A bell and rattle,
a smell of roses,
a leather Bible,
and angry voices . . .
They say, I love you.
They shout, You must!
The light is telling
terrible stories.
But night at the window
whispers, Never mind.
Be true, be true
to your own strange kind.
The eight-year-old boy can’t reach the first branch of the
largest of a pair of Maples in the front yard so he settles
for the lowest branch of the smaller tree. He easily pulls
himself up into the first crotch and pauses there, planning
his route to the top of his favorite aviary. He knows each
branch like the back of his hand, every step, every
handhold. He starts to climb, one limb at a time.
As the boy ascends, the branches get smaller and more
flexible. He can feel himself now swaying gently in the
wind. He can almost (but not quite) poke his head out of
the leaves at the top of the tree before he’s forced to stop
climbing. Here he tucks a leg into the fork between two
branches and settles in.
Outside the cabin, a smaller, child-size log cabin once sat
next to the driveway. Over the years, a coven of spiders
and wood ticks took it over, the forest slowly staking a
claim, gravity wresting it back into the ground. We never
played there. Who wants cobwebs in their hair, much less
nightmares on the brain? There were bear claw-marks in
the wood, for crying out loud. No telling how many
creatures chewed on that shack, and the fallen pine
needles on the roof left a musty Hansel and Gretel feel.
Little children could get lost in there.
Finally, someone dismantled it, the children grew up, and
the ghost stories surrounding it gradually subsided into
memories of fear we’ve almost now forgotten.
The wooden stairs are steep, only about ten of them but
steep. At the foot is Grandma’s canning pantry complete
with carefully sealed Mason jars filled with applesauce,
jams, jellies, watermelon pickles, and other preserves.
Mostly it’s fruit we picked. I like it when Grandma
chooses me to fetch something from the shelves.
To the left is Grandpa’s workbench with an assortment
of tools including a bench-grinder, a couple of rock
tumblers and, my favorite, a handheld black light. We
use it to view the fluorescent stones and minerals in his
rock collection gathered on many trips across North
America. Fluorite, calcite, and hyalite all dazzle in its
subtle glow. Grandpa weaves stories of adventure in with
Grass-stains on knees are the least of their worries. The
ball is lost in the hay again. Earlier this spring, they
mowed a large section of this hayfield into a baseball
diamond and then adorned it with torn up bits of T-shirt
carefully arranged to mark out the bases. The infield is
cropped short but the outfield is truly out in the field. The
“hay” is really just a tangle of clover, some sort of
domestic grass and wild strawberries. The game itself is
doomed from the beginning. All attempts to keep the ball
in the infield wind up with the ball in the tall grass. It's
just a matter of time before this comes down to picking
berries rather than looking for the ball.
childhood...
nothing ever measures up
Hey, come out of death
and follow me, father,
back to my childhood,
where you must work
and hunt and drink
less and spend
time next to me,
being there a father,
talking to me kindly,
listening to my words,
being there a father.
Dear to me is Ruth, a bowl of crystal
She brims her heart with laughter and I look
And see her clear as the dew on a cobweb,
Or green water over white sand in a brook.
Mary is dearer, color and story
Are wound in her and like soft cloths unfold,
And when she moves her footsteps are of silver,
And where she will her touch can turn to gold.
Oh sweet as wine is laughter with the loving,
And speech with the living good as bread,
But only with a ghost can I feast in silence,
With Eunice, who is dearest, being dead.
The princess that I could not be,
The fairy that was not for me,
The game begun and never ended,
The castle dreamed, the play pretended.
I hear a merry noise indeed:
Is it the geese and ducks that take
Their first plunge in a quiet pond
That into scores of ripples break--
Or children make this merry sound?
I see an oak tree, its strong back
Could not be bent an inch though all
Its leaves were stone, or iron even:
A boy, with many a lusty call,
Rides on a bough bareback through Heaven.
I see two children dig a hole
And plant in it a cherry-stone:
"We'll come to-morrow," one child said--
"And then the tree will be full grown,
And all its boughs have cherries red."
Ah, children, what a life to lead:
Ah, sweet young blood, that makes the heart
So full of joy, and light,
That dying children dance with it
From early morn till night.
My dreams were blossoms, hers the fruit,
She was my dearest care;
With gentle hand, and for it, I
Made playthings of her hair.
I made my fingers rings of gold,
And bangles for my wrist;
You should have felt the soft, warm thing
I made to glove my fist.
And she should have a crown, I swore,
With only gold enough
To keep together stones more rich
Than that fine metal stuff.
We went together side by side to school,
Together had our holidays in fields
Made golden by June's buttercups ; in woods,
Where under ferns fresh pulled I buried her,
And called her forth like Lazarus from the grave;
She'd laughing come, to shake her curls until
Methought to hear full half a hundred bells.
A grown-up world took playful notice soon.
Made me feel shame that grew a greater love;
She was more chary of her laughter then,
And more subdued her voice, as soft and sweet
As Autumn's, blowing through his golden reeds.
In her sweet sympathies she was a woman
When scarcely she was more than child in years ;
And yet one angry moment parted us.
And days of longing never joined us more.
HE SAID:
"In the winter dusk
When the pavements were gleaming with rain,
I walked thru a dingy street
Hurried, harassed,
Thinking of all my problems that never are
solved.
Suddenly out of the mist, a flaring gas-jet
Shone from a huddled shop.
I saw thru the bleary window
A mass of playthings:
False-faces hung on strings,
Valentines, paper and tinsel,
Tops of scarlet and green,
Candy, marbles, jacks--
A confusion of color
The jungle is a kind of grove
Where lions, apes and rajahs rove;
It's not the kind of place that I
Should choose to live in, or to die;
Yet I should just as soon be in it
As hear you blab another minute.