So often I am asked about my ranch or farm or acreage. I do not own any of those, but the readers accept my words as reality. The following poem was born when we found this shovel near the sidewalk, while walking.

Today at the Ranch

What is it inside the imagination

that keeps surprising us

                         --Charles Wright

9:00 am

I have found a shovel.

The handle is broken,

there is a small crack

in its throat. But it is

still good in structure

and could be repaired

for use in your garden

or your yard. Perhaps

it could scoop fallen

leaves of magnificent

color, or snow bland

beyond all description.

Who wants this shovel

someone pitched from

a car or truck, into my

pasture, where the cows

eye it with fear and wild

animals smell the danger

of man. Who would like

to take this shovel, make

it whole and usable again?

Noon

Who will buy this goat

with a face like a sage

and a mellow voice

that beckons the early

evening? Will someone

take this fine animal

and let her see what lies

beyond the wire fence

that butts tightly against

the wood water trough?

She is only familiar

with the ground in a pen

found at the southeastern

corner of the northern

half of  a section of land.

She is most ignorant

of wars and the actions

of politicians eager

to make her life better.

She merely seeks to be

a goat free of bondage.

3:00 pm

A rusty scythe crusted

with more than forty

years of chaff and dust

is this day recovered

from beneath the rubble

of a collapsing tin shed.

Its corroded blade once

sliced through ripe grain

used to make the bread

which fed the family.

Then out of the ground

or down from the sky

its sharp inner curve

came cloaked in silence

to reap the gift of God.

It became the symbol

of all things non grata.

Accept this implement,

for past indiscretions

often are by the hands

of others, not ourselves.

The Corkscrew

There came today a warm rain, not the first rain of the season, but the first that did not drench with a chill. It was worth standing in and absorbing, as though it was a slow wash of nutrients for the body and mind, one in which it was impossible to not turn up the face, close the eyes and, for a few seconds, have an empty mind. Then I thought of San Carlos de Valle, nestled in the crevice between two small ranges of hills, in Castile-La Mancha. It was July when I was there, dry and hot, climate the vineyard owners love. The earthly palette of the place seems to be loaded with three colors, sky, tan fields and green vines, but those are a pleasing backdrop for this small town. It is a typical place for the area, narrow streets lined by thin sidewalks and flat-faced buildings adorned, here and there, with wrought iron on the windows or doors. There are many wooden gates hiding patches of gardens or grass in courtyards only a few feet wide and long. I arrived from the south, from Valdepenas. Coasting down the road between the two hills brought a self-created wind to my body, but I thought, as I picked up speed, how I missed the rain, how I wanted to be pelted by large drops at that very moment, along that road hot as a soldering iron. The ride down was too short; I  needed a rest and found a small cafe just inside the south end of town, with views of the hills in one direction, and the narrow street lorded over by the massive towers of the church in the other. I slid my backpack from my shoulders and sat in one of the chairs, shaded by a large tile-roofed overhang. The waitress, maybe in her thirties, walked over instantly and before I could say anything she said, “I speak English.” I smiled, unable to reply because I was stunned by perfection of the woman’s features and skin. She wore no make-up, not even for the eyes, nothing to ruin what she was given naturally. I was embarrassed slightly by my staring, which was odd at that point in my life. I usually would have considered a woman of that age old, ready to retire. Finally, my parched and nervous voice came, “Just something to refresh me. A drink. A wine, I guess.”  She told me her name was Marina, with a soft tone that matched the luscious look, and she would soon return with the perfect solution for my dilemma. She went inside and I opened the backpack, removed my tablet and wrote a few words, triggers to remind of what I wanted write on more extensively later. Marina returned, flowing and quietly, with a glass of red. It was chilled. “Rosado. For the weary wanderer.“  She glanced at my tablet and asked if I was a writer.  With the glass at my lips I answered, “Kind of. At times.” The wine was better than rain, the cool of it soothed my tongue, mouth, throat and body with the first sip. “You know Hemingway?” I was not sure if she was serious when she asked and she gave no expression to help me. “No. I was seven when he died.” Marina laughed in a melodious and moist tone, “I will bring you another, when I see you are finished. Do not take long. Ernest.”  Her hand brushed my shoulder, in a show of humor. I sipped and scribbled more words and sentences. I did not hear her behind me until she placed a bottle of the chilled Rosado on the table, along with a corkscrew, one with a gnarly handle of reddish root or wood. Then, she sat across from me, not looking my way, but at the hills. Her hair was shiny and black and vibrant, not what I would expect to find in a place like San Carlos during its harshest season. It was shoulder length, pulled back and held with a silver clasp, maybe three or four inches long. With her right hand she took some strands and smoothed them between her index finger and thumb. The strands fell onto the top of her shoulder. Naïve and young, I fumbled for words, “You have beautiful hair.”  It was the best I could offer. She did not turn toward me, just continued to stare at the hills, “I love the rain. Often it arrives from over these hills. It feels good, warm, even in the hot of summer days. But it is so rare now. When it comes I collect it in the barrels in our courtyard and use the sweet water for my hair.” She gently collected the same stands and let them slide through her touch.  “My husband works at the vineyard. All the men in San Carlos work at one vinyard or the other. They are so busy being men that they forget they have women.” Marina turned her body and attention toward me, “But, I have my hair and the rain. When it comes.” With that she stood and smiled, “Please open the wine at your leisure.” She gently touched the corkscrew and added, “You may keep this. I bought it in Toledo. When I came out of the small shop it started raining. I stood in the rain, without an umbrella. You are weary and it may bring rain for you during your trip. Or at another time when you need it.”  Then, she walked away and greeted a couple at another table. I opened the cool Rosado, drank another glass of its magic, then gave the bottle to the couple. The corkscrew brought no rain for ten days, but when it came she was as beautiful as Marina.

Colorado, August 2012

 

If I were a magpie I would certainly fly, away from the man with the stone-brown tan, away from the man with the camera.  

Black-billed magpie (Pica hudsonia)

 A rose is a rose along any road.

Across the flat, in brights and blacks, we took in late morning hues in a ramshackle shed sown together with threads, holding implements not often used.

I found love in Loveland. It appeared behind the window of a small restaurant at the corner of Cleveland and Fourth, in shapely form and sipping a cold drink on a blistering day. I waited until love glanced and smiled, then went in for lunch.

It is a place where something intriguing always seems to be on the horizon.

added 9/8/2012

 At the edge of a vast field, which was the beginning of rattlesnake country, I happened upon two small dogs. They were thirsty and I gave them water. Then they wanted to follow me into the hazardous place. I took from my pocket a small red globe and placed the dogs in it for their safety. I was able to see where they two lived and took them there later.

 The season for growing is short, one has to race the birds and bees to get the best fruit.

 I think I could live along the St. Vrain, with its daffodils in spring and summertime flow of melted snow draining from cold elevations.

Loneliness is only a spit away, depending on the speed of the wind.

added 9/11

 Mule deer (Odocoileus hemionus)

Black bear (Ursus americanus)

Nature is repairing the fire damage in Poudre canyon quickly.I was surprised at how the fire destroyed small pockets of areas, sometimes only a couple acres, then left the next acreage untouched. We did not get into the areas that were total loss.

The banks of the Poudre river were generously littered with charred debris, nearly weightless and easy to crush into powder.

The trail of the gypsies

I have had a lifelong fascination with gypsies. The roots of this intrigue likely sprouted in the early ‘60s, nurtured by movies that featured sly, rugged men and women with enough world-stopping beauty to keep me inside on a Savannah Saturday afternoon. As I think about the genesis of my interest, I suppose a tad can also be attributed to my parents. The looks of my mother, whose dark, wavy hair, and eyes like charred bark, reminded me of the movie stars on our black and white tv. Also, my father, whose own dark curls glistened with Brylcreem, when he was home long enough for me to see the shine, as he was more often than not a coming-and-going man, for someone who was a sergeant in the Air Force. They fought a bit and then divorced, with him going off to the luxury of war and Asian women, her not really existing with five kids in poverty. My mother did, however, add a nomadic lifestyle to the lives of her kids. We packed and moved with the gypsy moon. For me, the rambling stopped when I was in the eighth grade, after which I never lived under her roof again.

However, when I was in the sixth grade, I met Brenda, who said her mother was a gypsy, and she was darkly beautiful and mysterious enough, tightly packed into colorful and flouncy dresses and underneath, what seemed like, pounds of jewelry. They were from Pascagoulah. The two of them lived a few trailers away from us for only a few months. I came home one day, went to their place and, POOF!, they were gone. A midnight gypsy wind whisked them to a destination unknown to any of the neighbors.

Over the years songs have kept the elusive wanderers traveling through my thoughts. Brian Hyland, with Gypsy Woman, Cher and her Gypsies Tramps and Thieves and Fleetwood Mac’s Gypsy renewed old daydreams to current times.

I continue to have a here-again/gone-again relationship with the gypsies. Last week, along a country road in Ohio I spotted what I was certain was a small band of adults and children. There were, perhaps, a dozen individuals total, crossing from one wooded area on the north side to another, on the south side. They were carrying nothing. The location was a good distance from the nearest village, which led me to believe they were not a group of homeless people. Also, I caught glints and shimmers shooting from the arms and necks of the women and girls, all in the Brenda’s-mom fashion. Local folks out for a walk would not adorn themselves in such attire for a jaunt in the forest. By the time I drove to the place where they crossed, I could see nothing in the dusky density of the foliage; so, I turned around, found a place to park, grabbed my camera and set out to find them.

It was a fruitless journey in the beginning and I was losing hope. I eventually fell upon the trail, by happenstance. The animals along the way seemed unafraid and as I approached a squirrel I saw a small bead, dropped on the path. When I stooped to pick it up my eye caught dull flickers of light reflect off the oak canopy in the distance. That was the spot where the people were warming themselves around a small fire. Voices were low; faces had a tawny glow from the golden flames. I settled into a thicket and watched, not sure of my safety, should I approach the group. From there I could hear the low mumbles of the men and the reserved responses of women. The children were mostly silent and, eventually, huddled near an adult. I became weary and shifted my body, snapping a couple small twigs. A stocky man stood, held up both arms about chest high, with open hands directed at the others. There was an instant death thrown on the chatter. He walked slowly around the perimeter of the campfire light and, through squinted eyes,  peered into the forest and undergrowth. When he approached my spot, and got within maybe ten feet, he extended his arms fully to his front, hands still open, and uttered words in a language I did not understand. He backed up a few steps, tuned and rejoined the group. The next thing I remember was waking, at the beginning of dawn.

The embers of their small fire still had heat wafting in the early morning slant. Once again, I was foiled in my attempt to socialize with those who have always seemed to me to be the most social. I made my way through the foggy woods, returned to the car and drove to the village, where, by complete luck, I observed the gypsies entering, under the lifting mist, into a tavern, its neon sign offering a lazy glow through the haze. The fog within me, however, was dissipating much slower than the dampness of nature, I hesitated, decided to wait before entering the tavern. After thirty minutes or so, I grabbed my camera and courage, walked through the front door and looked around. The seats and booths were empty. “Sit anywhere you like. What can I get for you this morning?” called a man from near the rear of the place. “I am here to see some people who came in a little while ago.”  He walked towards me, “Well, you ain’t here to see anyone, then. You’re the first person for breakfast on this foggy morn. So, traveler, how you want your eggs? Those come with bacon or sausage and toast or biscuit.”

40 Year Class Reunion

Another high school class reunion, my 40 year gathering, has come and gone. I worked on the committee, which consisted of a good friend from the old days and me. After months of phone calling and web searching, the event was over in about six hours. Had a great time and I think the other 80 or so did, also. I am always sad to have it end, because the slice of life we know as the high school years was very delectable for me. Not that those days were all perfect and good, but because, very simply, they were what they were, fit into a slot of our history and lived within the context of the time. I think of my past often, with all the good and bad, but I do not compare one time to another, that would be unfair. I do not judge what I did in one time against the values and expectations of a different time. In short, it was what it was, just as the current is what it is. Sure, I carry baggage from the high school days, who doesn't? But, I am beginning to think I am one of the few who opened up my baggage, heaved out what was not needed and brought forward anything I thought might be of value.

This is a difficult post to write, because, as many people know, I got involved when my cousin, Jimmy Floyd, passed away and I don’t want to be sappy or maudlin. I didn’t want to do this, but he hounded me, as he always could, to perfection. It was his goal and dream to be at this reunion, and I think one of the reasons was that he wanted the two of us to touch again that golden time when we lived together, during our freshman year, when we were Lewis and Clark, Boone and Crockett, Butch and Sundance.  I have become a hard person to sell to and only agreed after his death—although, truth be admitted, I would have given in to his pestering ways. It worked out great. Eric handled the physical duties, because he lives in Defiance, while Cheri and I (mostly her) handled updating the class list. We had a fair number of classmates who were not interested and will not be in the future. She ask one about being listed as “Not Interested” and the reply was, “You can put be down as dead, for all I care.” All that stuff is okay, because each person lives as they wish and it is not for me to finger point or name call.

Technology has made the process much easier and I will likely stay connected and work on the next one, for 2017. Thanks to all who came, to all whose baggage was loaded only with the clothing and personal items they needed for the visit to our hometown. I know if my cousin were still here, we would have sat at one of the tables, after all the people were gone, had one final drink and nodded to each other. We would have stood and hugged, because we have come to the point in life where handshakes are passé.  Then, the last one out would flip off the light and lock the door.

There are three photo journals to view, the Friday night events, the attendees and the actual reunion on Saturday. Click on the caption below the photo of the group you want to view. I am an equal opportunity offender and make no apologies!  If you get lost while viewing, just come back to the blog and start again.

Friday concert, gathering at Jerseys, setting up the hall

Attendees identified

Photos of the fun evening

 The Valentine Theater

 I was in my hometown recently and for the first time since the 1970s I went inside the Valentine. It is a church now. The screen is gone, replaced by a stage. The projection booth is now a small meeting room. The clickety clack of the projector having been silenced by technology, low profits and soft talk and prayer. The smell of popcorn is missing, as is the buzz of a couple hundred folks waiting for a movie to roll. But, all in all, the feeling of the building is much as it was nearly forty years ago.

 The Valentine Theater

The air in the balcony

lugged the thickness of puke,

the sting of piss and the belch

of decay to the top of the stairs

and heaved it against every face.

It punched like the old usher’s glare.

It was a sideshow,

with its booger-crusted arm rests

and, if rumors were to be believed,

soggy puddles on stiff velvet seats

waiting to be sopped up by the ass

of your  favorite blue jeans.

It was a main feature

of willing lips and anxious tongues

and fingers climbing the rungs

of love, to the beat

of a clicking projector.

And as a parting gift, a wad

of  Kleenex  for young men to stuff

over their noses and try to separate

the smell of perfume from the sweet

odor of boob.

The Valentine Theater originally appeared in Clapboard House literary journal

Front Range

I have not submitted very many pieces in the last year or so, call it lazy or uninspired, but here is one that did well. It was the 2nd Place poem, so you might have to scroll down a little. Thanks.


http://ibpc.webdelsol.com/2012/05