Weaving a New Eden, review

One doesn’t need to know Sherry Chandler, or her motive for writing Weaving a New Eden, a collection of  her poems published by Wind Publications. One simply needs to read and linger in the richness of its fresh furrows. It is a bounty of craft and style, which will catch the attention of many, but for me the harvest is in the content. I personally believe content always trumps craft. I am a history buff and whether presented to me as fact—actual, romanticized or creative—or fiction, I dig in. In her book Chandler has given me the whole lot of what I look for, plus the bonus of the subject matter being based in the mountains, valleys and hollows of the region where I was born and spent some of my happiest years.  

This is a book that is perhaps as appropriately titled as any. The poet has woven past with present, personal with historic, research with imagination and who she is with many of her womenfolk before her. Page after page, the weaving continues, either through direct statement or sentiment. It is also a book of lost and found, and moving on after each. Unlike most books written about loss, whether parent, spouse, child or friend, Chandler doesn’t start at the beginning and work to the last breath, she gives us the event at the start in “Elegy Sung by a Daughter”  and it is neither maudlin nor rambling:

Anna Katherine Toole is dead,

Lillian Glass too.

Each week a few

more elders die

who lived the life my mother lived.

The dogwood blooms

again. Mother takes

the sun and laughs.

I lie making spoons with you, feel

your breath against

my neck. The blood

runs hot. Hold me.

Readers quickly discover that the blood does indeed run hot. One can almost imagine that Chandler walked across the room, from the bed of her just-lost mother, to a sturdy rocker, where she sat and began to recount tales of  generations of family women (back to the late 1700s), as though ancestral fire was boiling within her. Even though these family poems are information-packed, Chandler does not bore us with ancestral trivia and she deftly sprinkles humor, as in “Namesake”:

I was named for the sake of my mother’s mother, Reenie

Florence, though I’d have called her less a flower,

more a hedge, . . ./

Or in “Granmaw Keith Speaks of Marriage to Her Great-Granddaugher”:

         Child, you look at that old photograph

         your mother keeps in a box and see

         a lumpy fat hag in a handsewn dress.

         I did not have my beauty in a time of snapshots.

        

Rather than feeling like I had to plod through the first half of another book of personal, baby boomer cathartic recall, I actually looked forward to the next page and the journey of the family. Among the many pieces that make the journey genuine is “Mamaw Reenie Takes Pen in Hand, Sends Postcards to the Future” a collection of 12 cards from her grandmother’s 1957 bus trip to California.  Chandler pens a found poem, leaving the original spelling and grammar intact:

         Card 12: Cactus Leaves Can Never Replace the Good Ol’ Corncob

         then we Changed at Cincinnati 745 in the Evening

         it was 9 Oclock when I got to our lane

         and I had to walk all the way down the lane                                          

         and Cary my Suit Cases.

         it was on Thursday, October 17, at 930

         when I got Home after 4 days and Night Hard traveling

         But it was good to get Back to my Old Ky Home./

                                                                                                                          

In my mind, that last line sums up the family’s feelings, generations all.

                                                                                                                          

The remaining half, “The Frontier,” offers us a parallel world—timewise—primarily featuring Rebecca Boone, but giving country-sized helpings of others in the Boone clan. Chandler continues her weaving with  strands of fact and good lengths of creative yarn. I believe she is able to add more color in this section because the burden of being as faithfully accurate as possible loomed with the family pieces.

We get a mini-history lesson in the rugged travels and settlings of the Boones. The death of children, the faults of well-intentioned men and the constant danger from everything life and place has to offer. There is an early taste of the hardships in “Why I Don’t Write Lyrics about the Frontier”: 

        

         It is written that Boone went back

         to find James, that boy, his firstborn,/

And as if it were not enough to locate what appeared to be the remains of his first son, the poem continues:

         It is written that Boone went back

         to find Israel, that boy, his second born,/

But, the reader discovers, in this lengthy and somber piece that, while men provided the color, women provided the background for the tapestry of discovery and settlement:

         But what of Rebecca, who had

         no writing, who formed those boys

         from her own flesh, pushed

         them out in the water and the blood,/

And the background had power:

 

         Rebecca was never to see

         that mountain grave,                                                        

         that carrion-strewn battlefield,

         she who would have known

         the crook of Israel’s finger,

         the droop of James’s left eyelid.

                                                                                                                 

And what collection would be complete without a cat? Chandler delights and conjures in “Rebecca Boone’s Cat, Boonesborough, 1778”:

I could claim to be the first tabby

to stand on the banks of the Kentucky River

but there’s not much glory in it.

Still I had my moment in the spotlight.

There are so many passages and lines in this book that can claim a moment in the spotlight. I have selected a few that strike me as special. And it would be unfair to copy and paste the entire book! Other readers will find fine handiwork on different pages, but one thing is for certain, there is something for everyone woven here. I found one weakness, one that is not common in books of poetry—the journey ended too soon.

                                                                                                           

               

The world has gone bananas, when it comes to bananas. At least in my sliver of the world. A couple weeks ago we stopped at a local fruit and vegetable stand, which are common throughout our area. The sign lured us in, advertising bananas at $.33/lb. We picked and pawed through the goods, grabbed some Vidalia onions, avocados, kiwis, blueberries and the bananas. The woman at the checkout rang us up. We are top-notch consumers, the maddening type who stand in line and go through the register tape, item by item. The wife said, “Wait you just charged us $.69/lb for the bananas. The woman responded, “Ya gotta says ya want de $.33 bananas.”  Well, instantly my hackles raised and I inquired about the difference between the two (the .33 and the .69) and she says none, other than the price and adds, with a sinister smile, “Ya gotta says. I am here to make much as I can, so, ya don’t says, I no geeve.” The discussion about the sign and fair business practice grew loud. She finally punched around on a calculator then placed more bananas on the scales (rather than simply adjusting the amount we owe) so that we got product equal to the price she charged. We were satisfied, because we freeze them, using lots in our homemade smoothies. At home we noticed the additional bananas were not in the bag. The woman had evidently slid them off the scale, rather than bagging them. I was fuming. Wife wanted to let it go, but I could not. A week later, when I was back in that area, I stopped in and had another discussion, refreshing her memory, louder as the crowd grew larger. Disgusted, she grabbed 3 or 4 pounds of bananas and handed them to me. We had a meeting of the minds. I will not go back.

Yesterday I had a Banana Nazi experience that could be right out of Seinfeld. Again, in another part of town, I see a sign for bananas at 3 pounds for $1. The stand owner had the bananas separated and placed in heavy plastic shopping baskets, along with another sign stating there was a 3 pound limit, after that they were $.59. Fair enough. I took a basket to the checkout and ask him to please weigh the bananas, but he says, “Dat ees one dollar.” I repeat my request for him to weigh the fruit, to which he responds, vigorously, “You no trust me? I not sell you bananas! Geet out!!” I tried to explain that I just wanted to see the weight, even mentioned that I used the please word.  He fired the first salvo, a steaming f word phase. I had no recourse but to load my own tongue and fire back. It was like an f word shootout at the O.K Corral. The two of us ducking and dodging obscenities, while other customers were running for cover. When the air silenced, there was an unspoken agreement that I would not be back. As a parting shot, I blasted him with two little birds, which started him on another tirade, then coolly puffed a mouth full of air over my fingertips and holstered them for the day. I met a couple women walking up to the stand and said, “All I did was ask him to weigh the bananas.”  They turned around and went back to their car. Again, I claimed justice and victory.

For those who want to come into this country and immediately start ripping people off, they need to understand there is a new sheriff in town and he is watching. This is America, Home of the Depraved, Land of the Greed. You need to live here for awhile, become a citizen, get elected to office and earn the right to screw your fellow countrymen. It is a silent war, this banana war, but Americans can sleep soundly, knowing there are others on the watch.