For today’s Open Write on Ethical ELA, participants are invited to write poems about “places we call home”.
Nothing pulls on the heart like home… I can almost hear the Beatles’ song “In My Life” playing in the background: “There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed…” The memory of these places, and the spirit of them, really are the theme song of our lives.
Of all the places I remember and could write about…have written about…I choose my home now. I have lived here the longest. I became a grandmother here. I have learned a lot more about savoring here. Usually I try to make my poem title do more work, but today, no other will do.
Home
In the first moments of pale-pink light the big brown rabbit comes from the woods to nibble away at the clover
in the ever-thickening branches of the crape myrtle my husband and planted years ago I can spot hummingbirds hiding among the leaves always alone never together
they dart, one by one to the kitchen-window feeder
silvery-green females perfect, pure ethereal as fairies
a male, ruby fire at his throat (brighter than the cardinal-flame landing over on the fence) impossible greens and turquoise shimmering on his back
unaware of his utter tininess he sometimes perches atop the feeder as if to say I am King of this Water-Mountain
a pair of doves feeds on the ground by the tree line then takes flight on pearly wings vanishing in the pines and sweetgums where their nest is secreted
robins, robins everywhere just last week a speckled fledgling on the back deck both parents in the grass chirping ground-control instructions
the mockingbird in the driveway strutting and stretching his banded wings as if he knows how legendary he is
a trill of finch-song from a nearby tree so plaintive I fear my heart may burst
and the bluebirds oh the bluebirds
if only I spoke green language I would explain that I removed their house from the back deck because it is about to be torn down
that I waited until their unexpected second brood flew out into the world
never imagining these parents would return to the empty rail corner a day or two later clearly so puzzled to find their house gone…
if I were the hermit wizard-woman of this semi-enchanted nook (as I sometimes pretend to be) I would have known what to do
but my unmagical self did my best: placing the birdhouse atop the old wooden arbor built by my oldest when he was a boy
well away from the impending deck destruction
and to my astonishment the bluebirds have followed their home
I do not yet know if more eggs have been laid in the house relocated to the arbor
but as evening draws and the pine-shadows fall across the arbor and the crape myrtle and the big brown rabbit back in the clover and the old dog’s grave and the old deck about to be made new
I ponder my length of time on this Earth and the continuous carving-out of home how it goes on and on
a path forever unfolding before me that I must follow
like the doe in the little clearing across the road pausing for one long moment with her two fawns before disappearing in the leafy green
One fawn has already been ushered across
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with thanks to Ethical ELA and Two Writing Teachers for the inviolable, invaluable writing spaces and the inspiration
On Day Two of July’s Open Write at Ethical ELA, host Mo Daly invites us to write a poem in Fibonacci sequence: six lines with syllables of 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8.
The Fibonacci sequence appears over and over in nature, from shells to flowers to trees to our own DNA.
Maybe that’s what led to thisdouble-reverse attempt…
Hey, Ancestors
composed after a trip to the home place
Come sit a spell on the porch. I want to know you. Tell me the stories of your life. I don’t mind your being a ghost. Just (if you please) try not to rock your chair too much.
The July Open Write on Ethical ELA begins today with host Mo Daley, who invites poets to “Consider the masks you or those around you might wear. Using a format of your choosing, write a poem about a mask or masks.”
My first thought in response, with masks being linked to ancient theatrical performances, was writing around Shakespeare’s “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players…”
But then a little creature appeared in my head and ran the rest of it away.
Which may be for the best…
Mask Obscura
Raccoon was named for the way it uses its “hands”
rubbing and rinsing its food in water
not for the mask forever typecasting Raccoon as bandit-trickster in human lore.
Unlike humans these creatures know one another by their individual masks
not donned as shields or ritual or protocol or festivity or theatrics or deeds of darkness
but serving to absorb light in the night
to see
to survive.
Yet like humans Raccoon covets shiny things
and can be trapped by them.
Hunters of yore eventually learned to cut holes in logs to place a bit of tin inside to hammer in nails around the small circumference
knowing Raccoon would be beguiled would reach its hand inside for the bright thing.
Once the fist is clenched the creature will never let go to set itself free…
in paradoxical symmetry so does the creature that named itself for its supreme intelligence.
Might it have been better named for its own myriad masks and motives, ever disguised? Or for the hubris and folly accounting for so much of its own demise?
If only Raccoon had the ability to write, there might be annals of Ring-Tales read aloud in the night at a gathering deep in the forest by crackling firelight:
To see or not to see*… Lord, what ultimate Tricksters these Homo sapiens be! There in that circle, perhaps with shivery spines and whiskers a-tremble they name us not for our deeds or dominion but for the way we wash our hands.
— *Note: The collective noun for raccoons is a gaze.
And so it comes to pass, at long last, that I return to the site of my sun-kissed childhood summers.
My ancestral homeplace in eastern North Carolina. Literally the land of my fathers: My dad, my grandparents, my great-parents, my great-greats were all born within a small radius of a tiny town and crossroads that were old long before my appearance on this Earth.
Thus began my fascination with Time.
In the bend of a dirt road stood my grandparents’ home, where my father grew up. My youngest aunt was born here in the same room where her father, my Granddaddy, would die fifty-three years later at 92. He wanted to die at home. He did, peacefully and “full of days,” as the Scriptures say of Abraham, Isaac, and Job: After this lived Job an hundred and forty years, and saw his sons, and his sons’ sons, even four generations. So Job died, being old and full of days (Job 42:16-17).
Likewise, my grandparents saw four generations. They lived to see my children. Incidentally, Granddaddy had a brother named Job who died in the 1920s (he drowned, if I recall correctly; this is a coastal area).
So it was that I grew up on stories of the old days and ways, a little city girl mesmerized by my deep country roots. In my time the once-thriving community was already history; nature was reclaiming the unpainted houses, one by one. Some were still visible through the woods (an early memory: a cypress shingle roof in the treetops, if you looked just right) and others were in various stages of falling down with yards still mowed by descendants.
On this return journey a few weeks ago, I discovered that my grandmother’s homeplace from the early 1900s is being swallowed by the forest:
A terrible jolt, as I can remember it having a hedge, a lawn, a porch swing, a screen door. I remember the layout inside and my great-uncle living there, tending to a patch of sunflowers.
And I knew, prior to this journey, that my grandparents’ house, which stood on the corner a little farther on, is gone.
This story is a little different, however. Instead of the forest reaching its veiny green fingers to reclaim its own, a young couple has built a home right in the middle of what was once my grandfather’s garden. I can’t help thinking how Grandma would marvel at the beauty of this new house and its lovely landscaping.
All that remains here from the enchanted summers of my childhood half a century ago (and from time before me) is the pumphouse, one of Grandma’s crepe myrtles (now wistfully draped in Spanish moss, which never used to be in these parts), and the sidewalk that once led to the front porch of Granddaddy and Grandma’s home:
As a teenager I wrote a song about a sidewalk. Haven’t thought about it in ages:
Where does this lonely sidewalk lead? You think by now I’d know Footsteps into yesterday That’s where I want to go…
I had no idea, then, that only the sidewalk would remain in this place I loved so well, where I used to play outside in the sweltering bug-infested heat, where Grandma would sit at her piano in the evenings to have me sing old hymns with her as Granddaddy listened from his recliner, where I felt loved and wanted and sheltered and that I belonged…
The old dirt road remains, too, of course.
There was another dirt road branching off of it here in the shadows to the left; it once led, Grandma said, to a two-story antebellum house with a double balcony. I could hear admiration for that house in her voice. In my childhood the road was just two tracks through grass and thickets. The path faded more and more with every passing summer. Now you would never know it had ever been anything but woods.
From this vantage point, my grandparents’ yard is on the right, and to the immediate left is an old family cemetery. Not my family’s, although I walked it often with Grandma over the years. When I was a child, I was afraid ghosts would come out here at night. Grandma assured me they would not. She offered this dubious comfort: No need to fear the dead. Fear the living.
When I wondered at the graves of so many babies, she said people just didn’t know what to do for them when they were sick.
It’s clear how much the children were loved and mourned. This tiny cemetery remains painstakingly tended and strangely outside of time:
Hello again, baby Leafy Jean and big brother Leon Russell.
These siblings died a month apart in 1917. Grandma was born three months after Leon, almost a year to the day before Leafy, in the soon-to-be obscured homeplace just around the bend of the road.
Four-month-old twins Audrie and Aubrie died a week apart during that same summer.
The greater wonder, in its way, are the children who survived disease and mothers who died giving birth to them, which almost happened to Grandma: her mother delivered a stillborn baby three months before she was born. My grandmother was a twin. Grandma journaled this because I asked her to; in her writings, she says several women in the community who recently had babies helped nurse her while my great-grandmother was so ill that she “almost didn’t make it.”
—Why am I just now realizing that Grandma’s lost twin would have come around the same time as Leon Russell? Could his mother have been one of the women who preserved my newborn grandmother’s hungry life? if so …imagine saving someone else’s child and losing your own…
So many mysteries in this place. I’ve always felt the pull.
Over fifty years after I first walked this cemetery with my grandmother, I’m awed by the good condition of the headstones. I halfway expected them to be eroding into illegibility — after all, these people’s earthly homes have long since crumbled. No greater mystery than Time…
I cannot linger here, ruminating, for there’s another place to visit. Really just a good walk “around the horn” to the church, a journey I’ve made many times.
This was once the heart of the bustling farm community. The church was built on land given by my grandmother’s predecessors. Her father, mother, brothers, and other family are buried to the right of this crossroads.
Granddaddy and Grandma are buried in the churchyard, to the left.
Such a beautiful little resting place, presently bordered by a lush cornfield. An old live oak felled by a hurricane in recent years has been replaced by a new one nearby.
Grandma would be so pleased to see how well-tended everything is.
There’s even a new footbridge over the ditch at the churchyard, for easy access to the little community center across the road. This building stands where Grandma’s three-room grade school used to, she said in her journal.
Here’s where old and new converge most for me, where Time is most relevant and paradoxically elusive. The spirit of this place is old; my own memories are growing old.
My father as a teenager, in the churchyard
I am the keeper of memories older than mine.
But I came for the new.
I brought my granddaughter, you see.
All along the journey, I told her stories. Of the old days, the old ways.
I brought her to dig for fossils at the Museum in town (which is where the phosphate mining company sends its rejects now, instead of scattering treasures on the old dirt roads).
We found a bit of coral skeleton, shark’s teeth, and some bony things I’ve yet to identify:
Making new memories from the old… even from the ancient, from time before recorded time.
As we were leaving, I discovered that the old library in this old, old town looks the same as it did five decades ago when Grandma drove me to pick out books to read at her house in the summer. I halfway expected to see her coming out with the armful she had to help me carry…
And I think this is used to be, or is at least near, the butcher shop where Daddy worked as a teenager.
There’s so much more to be said about memory, legacy, endurance, overcoming, and family… about the whole spiritual journey of life. The greatest gift my grandparents gave me, beyond their unconditional love and their stories, is that of faith lived out. I learned long ago that eventually there comes a homecoming so bright, so glorious, that all the former shadows are forgotten.
I expect I’ll recognize my little corner of Heaven, having had such a foretaste here.
Until that time, I carry on in the footsteps before me, praying I walk even half as well.
My now, my tomorrows ❤
From Everlasting to Everlasting: A Prayer of Moses
Lord, you have been our dwelling place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever you had formed the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God.
You return man to dust and say, “Return, O children of man!” For a thousand years in your sight are but as yesterday when it is past, or as a watch in the night…
Let your work be shown to your servants, and your glorious power to their children. Let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish the work of our hands upon us; yes, establish the work of our hands! Psalm 90: 1-4;16-17
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with thanks to my Spiritual Journey friends who write on the first Thursday of each month and to host Carol Varsalona who posted this reflection and question for July:
Pause and praise God for His wondrous gifts! What are you rejoicing over this summer?
lit bits and pieces 