancient woodlot, birches thin tall white peeling multiples reaching skyward. He saw this, Dreamus Payne, third son of another son from the war. Dream saw this from the blue Hudson window as he sailed past, turning his eyes forward to the house approaching ahead. Tall Cottonwood sententials stood at the yard gate. One diminutive tree dwelling snake slipped easily up between bark ridges. The tall white frame house welcomed the family. There would be little trouble from town, not this far out in Darke County. Not running from trouble, exactly, there had been trouble here and there since leaving Harlan, before he could remember. After the trouble with Dewey, the store keep at Brathesville. They took him away then, at night, men in suits, detectives.
“What’s it gonna be Fuson?” they asked, detectives in dark suits and hats. “You or the kids, one or the other's gotta go.” "Take the kids,” Fuson cried, beggin' to be left alone. “Let em take the kids, Mag.” “Take him,” mother answered.
Seeing Fus like that, through a barred hospital window, the family gathered outside the building on the grass, as though it were a picnic, Dream wondered for the truth of it all, what grave illness might put his father behind such a window as this. He didn’t look ill. What could possibly be the matter.
First memory reasons. The clean fresh air and open space was a treat for Dream. Here, there was room to run without the fear of traffic, or nosey neighbors. Here, there was room to grow, fields, the wood lot, and a small stream when it rained. They could be at home here. But of course there was a problem.
The Burning
The problem, for Dream at least, had to do with awakening out of synch, no longer snug safe in blue and red feed-sack cowboy quilting but awakening in an other time, an other place. Though he last lay down in his own bed, like every other late evening, midway through the dark might inexplicably find him setting on the stairs overlooking the family room below, or gazing sky ward through an open east facing door as if monitoring some far off twinkling galaxy. Or, even more disturbing, standing alone and motionless mid some unnamed space, surrounded by bright evolving light. What is there to explain? To whom? Nothing ever understood, but heart feared realization, and the nature of the universe hidden just before coming ‘round, pushed back into preconscious shadows: dual planes of existence, odd then even. It all somehow had to do with the quality of a wavelength, a certain trembling that came upon him odd times while others slept, a knowledge of recent movement replacing errant decoy realities; Dream, near naked in the open doorway moonless nights, stars twinkling ever so brightly so strong; and certain awe filled dreams of space/time deliverance and transit sequence.
The first instance of Dream questioning reality happened one evening when there were overnight visitors and he was tucked in after falling asleep on the sofa. When he awakened in a bed other than his usual, he fought to make sense of his current location. Finding no comfort, his cries woke the house. It was the dark, the absence of warm light, the horror of the void recognized. The vocabulary of one so tender disallowed communicating the nature of this distress. But he was used to living with the unexplained, the unasked question. There was no burden of proof that anything was real, anything other than frightening vision.
Dream’s cries at night amounted to very little compared to the disturbance set to come upon him sure as any damnation: fire. Innocence plays before the judgment, actions reeling free of playfield. After the harvest, the corn full crib and a snowing of husks, a changing of shapes as crisp white is kissed by a flicker blue flame. An odd match kindles more quickly than he might imagine. Who knew fire flashed so bright. Control lost, the wind sings a warning, bright ribbons twirling naming the foul breeze. The fire, once started, flows across the ground all ‘bout the barn. Bare buildings, beautiful tender and horror despair. Nothing left but the shelter of arms to not tell. The secret is born of smoke and flame. From the outhouse he ran to, Dream watched the thick dark cloud rising up into the afternoon sky, high over the quiet prairie. Mother’s frantic call broke the still terror. He ran to her arms as she called the other children, each counted safe.
The fire department, though miles away, was called. A battered pickup tore through the lane toward the house, vehicles followed in the dust, an odd train tore up the lane. Curious neighbors and farmers from nearby fields raced toward the flames as evil red tongues licked and twirled the engulfed corn crib and quickly advanced to a side barn. Men from nearby fields and farms, overalls and straw hats, ran to draw water from the cistern pump. Buckets filled and carried, water tossed bravely toward roaring flames. Two other barns filled with equipment stood vulnerable. Dream’s attempt to hide in his mother’s skirt was foiled by the hurried action of people carrying furniture from the house, in case the wind changed and air born embers were blown to the roof. Sirens screamed closer, louder. The rats, large as housecats, ran every direction away from the flames. The men in their overalls and dirty undershirts began whacking the beasts with shovels and forks, again and again, raising one foot high off the ground and coming down hard on the squirming vermin, gleefully tromping fat bodies into the dust.
And so the day was chaos, pure as ever could be, and desperate fear, men asking questions the older brother pulled Dream back from. They weren’t the police. The barns all burned. Explosions mid the roaring flames called the demise of tractors and combines, equipment of a livelihood. Evening settled on the mountain of rubble, twisted metal and smoldering ash. The army of volunteers, the firemen and their equipment, gone. The farm owner sat on the tailgate of his red truck, head in his hands, counting the loss. The secret untold. They would have to relocate.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Sunday, April 25, 2010
(4) From: The Wait, BL Seiber, 1994 (The Prize)
Please read 1, 2, 3, 4 in numeric order
The Legend
She waits for the manna of your letters from prison, the love seat by the window worn to her contour. But that's what you want: someone to believe the legend you created enough to hold vigil. In rundown neighborhood taverns where you were most comfortable, grown boys swear they drank with you that night before. The newspapers headlined the murder; your photo, face dead cold, eyes crazed. The only time she broke down was when I told her I didn't care if I never saw you again. Today, I packed three crates of letters, what you call poems, proclaiming the glory of God, the forgiveness of Jesus. Still, there's hardly room for her clothes in the dresser. Both it and the nightstand are full of white envelopes postmarked Louisville addressed to our mother. You somehow think they're important, need to be saved. The document signed by the governor commuting your death sentence slipped into the large illustrated bible you sent home from Vietnam, as if it were some diploma. Ministers call to say they're praying for you. That's fine. I spend hours filling boxes, avoiding the subject.
Letters for the Dark
August will subside in the pale glow of moonflowers. The first opened this evening around eight-thirty while I was occupied with a sketch I won today at auction. A charcole nude of a reclining, slight-built teen, his head turnd away from the artist. I imagine that you, my wildhaired buck-dancing boy. The slim build, little more than a faint triangle nesting small, perfectly formed genitals. All reminiscent of the image of you I keep bound in my head. The face, buried in a pillow, adds to the intrigue, and more readily allows for the fleshing of memory; so like the pornography you left by my bed. The moonflower is new to my garden. A full hand across, the soft white saucer protrudes from a throat extending fantastically from the fence trellis. I would imagine it lonely but for the other buds swirling to unfold with the next night's darkness. Calonyction: A fairness of night; fitting tribute to the motions of loss. One night per blossom.
The Poem I Fail at Writing
Snow filled the path we made through the dark as I opened the drapes to let in the shimmer. You didn't like candles, said something about whores. And I couldn't share this secret with vulger bright light. The world slipped as you made your play. The shirt falls through heaven with deliberate slowness; jeans take a decade to light by the chair. The fierceness of youth. The naieve posing. And after the trembling I whispered "Be my Goldmund," remembering my Hesse. "And I'll be your Narcissus." I thought you asleep. You never answered. Then with my "God I love you," all hell broke lose.
Pleasant Cem try, Era, Ohio
A e is missing from the cemetery gate the otherside of Era, off state Route 3. The scrolling, wrought iron arch reads Pleasant Cemet ry--I know that's not true. A boy is buried there. I come occassionally to stand at his grave, measure my anger against rolling clouds. I think of his mother, if she's any better. I would like to see finches darting between stones, some quick flash of life. Sentinel pines are too dark: morbid. The old mausoleum crumbling to shame. He had said, as we walked cobbled streets of our gay district, "If I ever test positive, I'll kill myself." The sod is quite thick this year. I guess it'll hold. I come to replace what his mother tears out. She's mourning grandchildren, a lack of bright flowers. No son of hers would ever end up... The clouds roll out across the plain.
The Prize
In the garden with twine and Father's bone-handled Case XX, undoing storm damage; tall young tomatoes have fallen from stakes, vines lay haphazard, groundward, confused. Crouching in wet grass, I gather each branch, rebundle the green mass of leaves, fruit and stem. I'm careful to not lay the knife down between steps. The moisture would ruin the blade's patina. The knife was my gift to him, years ago Christmas, one of many I gave him, returned at his death. Twice doubled, the twine cuts easily, no match for the sharpness of forge hardened steel. He understood a boy's need for a knife, the truth of machined blades, bleached-bone and stag-handled. The first that I owned was one I'd stolen from a third grade class closet, with multiple blades too large for a boy. He asked where I got it. I lied, "From a buddy at school." Sin number two. My father pocketed the big knife, multiple sin, gave me a small, worn, single blade Case. "Don't take it to school and get caught," he said. "That's how knives are lost." How did he know? Here in the garden, hands greened, knees muddied, I lash vines to slim poles, lay claim through these labors, his garden and yard.
The Legend
She waits for the manna of your letters from prison, the love seat by the window worn to her contour. But that's what you want: someone to believe the legend you created enough to hold vigil. In rundown neighborhood taverns where you were most comfortable, grown boys swear they drank with you that night before. The newspapers headlined the murder; your photo, face dead cold, eyes crazed. The only time she broke down was when I told her I didn't care if I never saw you again. Today, I packed three crates of letters, what you call poems, proclaiming the glory of God, the forgiveness of Jesus. Still, there's hardly room for her clothes in the dresser. Both it and the nightstand are full of white envelopes postmarked Louisville addressed to our mother. You somehow think they're important, need to be saved. The document signed by the governor commuting your death sentence slipped into the large illustrated bible you sent home from Vietnam, as if it were some diploma. Ministers call to say they're praying for you. That's fine. I spend hours filling boxes, avoiding the subject.
Letters for the Dark
August will subside in the pale glow of moonflowers. The first opened this evening around eight-thirty while I was occupied with a sketch I won today at auction. A charcole nude of a reclining, slight-built teen, his head turnd away from the artist. I imagine that you, my wildhaired buck-dancing boy. The slim build, little more than a faint triangle nesting small, perfectly formed genitals. All reminiscent of the image of you I keep bound in my head. The face, buried in a pillow, adds to the intrigue, and more readily allows for the fleshing of memory; so like the pornography you left by my bed. The moonflower is new to my garden. A full hand across, the soft white saucer protrudes from a throat extending fantastically from the fence trellis. I would imagine it lonely but for the other buds swirling to unfold with the next night's darkness. Calonyction: A fairness of night; fitting tribute to the motions of loss. One night per blossom.
The Poem I Fail at Writing
Snow filled the path we made through the dark as I opened the drapes to let in the shimmer. You didn't like candles, said something about whores. And I couldn't share this secret with vulger bright light. The world slipped as you made your play. The shirt falls through heaven with deliberate slowness; jeans take a decade to light by the chair. The fierceness of youth. The naieve posing. And after the trembling I whispered "Be my Goldmund," remembering my Hesse. "And I'll be your Narcissus." I thought you asleep. You never answered. Then with my "God I love you," all hell broke lose.
Pleasant Cem try, Era, Ohio
A e is missing from the cemetery gate the otherside of Era, off state Route 3. The scrolling, wrought iron arch reads Pleasant Cemet ry--I know that's not true. A boy is buried there. I come occassionally to stand at his grave, measure my anger against rolling clouds. I think of his mother, if she's any better. I would like to see finches darting between stones, some quick flash of life. Sentinel pines are too dark: morbid. The old mausoleum crumbling to shame. He had said, as we walked cobbled streets of our gay district, "If I ever test positive, I'll kill myself." The sod is quite thick this year. I guess it'll hold. I come to replace what his mother tears out. She's mourning grandchildren, a lack of bright flowers. No son of hers would ever end up... The clouds roll out across the plain.
The Prize
In the garden with twine and Father's bone-handled Case XX, undoing storm damage; tall young tomatoes have fallen from stakes, vines lay haphazard, groundward, confused. Crouching in wet grass, I gather each branch, rebundle the green mass of leaves, fruit and stem. I'm careful to not lay the knife down between steps. The moisture would ruin the blade's patina. The knife was my gift to him, years ago Christmas, one of many I gave him, returned at his death. Twice doubled, the twine cuts easily, no match for the sharpness of forge hardened steel. He understood a boy's need for a knife, the truth of machined blades, bleached-bone and stag-handled. The first that I owned was one I'd stolen from a third grade class closet, with multiple blades too large for a boy. He asked where I got it. I lied, "From a buddy at school." Sin number two. My father pocketed the big knife, multiple sin, gave me a small, worn, single blade Case. "Don't take it to school and get caught," he said. "That's how knives are lost." How did he know? Here in the garden, hands greened, knees muddied, I lash vines to slim poles, lay claim through these labors, his garden and yard.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
(3) From: The Wait, BL Seiber, 1994 Chapter II, The Prize
One AM
I want to stay up the night, reading, writing poetry till dawn. But the woman who bore me, kept me for years, lies two rooms away, facing east if on her left side, west, if on her right, struggling for position in a threatening world. It's inoperable. I want to write her story, but it always comes back his story, or their story. But that is her story. Half a century of suppers and breakfasts, diapers and wet beds, kids gone off God knows where. I want to make poems of the fires she stoked, the water she carried, waiting for a husband gone off to war. But I fear I may disturb her sleep. She worries over my preference for the dark, my preoccupation with what is written. It's not that I resent the intrusion; I feel her presence as she turns in her sleep. I crave the escape and release of words that have everything to do with meaning so real, her bed and her chair are nothing to the dark.
The Wait
She lies in the quiet of her small room, curved spine unmoving, fetal beneath the grey caul of morning. And I take my place in Father's chair at the table, coughing the cigarettes as he did untill Black Lung silenced his hack. I know she's awake in the dark, relearning the emptiness that cancer brings. The solitude of continuance when half one's life is missing. Lost. She's waiting till I get settled in the hour with my smoke and coffee. Accustomed to life alone before I was called to be the caregiver, I'm not always considerate enough to be kind so early. Smoke fills my lungs, famililar, calming. First Father; now her? Chemo alone might not be enough, slight constant weight drops whisper the toll. Steam rises and spits as coffee sputters. The pot needs cleaned again, It's the hard water. The whole house begs for repair. With luck, the worst will wait till spring.
Radiation
How is it watching the present undone? Winter in small rooms. Curtains pulled against the light. Details less noticed in the dim: thinning hair, unbrushed; skirt and sweater, comfortable but coarse, colors never really matching; hands worn rough by radiation, injected weekly. Room to room, uncertain steps and a trail of words. I wish the mail would come. Your brother hasn't called for days, aware that I'm not really listening. I hear her well enough. It's just the repetition: an echo for her jangled nerves. Smoothing tangles of hair, I wonder how it's come to this, and say "It's only a little thin."
May 5 6:15
It's spring and mother hardly knows. Safe behind locked doors, she rarely hears me turn into the drive. Quick naps; the house shut. She's dreaming a childhood of orchards and churchbells, a rail fence and gate in a holler near Harlan, a time before other sons went bad and were caught. I knock loud, unlock the door, keys jangling. "I'm home." She stirs in her chair by the window as I open rooms. "I've not seen a soul," she says. "The phone doesn't ring." "It works both ways," I reply, pouring fresh coffee; as always, my ashtray in place at the table. "I've tomatoes to set out before fixing dinner," I say, changing shoes. "Well, you would," her asnswer. The coffee is strong.
I want to stay up the night, reading, writing poetry till dawn. But the woman who bore me, kept me for years, lies two rooms away, facing east if on her left side, west, if on her right, struggling for position in a threatening world. It's inoperable. I want to write her story, but it always comes back his story, or their story. But that is her story. Half a century of suppers and breakfasts, diapers and wet beds, kids gone off God knows where. I want to make poems of the fires she stoked, the water she carried, waiting for a husband gone off to war. But I fear I may disturb her sleep. She worries over my preference for the dark, my preoccupation with what is written. It's not that I resent the intrusion; I feel her presence as she turns in her sleep. I crave the escape and release of words that have everything to do with meaning so real, her bed and her chair are nothing to the dark.
The Wait
She lies in the quiet of her small room, curved spine unmoving, fetal beneath the grey caul of morning. And I take my place in Father's chair at the table, coughing the cigarettes as he did untill Black Lung silenced his hack. I know she's awake in the dark, relearning the emptiness that cancer brings. The solitude of continuance when half one's life is missing. Lost. She's waiting till I get settled in the hour with my smoke and coffee. Accustomed to life alone before I was called to be the caregiver, I'm not always considerate enough to be kind so early. Smoke fills my lungs, famililar, calming. First Father; now her? Chemo alone might not be enough, slight constant weight drops whisper the toll. Steam rises and spits as coffee sputters. The pot needs cleaned again, It's the hard water. The whole house begs for repair. With luck, the worst will wait till spring.
Radiation
How is it watching the present undone? Winter in small rooms. Curtains pulled against the light. Details less noticed in the dim: thinning hair, unbrushed; skirt and sweater, comfortable but coarse, colors never really matching; hands worn rough by radiation, injected weekly. Room to room, uncertain steps and a trail of words. I wish the mail would come. Your brother hasn't called for days, aware that I'm not really listening. I hear her well enough. It's just the repetition: an echo for her jangled nerves. Smoothing tangles of hair, I wonder how it's come to this, and say "It's only a little thin."
May 5 6:15
It's spring and mother hardly knows. Safe behind locked doors, she rarely hears me turn into the drive. Quick naps; the house shut. She's dreaming a childhood of orchards and churchbells, a rail fence and gate in a holler near Harlan, a time before other sons went bad and were caught. I knock loud, unlock the door, keys jangling. "I'm home." She stirs in her chair by the window as I open rooms. "I've not seen a soul," she says. "The phone doesn't ring." "It works both ways," I reply, pouring fresh coffee; as always, my ashtray in place at the table. "I've tomatoes to set out before fixing dinner," I say, changing shoes. "Well, you would," her asnswer. The coffee is strong.
Friday, April 23, 2010
(2) From: The Wait, BL Seiber, 1994
Questing
The final nickle-movie season in the old Great Southern: sprung seats retaped, gesso putti facade crumbling, jujubes and Steve Reeves, Jason and the Golden Fleece, weekdays noon and three o'clock for five cents in the cool decline. You're a boy alone in town for the day, familiar with the first floor near the back. A summe ritual, the nickle movie brings the kids in from street trouble. No news here. But out of nowhere in the dark, a man takes up the adjoining seat. No one you know. On the screen, the cyclops roars through his island domain. Unlucky sailors, ball-tossed, are eaten whole. A hand slips over the barrier between the seats to your inner thigh. One touch. No more, but more than enough. You get up from the movie--you've been warned--and walk toward the lobby. But who is there to tell. The cyclops screams in anguish from within. You're in this alone. You stop at the fountain and he approaches; unattractive, small, disheveled. "Wanna make five dollars," he says. You answer cool as water, without looking, "No," and he slips back into the dark before Jason ever won the fleece. If he had looked like Reeves, had looked as though he could have made good on five whole dollars? Then, perhaps you could have said yes, and been white-knighted toward oblivion. That thought remains paramont as you step into the aftrenoon. Jason's returned home with the fleece. You've nothing but a lingering question, boarding a #4 bus, headed south.
Return From Darke County.
White lost its purity one summer, the sky nothing but blue for the sake of the finches, their song, the fence row. The red Nova wagon slipped into the drive; my father and sister returning from an overnight in Greenville, Darke County. She'd needed a rest they said, a short change of pace. I sauntered as best I could at thirteen, got the door for her, my practice dance partner, years older than I. She paused when our eyes met, not smiling as I would've imagined a young lady rested, returning should be, sporting a new trim fitting white dress. "Greenville was generous," I said. "Your sister's tired," father repiled. And I had to agree. Her fair, pale skin, always somewhat enemic, looked thin and translucent, touched by a blue I'd not seen before. The distance between us could not be crossed in my father's presence. But later that evening, the phonograph in her room traversed the void, beginning with the Platter's Yes, I'm the great pretender, pretending that I'm feeling well, and ending with Maxine Brown's Smile! You can smile at lots o' things, the good the bad, the hurt, all of it's so true! Blues purchased by Michael, her white-Chrysler boyfriend, at a small Hilltop store, where the puds dress in chinos and expensive Ban-lons. We swayed to the music. Her tears wet my shoulder. "What is it," I asked. "Won't they let you see Michael?" "He's busy," she answered. "With his own wife and daughter." She looked straight at me: "I'd have given him a boy." And I wish, how I wish someone would care. Don't ya think someone should care?
First Dance
Second floor dark with a friend sleeping over, the one who refused to skinny dip, that hot, Ohio horseweed summer. At the stream, he blushed when you slipped worn jeans and snow white briefs, laughing, down to ankles; turned away as you stepped free, revealing to the world and his side glances, cock and balls enough you guessed. He watched from the bank beneath the pawpaws, as you cut through shade-cool water, rolling faceup to a clear-sky nothing. But it's here, in the dark, as you lie spoon-close beneath grandmother's tumbling-block quilt. Not quite a touch, too slight to define, a hand abscent mindedly coming to rest near the front of your briefs. A katydid has found its way into the room, strumming from the cieling each night-second, strumming possibilities as you press to the hand so near. Would he respond? Feel the blood rush? Lights from the highway below sweep quarterpane shadows across upperwalls. The katydid's story is all you hear. Father always said they were good luck. The hand finds its place, and you clumisly exchange carresses, shadowed safe from the morality of twinkling juvenile stars.
The final nickle-movie season in the old Great Southern: sprung seats retaped, gesso putti facade crumbling, jujubes and Steve Reeves, Jason and the Golden Fleece, weekdays noon and three o'clock for five cents in the cool decline. You're a boy alone in town for the day, familiar with the first floor near the back. A summe ritual, the nickle movie brings the kids in from street trouble. No news here. But out of nowhere in the dark, a man takes up the adjoining seat. No one you know. On the screen, the cyclops roars through his island domain. Unlucky sailors, ball-tossed, are eaten whole. A hand slips over the barrier between the seats to your inner thigh. One touch. No more, but more than enough. You get up from the movie--you've been warned--and walk toward the lobby. But who is there to tell. The cyclops screams in anguish from within. You're in this alone. You stop at the fountain and he approaches; unattractive, small, disheveled. "Wanna make five dollars," he says. You answer cool as water, without looking, "No," and he slips back into the dark before Jason ever won the fleece. If he had looked like Reeves, had looked as though he could have made good on five whole dollars? Then, perhaps you could have said yes, and been white-knighted toward oblivion. That thought remains paramont as you step into the aftrenoon. Jason's returned home with the fleece. You've nothing but a lingering question, boarding a #4 bus, headed south.
Return From Darke County.
White lost its purity one summer, the sky nothing but blue for the sake of the finches, their song, the fence row. The red Nova wagon slipped into the drive; my father and sister returning from an overnight in Greenville, Darke County. She'd needed a rest they said, a short change of pace. I sauntered as best I could at thirteen, got the door for her, my practice dance partner, years older than I. She paused when our eyes met, not smiling as I would've imagined a young lady rested, returning should be, sporting a new trim fitting white dress. "Greenville was generous," I said. "Your sister's tired," father repiled. And I had to agree. Her fair, pale skin, always somewhat enemic, looked thin and translucent, touched by a blue I'd not seen before. The distance between us could not be crossed in my father's presence. But later that evening, the phonograph in her room traversed the void, beginning with the Platter's Yes, I'm the great pretender, pretending that I'm feeling well, and ending with Maxine Brown's Smile! You can smile at lots o' things, the good the bad, the hurt, all of it's so true! Blues purchased by Michael, her white-Chrysler boyfriend, at a small Hilltop store, where the puds dress in chinos and expensive Ban-lons. We swayed to the music. Her tears wet my shoulder. "What is it," I asked. "Won't they let you see Michael?" "He's busy," she answered. "With his own wife and daughter." She looked straight at me: "I'd have given him a boy." And I wish, how I wish someone would care. Don't ya think someone should care?
First Dance
Second floor dark with a friend sleeping over, the one who refused to skinny dip, that hot, Ohio horseweed summer. At the stream, he blushed when you slipped worn jeans and snow white briefs, laughing, down to ankles; turned away as you stepped free, revealing to the world and his side glances, cock and balls enough you guessed. He watched from the bank beneath the pawpaws, as you cut through shade-cool water, rolling faceup to a clear-sky nothing. But it's here, in the dark, as you lie spoon-close beneath grandmother's tumbling-block quilt. Not quite a touch, too slight to define, a hand abscent mindedly coming to rest near the front of your briefs. A katydid has found its way into the room, strumming from the cieling each night-second, strumming possibilities as you press to the hand so near. Would he respond? Feel the blood rush? Lights from the highway below sweep quarterpane shadows across upperwalls. The katydid's story is all you hear. Father always said they were good luck. The hand finds its place, and you clumisly exchange carresses, shadowed safe from the morality of twinkling juvenile stars.
(1) From: The Wait, BL Seiber, MFA thesis, 1994
The Hudson
A history of my family involves a history of vehicles; large, long, fast sedans whose power reflected some need in my father, some want of a small man for a grander definition. The first ever turn into Grosack Lane was made in darkness. I was ready for the future then. The Hudson's bullet lines slipped quietly into the shadows. My mother, weary from the move and children so young, moaned "I knew it couldn't be," as we sailed past the white farmhouse and through the first gate. Our dwelling lay somewhere ahead in the void. The night engulfed our caravan: Father, Mother, the baby, two sisters and I occupied the Hudson; an uncle drove the moving van; two brothers followed in the Kaiser. At the second gate, my father waited, engines running, the dark playing games beyond the window. He waited to see what I would do before he opened the gate himself. That would come to be my chore: opening gates as he roared by, and waiting to see if he would stop for me.
The Revolver in the Oven
A child, I knew the fix was in, all games rigged, the play over. When Dad was drinking, life became a deteriorating question: a half forgotten notion of what was, when day was meadow full and bright, robin-true, all to be trusted. Life's normal, wheelwork, predictable patterns depended on my father's presence. His plate, at dinner was fixed first, his cup always first full. His pride, that of a small man, was the standard by which by which I measured all men. But in his reverie and stupor, his every trace reeked of cheap wine, urine, death. He had taken to hiding his guns from us. He once thought the oven a safe place for the revolver. My mother, after he'd gone under, lit the stove and went out into the garden before dinner. I was in the yard out back, wondering how true our hound was. At the first report we both came running. She thought I, and I thought she, had put some end to this situation. Another report as, terrifed, we entered the kitchen. Another burst out the back of the stove, and it was clear then what he'd done. She sat there on the floor worn linoleum in front of the stove, and cried, worn out, as two more shots tore through the wall. And through everything, she waited on him. She waited for the car in the lane; for closing time at the E&R Grill; for someone, anyone, to come and tell her just what a woman is supposed to do with her man like death and childern so young.
Envy
Awakened early by Mother's hand, and asked to go search the hayloft for eggs someone forgot for my brother's breakfast. He had to go to the fields soon, and I alone knew the hen's nesting places, which ones were setting, where fresh eggs might be. New cut clover filled the barn with thick, meadow sweetness. Ladder rungs, polished smooth, were no great chore in the not-quite light, even with eggs cradled in one arm to my chest. But I missed the comfort of the bed, my sleep and dreams. One brother and I, we shared a bed. The older chose to sleep alone. He thought himself some Marlon Brando, looked oddly just enough James Dean. I drempt that he had made his run across the field, my mother following as he left the ground. Airborne, they were lost within the breath of stars. I remembered this angrily as I watched him, tanned and shirtless in the summer sun, catching hay bales the machine tossed up. I envied his tight muscles, his size, and the breezy hold with which he kept my mother captive in his clouds.
A history of my family involves a history of vehicles; large, long, fast sedans whose power reflected some need in my father, some want of a small man for a grander definition. The first ever turn into Grosack Lane was made in darkness. I was ready for the future then. The Hudson's bullet lines slipped quietly into the shadows. My mother, weary from the move and children so young, moaned "I knew it couldn't be," as we sailed past the white farmhouse and through the first gate. Our dwelling lay somewhere ahead in the void. The night engulfed our caravan: Father, Mother, the baby, two sisters and I occupied the Hudson; an uncle drove the moving van; two brothers followed in the Kaiser. At the second gate, my father waited, engines running, the dark playing games beyond the window. He waited to see what I would do before he opened the gate himself. That would come to be my chore: opening gates as he roared by, and waiting to see if he would stop for me.
The Revolver in the Oven
A child, I knew the fix was in, all games rigged, the play over. When Dad was drinking, life became a deteriorating question: a half forgotten notion of what was, when day was meadow full and bright, robin-true, all to be trusted. Life's normal, wheelwork, predictable patterns depended on my father's presence. His plate, at dinner was fixed first, his cup always first full. His pride, that of a small man, was the standard by which by which I measured all men. But in his reverie and stupor, his every trace reeked of cheap wine, urine, death. He had taken to hiding his guns from us. He once thought the oven a safe place for the revolver. My mother, after he'd gone under, lit the stove and went out into the garden before dinner. I was in the yard out back, wondering how true our hound was. At the first report we both came running. She thought I, and I thought she, had put some end to this situation. Another report as, terrifed, we entered the kitchen. Another burst out the back of the stove, and it was clear then what he'd done. She sat there on the floor worn linoleum in front of the stove, and cried, worn out, as two more shots tore through the wall. And through everything, she waited on him. She waited for the car in the lane; for closing time at the E&R Grill; for someone, anyone, to come and tell her just what a woman is supposed to do with her man like death and childern so young.
Envy
Awakened early by Mother's hand, and asked to go search the hayloft for eggs someone forgot for my brother's breakfast. He had to go to the fields soon, and I alone knew the hen's nesting places, which ones were setting, where fresh eggs might be. New cut clover filled the barn with thick, meadow sweetness. Ladder rungs, polished smooth, were no great chore in the not-quite light, even with eggs cradled in one arm to my chest. But I missed the comfort of the bed, my sleep and dreams. One brother and I, we shared a bed. The older chose to sleep alone. He thought himself some Marlon Brando, looked oddly just enough James Dean. I drempt that he had made his run across the field, my mother following as he left the ground. Airborne, they were lost within the breath of stars. I remembered this angrily as I watched him, tanned and shirtless in the summer sun, catching hay bales the machine tossed up. I envied his tight muscles, his size, and the breezy hold with which he kept my mother captive in his clouds.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Memorial
Gene was an older, gay alcoholic. When I first arrived at Fifth & High in the Short North, he was one of the first street drunk I came across. Huddled, curled and wet, reeking of alcohol and urine, he was blocking the front doorway to the building where I lived on North High Street. Buzz kill.
"Hey dude!" He smelled too bad to be dead. "Dude!" Eyes opening slow. A blood grey blur. "You're gonna have to move, dude!" He sort of sat up and shifted to the far side of the stoop, barely leaving room to get around. Buzz kill.
Gene was always around, in this or that doorway. The hope of a well meaning Good Samaratian coming through with enough change to buy the next Cobra or bottle of Richards kept him stationed near the carryout, where the owner might have pity on him if his jingle was a bit under what he needed. He survived through the charity of the churches in the area. Better Way Ministries served meals three or four times a week and New Life United Methodist was there every Sunday morning for breakfast. Pastor Jennifer, at New Life, also offered clothing three times a week, so Gene might get a change of drawers when his became soiled enough to offend even his sensibilities. His lot was shared with with a number of other locals who appeared, drank what they could within their society of like destitutes, and disappeared at some appointed hour. At the time, I didn't know where they went when they vanished from the block, who took them, or why. But I noticed that regularly Gene would appear shaved, clean, and in better condition than before.
High Street has been a draw for me since I was a teenager. Back then, the campus area was the hub of street activity. In the block north of Seventeenth, there was an all-night resturant where all the good heads went for coffee, burgers, hallucinogens and other such psychic expanders. White Ozley, purple haze, peyote, and the full range of illicit substances were all to be found there, waiting for any non-believing, nonconformist, experimental test run dreamtime baby. Try everything. Experience for the pure sake. Eventually dreamtime came home to rest, claiming the cerebial territory of the soul part and parcel. So it was with Gene, claimed as a member of the sad brotherhood of drink, partaking as often and as much as possible. His member card privledges extended into the trousers of his black comrads of the street, High Street. Everything happens there, was and will, beginning and end. High Street united us.
I spent a good deal of time there, on High Street, when I was using, and getting sober. If I was using, I'd hang at the stone sofa, a piece of community art carved from limestone and placed in the pocket park at Fourth and High, drinking and panhandling. If I was sober, it would be long, nightly walks down High to Goodale Park, watching the hunt. I understood what it was with Gene, how he came to depend on the community, the neighborhood to meet his needs, his attraction to the black men he preferred to trick with. I came to know him better when I ran into him at the support group that met nightly at New Life.
I was surprised to learn that Gene had a nursing certificate and plans to renew his license. A few weeks off the sauce, he was as amicible and interesting a person as anyone in the rooms. I respeceted what he had done for himself: reinvented his very existence. No more panhandling, no sleeping in vacant doorways. No more street boozing. How would the neighborhood survive? Though I doubt that any of the hustlers he favored had more than slight realization of the transformation he'd accomplished. However, there are no guarantees in life, no real happy-ever-afters. I was too well aware of the temptations involved with staying sober, the difficulty an unhealthy environment presents, and was extremely concerned when I saw the fall. Back on the booze it didn't take long for him to return to his old habits. The street was what he returned to, sort of a homecoming. The street gives; the street takes. There was very little real communication when I tried to talk to him then. I felt a certain betrayal by the support group, that, as far as I could tell, did nothing to pull him back into the fold. Someone should have done something. I was soon very sorry that I hadn't done more.
When I saw Gene with Roan, going into the yellow brick turn of the century low rent apartment building on the corner, I knew he was in trouble. Roan was trouble. When he wasn't in jail for fighting with the woman he lived with, he was occupying a bench in the bus stop at the corner. Perhaps it was his crazy eye that never looked quite at you with its milky gaze, perhaps his imposing stature, but there was something evil about him. Something about his nature challenged anyone who might want to occupy his haunt at the stop. Roan didn't live in the building, but Hank did. And Hank hung close by him when Roan was there, on the street, in the park, or at one of the area churches offering dinner. Hank and I talked when he was hanging out alone, but I knew to stay clear of Roan and the collection of junkies and crack-heads Hank's building harbored. I was in Hank's room once. He was planning to move and offered me a lamp if I wanted it. The air in the hallway leading up to the room filled my head with the smell of untended food, old furniture, and people. I didn't like being there. I couldn't fathom staying in those cramped, unwelcoming quarters.
The last tine I saw Gene it was a day or so later, he was being led upstairs by Hank, Roan, and another young black. The next morning, the rear entrance to my apartment was blocked by bright police tape, officers on the porch, and detectives. I was told to stay inside, away from the porch. Someone would talk with me later. I told an officer that I had to leave for work. Exiting the front of my building, I walked around to the alley to see what was up. There were police cruisers behind Hank's building, along with TV news wagons. The alley was roped off with more police tape. None of the officers would say what was going on. I had to rush to my day job. Late that afternoon, attending to New Life trustee duties, I learned that a body was found at the base of the fire escape, an old guy named Gene. I became horribly sickened within. The police believed he had been beaten to death.
I had lived in the neighborhood for several years. Active in the church, I knew nearly everyone who came for breakfast, for clothing, and those attending the monthly dinners. Still, at first it was difficult to get anyone to talk about Gene's death. Hank swore he wasn't in the building, that he had moved his things out earlier in the day, and was aleady staying with his mother a few blocks over. Generally, there was no noticeable difference in the neighborhood. There were always a few locals on the block. Gene had been there, now he wasn't. Eventually a few of my questions were answered and it wan't pretty. The murder had taken place in Hank's room. An arrest had been made, the suspect was a fairly young fella called Stace. Odd thing was, according to the talk going round, Stace wasn't even there when Gene was killed, or when his body was thrown down the fire escape. He wasn't the one bragging and showing people the corpse.
I wasn't happy with myself or with the neighborhood. I had to do something. One call to the police and I connected with the homicide detectives handling the case, got a machine and left a message. It wasn't long before the call was returned and I was talking with someone. We agreed to meet at New Life and discuss what I knew. At the appointed time, I met with two detectives from Homicide and offered up the information. Subsequently, both Pastor Jennifer and I met with the public defender assigned to the fella named Stace. Jennifer had been contacted by him and had visited Stace when he was in custody, so naturally she was determined to see that the right person was punished for the crime. We directed an investigator to the witnesses we knew of and prayed for the best. As things turned out, the best that could be was that the charges against Stace were dropped. No one was ever prosecuted for Gene's death.
Occassionally. I still see a few of the people involved. We nod when our pathes cross, and go our seperate ways. Could I have done more? I'm not sure what that would have been. The only person I can pull back from such struggles as addiction and self hatred is me, and even that and all else depends upon a force greater than myself. Nothing good ever comes from needless tragedy, but at least the wrong person wasn't punished. And good or bad, memories last a life time.
"Hey dude!" He smelled too bad to be dead. "Dude!" Eyes opening slow. A blood grey blur. "You're gonna have to move, dude!" He sort of sat up and shifted to the far side of the stoop, barely leaving room to get around. Buzz kill.
Gene was always around, in this or that doorway. The hope of a well meaning Good Samaratian coming through with enough change to buy the next Cobra or bottle of Richards kept him stationed near the carryout, where the owner might have pity on him if his jingle was a bit under what he needed. He survived through the charity of the churches in the area. Better Way Ministries served meals three or four times a week and New Life United Methodist was there every Sunday morning for breakfast. Pastor Jennifer, at New Life, also offered clothing three times a week, so Gene might get a change of drawers when his became soiled enough to offend even his sensibilities. His lot was shared with with a number of other locals who appeared, drank what they could within their society of like destitutes, and disappeared at some appointed hour. At the time, I didn't know where they went when they vanished from the block, who took them, or why. But I noticed that regularly Gene would appear shaved, clean, and in better condition than before.
High Street has been a draw for me since I was a teenager. Back then, the campus area was the hub of street activity. In the block north of Seventeenth, there was an all-night resturant where all the good heads went for coffee, burgers, hallucinogens and other such psychic expanders. White Ozley, purple haze, peyote, and the full range of illicit substances were all to be found there, waiting for any non-believing, nonconformist, experimental test run dreamtime baby. Try everything. Experience for the pure sake. Eventually dreamtime came home to rest, claiming the cerebial territory of the soul part and parcel. So it was with Gene, claimed as a member of the sad brotherhood of drink, partaking as often and as much as possible. His member card privledges extended into the trousers of his black comrads of the street, High Street. Everything happens there, was and will, beginning and end. High Street united us.
I spent a good deal of time there, on High Street, when I was using, and getting sober. If I was using, I'd hang at the stone sofa, a piece of community art carved from limestone and placed in the pocket park at Fourth and High, drinking and panhandling. If I was sober, it would be long, nightly walks down High to Goodale Park, watching the hunt. I understood what it was with Gene, how he came to depend on the community, the neighborhood to meet his needs, his attraction to the black men he preferred to trick with. I came to know him better when I ran into him at the support group that met nightly at New Life.
I was surprised to learn that Gene had a nursing certificate and plans to renew his license. A few weeks off the sauce, he was as amicible and interesting a person as anyone in the rooms. I respeceted what he had done for himself: reinvented his very existence. No more panhandling, no sleeping in vacant doorways. No more street boozing. How would the neighborhood survive? Though I doubt that any of the hustlers he favored had more than slight realization of the transformation he'd accomplished. However, there are no guarantees in life, no real happy-ever-afters. I was too well aware of the temptations involved with staying sober, the difficulty an unhealthy environment presents, and was extremely concerned when I saw the fall. Back on the booze it didn't take long for him to return to his old habits. The street was what he returned to, sort of a homecoming. The street gives; the street takes. There was very little real communication when I tried to talk to him then. I felt a certain betrayal by the support group, that, as far as I could tell, did nothing to pull him back into the fold. Someone should have done something. I was soon very sorry that I hadn't done more.
When I saw Gene with Roan, going into the yellow brick turn of the century low rent apartment building on the corner, I knew he was in trouble. Roan was trouble. When he wasn't in jail for fighting with the woman he lived with, he was occupying a bench in the bus stop at the corner. Perhaps it was his crazy eye that never looked quite at you with its milky gaze, perhaps his imposing stature, but there was something evil about him. Something about his nature challenged anyone who might want to occupy his haunt at the stop. Roan didn't live in the building, but Hank did. And Hank hung close by him when Roan was there, on the street, in the park, or at one of the area churches offering dinner. Hank and I talked when he was hanging out alone, but I knew to stay clear of Roan and the collection of junkies and crack-heads Hank's building harbored. I was in Hank's room once. He was planning to move and offered me a lamp if I wanted it. The air in the hallway leading up to the room filled my head with the smell of untended food, old furniture, and people. I didn't like being there. I couldn't fathom staying in those cramped, unwelcoming quarters.
The last tine I saw Gene it was a day or so later, he was being led upstairs by Hank, Roan, and another young black. The next morning, the rear entrance to my apartment was blocked by bright police tape, officers on the porch, and detectives. I was told to stay inside, away from the porch. Someone would talk with me later. I told an officer that I had to leave for work. Exiting the front of my building, I walked around to the alley to see what was up. There were police cruisers behind Hank's building, along with TV news wagons. The alley was roped off with more police tape. None of the officers would say what was going on. I had to rush to my day job. Late that afternoon, attending to New Life trustee duties, I learned that a body was found at the base of the fire escape, an old guy named Gene. I became horribly sickened within. The police believed he had been beaten to death.
I had lived in the neighborhood for several years. Active in the church, I knew nearly everyone who came for breakfast, for clothing, and those attending the monthly dinners. Still, at first it was difficult to get anyone to talk about Gene's death. Hank swore he wasn't in the building, that he had moved his things out earlier in the day, and was aleady staying with his mother a few blocks over. Generally, there was no noticeable difference in the neighborhood. There were always a few locals on the block. Gene had been there, now he wasn't. Eventually a few of my questions were answered and it wan't pretty. The murder had taken place in Hank's room. An arrest had been made, the suspect was a fairly young fella called Stace. Odd thing was, according to the talk going round, Stace wasn't even there when Gene was killed, or when his body was thrown down the fire escape. He wasn't the one bragging and showing people the corpse.
I wasn't happy with myself or with the neighborhood. I had to do something. One call to the police and I connected with the homicide detectives handling the case, got a machine and left a message. It wasn't long before the call was returned and I was talking with someone. We agreed to meet at New Life and discuss what I knew. At the appointed time, I met with two detectives from Homicide and offered up the information. Subsequently, both Pastor Jennifer and I met with the public defender assigned to the fella named Stace. Jennifer had been contacted by him and had visited Stace when he was in custody, so naturally she was determined to see that the right person was punished for the crime. We directed an investigator to the witnesses we knew of and prayed for the best. As things turned out, the best that could be was that the charges against Stace were dropped. No one was ever prosecuted for Gene's death.
Occassionally. I still see a few of the people involved. We nod when our pathes cross, and go our seperate ways. Could I have done more? I'm not sure what that would have been. The only person I can pull back from such struggles as addiction and self hatred is me, and even that and all else depends upon a force greater than myself. Nothing good ever comes from needless tragedy, but at least the wrong person wasn't punished. And good or bad, memories last a life time.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Boy Rev
The Reverend's history includes being struck by lightning when he was young, thirteen or so. He had climbed to the top of a large cottonwood to experience God's presence up close. It was the wind he was mad for. Up in the high canopy, the swaying of the treetop brought the wind home in the irregular back and forth motion much like he imagined the clipper ship he admired on the Cutty Sark bottle he found washed up among a heap of flotsam along the rugged slip worn banks of the Scioto he regularly claimed as another playfield. His Godship, he called it, the cottonwood, naively unaware of the double entendra he was invoking. As he sang the final verse of Rock of Ages, his favorite hymn from the UMC Book of Hymnals used at the lovely, if not rustic one room church up the road, the sky darkened and threatening clouds rolled in from the east, hiding the bright warm June sky. As his mother, having just heard desperate storm warnings on the somewhat local AM radio broadcast, emerged from the tiny, rundown abode they shared with at least a half dozen often times additional occupants consisting of rag-tag-along cousins and friends of his older siblings, along with at least a few coffee klatch neighbors, many of whom would later serve as godsworn witness to the spectacle, the scene was cracked by an immediate blast of thunder, an explosion of what seemed atomic proportions that broke the mighty tree in two and sent the Rev, never once letting lose the hold he held to his blessed branch, inevitably and vigerously groundward. As the startled crew of family and possibly friends ran to the spot of his remarkable landing, his mother screaming hysteically, smoke, steam, and the unmistakable though yet unidentified odor of ozone, mixed with that of burnt hair, rose in graceful wisps from his still form. His mother, sobbing mournfully, certain her favotite towhead boy was forever lost to this world, knelt beside him, and at just that moment, green eyes opened brightly. A pronounced blush spread across his cheeks and through his face. He turned selfconsciously away from his maternal influence, his young body still twitching slightly in spasms. He was still a good Methodist after all. But when temptation reared its head, he would return to this moment religiously in the near and distant future, eyes closed, worshiping the memory unmercifully.
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