Night Storm Comments

I’m not really happy with the poem.  Here’s what I was trying to do.  Each line is twelve syllables, every other line rhymes in the first two stanzas and paired lines rhyme in the last stanza.  The problem I have is that I lose the rhythm in the stanzas.  If you read the first two lines of the first stanza, there’s almost a musical rhythm.  I lose it entirely in the third line and more or less return to it in the fourth.  That really throws off the flow of the stanza for me.  And it happens in each stanza.  The problem is that even though each line has the same number of syllables, each syllable doesn’t have the same metrical or tonal value.  So, the words “as though” have the same number of syllables as “anxious” but while the latter has a natural descending tone between syllables, the former is essentially monotone and it makes the line flat.  It essentially has the same tonal value as a single syllable which throws off the rhythm of the stanza.  It’s hard.  I’m going to have to do a lot more work on it and may end up removing the rhymes and going back to a free verse.

New Poem Series

I’ve decided I’m going to start a series of poems about winter.  I have no idea yet how many a series is, but I guess I’ll figure it out when I get there.  I just seem to think that winter and snow provide a great subject for poems.  We’ll see.  Here’s the first one:

NIGHT STORM 

Hush my dear child as I sing you a lullaby

while the north wind tugs on the old wooden rafters

so they groan as though under the ponderous weight

of a giant searching for the gold he’s after,

 

or lifting and slapping the loose siding that sounds

like an unseen ghost slamming shut your bedroom door,

or the howling around the window’s sharp angles,

a beast anxious to devour the prey it came for.

 

Soon you’ll be awake in the warm half light of dawn

and the shivering, frightening wind will be gone

and then you’ll peer out through a paisley frost surprised

at countless glittering diamonds to fill your eyes.

Mairi’s Battle

The following story was written several months back for my writing group.  It’s based on an actual event in Scottish history–The Battle of the Braes.  I’d seen a news report from that event where the reporter was very keen to report how angry and vicious the women were.  I began to imagine the story based on what one of those angry women would have been like.  In the process of writing the story, the focus changed slightly

 

MAIRI’S BATTLE

18 April 1882

“They’re here!  They’re here!  Comin’ roon the brae!” the cry pierced through gaps in the door slats and the cloth covering the open window.  Mairi pushed open the door, standing in the damp April air and watched as neighbors left their crofts and headed toward the road.

Mairi knew it would happen, but it still came as a surprise.  She had hoped it would all disappear, like the mist that creaps in from the sea and then, one day, dissipates to blue skies and pony-tail wisps.  She hoped Laird MacDonald would take mercy on them, seeing how wretched and poor their lives were.  It would be the right thing, the Christian thing, for him to do, like when Christ took pity on the masses and fed them on the shores of Galilee.

For weeks, now, the crofters refused to pay their rents to the Laird’s factor unless they were given permission to graze their animals on the slopes of Ben Lee.  In response, the Laird sent his factor and the Inverness sheriff to serve eviction summonses.  Mairi’s husband, Peter, and the men from the surrounding crofts, Norman Stewart and Alexander Finlayson—two trouble-makers—set upon the factor and sheriff forcing them to burn the eviction documents.  There was whisky and fires late into the evening that night as the crofters celebrated their victory.

Mairi knew they would come back.  Still she prayed.  She prayed for the Lord to deliver her family from the poverty that was her heritage for so many generations, she almost believed there was nothing God could do to change it.  She prayed for the Lord to share his Grace with the Laird MacDonald that he might understand and take pity on those beholden to him.  She prayed that the crofters would remain righteous in God’s eyes by turning the other cheek.

When it appeared that each of her prayers had gone unanswered, she prayed a prayer of contrition and apology.  It wasn’t her place to question God’s plan.  Everything was His doing.  This was God’s design.  The Laird was wealthy because God willed it.  Her family was poor and hungry because God determined that to be their status in the world.  How could she question the architect of this world, the One who gave her her husband and children, the One who painted the glorious Skye sunsets and who caused the northern lights to billow in the night sky?  Mairi thought she may have offended God with her selfishness, and she finished her prayer with tears.

So, when she stood in the doorway and saw her neighbors leaving their crofts for the main road, she folded her hands and bowed her head.  “Dear Lord, help them to see your plan and know their place in it.  You are truly a great God from whom all things emanate.  We all are humble and give thanks for what we have.  Amen.”

As she finished, Peter came round the side of the house, a wood pitchfork in one hand.  He stood with Mairi for a moment, watching, and then quietly said, “MacLeod says constables are comin’.  From Glasgow.  About fifty.  The Laird must have hired them to run us off.”  He fell silent for a moment, then continued, “I have to go, Mairi.”

“No, dinna go, Peter.  No.”

“Hush woman.  I was there at the beginning.  I’ll be there at the end.”

“There’s only trouble there, Peter.  Someone could get hurt.  You could get hurt.  Then where would we be?”

Peter remained silent.

“If it’s the constables, you could be arrested.”  Mairi’s voice began to crack.  “Think of this, Peter.  If you don’t go, if the Laird hears that we weren’t part of this, he might take pity on us and leave us alone.”

Peter looked at Mairi with dark eyes and shook his head.

“What if this is the Lord’s will, Peter?”

Peter kicked a stone, then looked to the distance where already a crowd gathered.  “Then I suppose I should get on with earning my passage into Hell.”  Peter began walking toward the road and the growing band of crofters.

Mairi lifted her apron and held it to her face, in part from shame over Peter’s blasphemous comment, and in part to catch the tears of fear now streaking her cheeks.

She imagined being put out of her home and being sent to a seaside village where Peter would need to learn fishing and the women waited on shore to clean the fish or waded out into the low tide muck in search of clams and mussels.  She’d been told the smell of raw fish never leaves you, though you get used to it in time.  Her two boys, Niall and Ailean, eleven and nine years old respectively, would be forced into someone’s employ to help put food on the table every day.  Worse still, they could all be put on a boat and sent to Canada or the United States.  She’d heard rumors that life in Canada could be difficult with short growing seasons and bitter cold winters.  In the States, foreigners were looked upon with disdain and treated as outcasts. 

Those fears were soon forgotten, though, when from her periphery she saw Niall and Ailean running to join Peter.

“Niall, Ailean, come home, now!”

They did not stop, nor look back.

“Even if they could hear ye Lass, they wouldna come home.”  Old Anna approached from behind the house.  She carried a large walking stick and a cloth bag at the end of a leather strap that she had over her shoulder and across her body.  The bag was filled with something weighty.

“Anna, they shouldna be going.  This isn’t something for bairns.”

“I’m thinking ye couldna stop them.”  Anna leaned on the walking stick slightly out of breath.  “They want to be men, and men they’ll be today.”

“No!” cried Mairi.  “They’re too young!”

“Mairi, when yer protectin yer hame, no one’s too young.”

Mairi looked after Peter and her sons and began to sob.

“Here now, Lass.”  Anna put her arm around Mairi’s shoulder.  “They’ll be fine, I warrant it.  I’ll tell ye what ye can do.  Why don’t ye come with me, and we’ll go and keep a watchful eye on those lads o yers, eh?”  Anna squeezed Mairi’s shoulder.

Mairi nodded.

“Ah, fine.  That’s grand.  Here now, carry me bag if ye will.  I’m no as young as I used to be.”

Anna lifted the strap over her head and handed it to Mairi.  Mairi nearly dropped it, it was so weighty.

“What’s in here?” Mairi asked while opening the mouth of the bag to look.

“Some wee stones I gathered in the field.”

Mairi quizzically looked at Anna.

“There of no use in the field now, are they.”

As they walked toward the road, Mairi was conflicted.  She wanted to rush to where her boys were, but she felt obliged to stay with Anna who was laboring with the soft, uneven ground and the slight incline.  To make matters worse, Anna did not talk in her exertion, leaving Mairi to fret unabated.  At one point, Mairi asked Anna if the constables would carry guns.  All she received in reply was Anna’s heavy breathing and a wave of impatience from her free hand.

The crofters, men, women and children, arrayed themselves along the short stone fence bordering the road.  Four men and one woman crossed the fence and now stood on the road facing in the direction from which the constables would approach.  As Mairi approached the forty or so crofters she began to hear murmurings and an occasional raised voice.  Nearly all gathered had something in their hands—a rake, hoe, pitchfork, a walking stick, or stone.  It frightened Mairi.

“I don’t see Niall or Ailean.”  She stopped thirty feet from the crowd.

Anna took a step or two past her unaware they were stopping, then leaned heavily on her stick and looked back at Mairi.  Between deep breaths she said, “Well, come on then.  Ye’ll no find em back here.”

Mairi was becoming more frightened by the apparent attitude of the crofters and didn’t move.  “I canna see them, Anna.  Can you?”

“Lass, let’s go look together.”

“No, no.  I want them to come to me.  To come away from that . . . that . . . rabble.  Can’t ye see?”

“Aye, I can see well enough.  Yer afeared, aren’t ye, Lass?”  Anna shook her head and stepped back toward Mairi.  “Give me the stones then.  I’ll find yer bairns and shush them back to ye.”

Mairi helped Anna lift the leather strap over Anna’s head and onto her shoulder.

“Mairi, the future of yer hame, yer life, is going to be right here, on this road.  The Laird’s hired men are coming to take it all away from ye.  Will ye no stand up for yerself?”

Mairi said nothing, looking past Anna as though she hadn’t heard a word.  Anna turned, shaking her head, and trundled to the back of the crowd.  Soon Niall and Ailean emerged from the crowd slowly and dejectedly walked toward Mairi.  Ailean stumbled and fell from watching behind him and not on the ground he was walking.

“What are you two doing here?  This is no place for young lads.”

“Others are here, Ma,” said Niall pointing back to the crowd.

“Well, they shouldn’t be.  This is not a Christian gathering.  This is not the sort of thing Christ would have taught us.  No.  I’ll no have my bairns straying from the teachings of Christ.  Do you hear me?”

Before the boys could answer, one of the men in the crowd shouted, “There!” and soon all eyes, including Mairi’s, were focused down the road where a lone horseman rode out from behind a rise.  The rider trotted a short distance, then stopped.  He stayed there for several moments before wheeling his horse and leaving from the way he’d come, disappearing around the curve and behind the rise.

To a soul, the crofters remained silent while the rider was in sight.  As soon as he disappeared, their murmurings started again, but at a noticeably higher decibel.

“See, now,” Mairi said, her voice betraying relief, “he spied us and thought better of it.  It’s all over.  We should be to hame, now.”

“What about Da?” asked Ailean.

“They’re all staying, Ma,” said Niall.

“It’s over,” Mairi raised her voice, “and that’s the last I’ll say of it.  Ye’ll go hame now and say yer prayers thanking God for his grace and wisdom that kept us all safe.”

“Look!” shouted Ailean pointing back down the road.  “Look, Niall.”

From behind the same rise, the rider reemerged.  This time, men on foot followed.  From this distance and in the muted light, Mairi could still see their dark uniforms with dark caps.  The crofter’s murmuring stopped again.

 It was now coming to pass, and the fear gripped her by the throat.  Marching up the road in navy uniforms with brass buttons was her misery.  They were the harbingers of homelessness.  On their belts were truncheons of destitute lives.  On their caps were badges of cold-heartedness.  Mairi began to feel the desolation deep into her soul.

Still, her soul was buoyed by the thought that this was all part of God’s plan.  Recognizing that her destiny was unfolding before her, even though she had no notion of what that destiny held, was a small comfort.  These constables could be, instead of the messengers of misery, the instruments of God’s will come to ensure God’s will come to pass. 

Nevertheless, she feared them and the destiny they brought.  She feared finding a new home.  She feared going hungry and watching her bairns starve.  Most of all, she feared the possibility she could be put on a boat destined for a different and foreign land.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone turn and run away, toward the crofts of Balmeanach.  With her eyes, Mairi followed his flight until he disappeared behind some buildings.  When she looked back, Niall and Ailean were no longer in front of her.  They were nowhere to be seen.  Mairi panicked and moved closer to the road to try to find them.  When she reached the stone wall, she saw them.  They were on the road with their father, Peter, facing the oncoming constables.

“Niall!  Ailean!”

The boys looked at her, then at their father.  Peter patted Ailean on the head.  They stayed with him.

“Peter!  I dinna want them there!”

Peter looked at her and frowned.

“Fine young men ye raised there, Mairi,” said Anna tanking Mairi’s arm.  “Their Da will keep them from harm.”

“He shouldna have to,” said Mairi.  “They shouldna be there.”

“Och, let them be, Lass.  Ye’ll remember wha they done here wi’ pride, ye will.  They’re good, brave lads, sure.”

Anna moved back toward the bulk of the crofters.  Mairi looked to the approaching constables who were now close enough she could make out the determination on their faces.  Then, from her right periphery, she saw more people from Balmeanach climbing the hill toward the road.  To her left she saw movement among the stones on the slope above the road.  Now the constables would be outnumbered and it only served to build Mairi’s dread.

The crofters were silent as the constables approached.  Mairi wondered what they were thinking.  With more coming up from Balmeanach and those on the hill, she began to worry even more that this confrontation would become a conflict of high emotion rather than a meeting of reasoned coolness.  She looked back to Peter, Niall, and Ailean, and became even more fearful.  Looking for strength, she folded her hands, bowed her head, and silently prayed.

Dear Lord, I know you’re a just and merciful God of Grace.  And I know this may all be according to your plan.  But, Lord, I feel like we’re the Israelites and the constables are the Egyptians.  Ye helped the Israelites.  Ye parted the sea and when they were safe ye crushed their enemies with the very thing ye saved them with.  Will ye save us like you did them?  What have we done, how have we sinned so, that makes us less worthy of your salvation than the Israelites?  Dear God, do something.  Keep my family from harm.  I beseech ye.

The constables stopped short of the gathered crofters.  Their eyes, edgy, almost frightened, their heads constantly moving as though they expected something to happen and wanted to see from which quarter it started.

The crofters began drifting down the stone wall until they were abeam the constables.  Peter, Niall, Ailean and the other men blocking the road moved closer as well.  Mairi followed from behind the stone wall.

“Yer no welcome here!” shouted one of the men standing next to Peter.  “There’s nothing for ye here.  Go back to where ye come.”

From the front of the constables, the sheriff replied, “We’re no here for a welcome.”

“Then go hame!” shouted someone from the wall.

“Aye, off with ye, ye buggerin bastards!” shouted someone else followed by a chorus of “ayes” and grumbles from the crofters shaking their sticks and raising their fists.

The constables’ unease was now palatable.  Many removed their truncheons from their belts and held them at the ready.  Mairi could see that some began moving into a stance she could only imagine was in preparation for an attack. 

The sheriff dismounted his horse and reached into his coat breast pocket pulling out a folded paper.  He kept watch on the crowd as he unfolded the paper and prepared to read.

“The Laird Alexander MacDonald and the magistrate of Portree have issued a warrant for the arrest of Norman Stewart, Alexander Finlayson, Malcolm Finlayson, Peter MacDonald, Donald Nicholson, and James Nicholson . . .”

Mairi heard her husband’s name and panic swelled in her breast.  She could feel her throat constrict and her breathing quicken.  Where was God, she wondered.  Where was his compassion and justice?  Certainly he could not be looking down on the misery that was about to be inflicted with a dispassionate heart.  Certainly, he would not loose the wolves on his flock.

From the crofters, someone yelled, “Ye canna fool us, ye’ve come to hump our sheep.”  The crowd burst into laughter.

“Ye’re all the shite in the field.”

A woman followed, “Nay, they’re the worms under the shite.”  More laughter.

“Ye’ll nay take a one, sae help me,” Peter replied to the sheriff.  “Ye can drag yer bloody arses back tae Glasgow.”

“Oh God, no, Peter.  No,” whispered Mairi.  She saw Naill standing next to his father.  He now held a stone in his right hand.  Ailean had backed away.

“Ailean!  Ailean!  Come here!” and the lad began making his way to Mairi all the while keeping watch on the formation of constables.  When he reached Mairi, she could see the fear in his eyes and when she stroked his hair, she could feel a tremble.  She took his hand and held him close to her. 

“Wheest, child.”

The crofters were tense, waiting, it seemed to Mairi, for an excuse to rush the constables.  The constables were tense as well, fearing what appeared to be the inevitable pain of sticks and stones.  The crofters began shouting at the invaders.  There was Anna shaking her walking stick in their direction and shouting, “Go hame, ye buggerer of boys!”

Mairi saw the sheriff turn toward the constables behind him and then point to the men blocking the road, including Peter and Niall.  The sheriff then stepped out of the way and a dozen or so constables, truncheons in hand, began walking toward the men the sheriff identified.  Apparently, that was all the crofters required.  Stones started flying toward the constables.  A few crofters hopped up on the stone wall and began swinging their sticks and tools at the police.  Mairi saw movement on the hillside and looked in time to see several large stones rolling toward the massed constables.

The din was tremendous.  Mairi couldn’t make out what most were saying, but she could tell it was being said in anger.  She looked down at Ailean who was now hugging her side.  It’s not right, she thought, it’s not right.  These uniformed men, these strangers who’ve never seen any of us before, have been sent to do the bidding of the one who does know us.  They’re the hired tools of a coward.  No better and not much different from oxen yoked to do their masters’ labors.

As she watched in frozen horror, the clash between crofters and constables became more involved and pitched.  Crofters clambered over the stone wall only to face truncheons being swung wildly in an attempt to keep crofters at a distance and to deflect incoming sticks and tools.  Mairi saw crofters being hit by truncheons and staggering away.  Moments later they were ready to rejoin the fray.  She saw constables backing away from the pressing crowd.  It appeared the crofters were gaining the advantage.  Then she saw Anna stumble away from the crowd.  Mairi went to her.

“Are ye hurt?”

“Aye,” whispered Anna as though she was out of breath.  “A wee bit.  A bastard got
me . . . before I could get . . . one of them.”

Anna turned her head away from Mairi.  Her neck was brilliant red and a small trickle of blood escaped from her ear.  Mairi hissed, sucking in air.

“Striking a woman.  Have they no decency?  It’s no too bad, Anna.”

“That’s no why . . . I left,” continued Anna.  “I also got hit . . . in the chest.  Knocked the breath . . . from me.”

Mairi helped Anna sit on the ground.  When Mairi knelt to clean the blood from Anna’s ear, Anna brushed her away and pointed to the road.  Mairi saw a desperate struggle between the men on the road and the constables.

“Peter won’t . . . give up yer hame . . . without a good row,” said Anna.

Mairi looked up to the road and Peter who was struggling against the grasping hands of the constables.  She stood.  A truncheon lifted above the fray.  It swung down.  Niall fell to the ground.

“No!” Mairi shouted and began running toward the fighting men.  “A dhiobhail!”  She hadn’t spoken Gaelic in years and now the first thing out of her mouth was to curse the constable as a devil. 

Niall crawled away from the brawl.  Mairi rushed to him.  He was crying and holding his left shoulder.  Mairi helped him away from the road.  When they stopped, she tried to cajole him to stop crying to no avail. 

Two constables now had Peter on the ground and one was striking Peter with his fist.  Mairi looked down, then moved Niall to the side and picked up a potato-sized stone.  With all her might, she hurled it at the men holding Peter.  When she’d thrown it, she yelled, “A mitic an deamhan!”  [You son of the devil!]

Her stone fell short of the men, but one saw her throw it and nodded toward her and said something to another constable.

“Yer a poofter!” shouted Mairi.  “Aye, you, ye clotheid.”

The constable took two steps toward Mairi and stopped.

“Cha toll?” she taunted.  “Pog mo thon!”  [No?  Kiss my ass!]

Mairi picked up another stone and threw it at the stopped constable.  He caught it before it could hit him.  He shook his head, dropped the stone, and turned back toward the brawl.  Mairi shrieked in exasperation.

The crofters who had been blocking the road, including her Peter, were now being drug back to the main body of constables who were still fighting off crofter sticks and stones.  The arrested men were handcuffed, yet struggling against their captors.  In short order, the constables and their captors were enveloped in the main body of constables.  When they were all together the constables slowly began backing down the road they’d arrived on with the shouting and harassing crofters in pursuit.

Mairi lost sight of Peter.  She left Niall and Ailean with Anna, who was still sitting and panting, and followed the crowd.  She picked up a stone and was preparing to throw it when she realized that Peter was somewhere amongst the constables and her stone might hit him.  So she dropped the stone and instead shouted, “ Yer mither’s a salope and yer the gowk from her wame!”  She saw another woman pick up a stone to throw and said, “No, no.  Our men are in there.”

When it became apparent to Mairi that Peter was going to be taken away and the gathered crofters weren’t going to affect it, she stopped following and watched the crofters and constables drift slowly down the road, still in contact with each other.  Soon more and more crofters fell out of the crowd and the pace of the constables quickened. 

Mairi still seethed with anger at the whole situation—the Laird and his lackey factor, the sheriff, and the hired constables.  How dare they come into her space, her home, with ill intent?  They were invaders.  She hated them all.  They were vile thieves.

Mairi turned away from the retreating army and returned to her boys and Anna.  Both boys had stopped crying, though Ailean still gulped large breaths of air.  Mairi brushed back his hair from his face, then with her thumbs, wiped the dirt streaks on his cheeks.

“Where are they takin Da?” Ailean asked.

“Awa, lad,” she whispered.  “Dinna fash yerself.  Yer Da will be back soon enough.”

Mairi turned to Niall who was still favoring the shoulder that had been struck.

“Ah, Niall.  Are ye hurt bad, dear?”

Niall shook his head.

“Can ye lift yer arm?” she asked helping him raise his arm from his side.  “Good.  It’s no broken then.”

“I’m proud of ye, Mairi,” Anna said pulling herself to her knees.  “Ye stood up for yer man and yer hame, ye did.  Against them coofs.”

Mairi looked back down the road and muttered, “Ifrinn an diabhuill . . . a dhia, thoir cobhair.”  [Devil’s hell . . . God help us]

“God dinna help them like us, lass,” said Anna.  She lifted her arm toward Mairi who took it helping Anna to her feet.  “It’s the Laird he helps.  The Laird and them like him.”

“Anna, wha now?”

“Aye, wha now.”  Suddenly Anna looked frantically toward the crofters that were now trudging back.  “Have ye seen Angus?”

“Aye, I did.  He was fine.”

Anna looked back at Mairi and smiled.  Patting Mairi’s cheek, Anna said, “Aye, wha now.  I guess we go hame, go hame and wait.  Will ye be alright, then?  Just ye and the lads, there?”

Mairi nodded.

“Come on then, lads,” said Anna.  “Let’s tak yer mither hame so ye can wait for yer Da’s return.”

In the quiet walk home, Mairi relived the day ending in the anxiousness she now felt returning.  Her husband was gone, taken by the agents of a greedy, powerful, uncaring man.  The Laird had taken her man, her boys’ father.  She and the boys could manage the croft for a short while, but soon those same agents led by the Laird’s cousin, the Factor, would come to put her out.  She and her boys, and what they could carry, would be sent to a fishing village or put on a boat to Canada.  How would Peter find them when released from custody?  How would they ever find each other in a foreign land?  She had no answers.  No convenient comforts to ease her fears.  Answers abandoned her when she needed them most.

He abandoned her . . . or she abandoned Him.  I didn’t matter.  He wasn’t there.  He didn’t protect her or her family from the calamity they now faced.  He had to know what was happening to them and He turned a blind eye. 

When they arrived at the croft, Mairi said farewell to Anna, assuring her again she would be fine, and sent the boys inside.  She stayed outside the door in the cool, damp air and watched her neighbors and villagers stream back from the scene of the battle.  Some remained defiant, boisterous to those for whom it did not matter.  Most, though, were silent.  Mairi thought they were contemplating the ramifications of the day and their futures that were already rather bleak.  Most were barely able to eke enough from the rock-strewn, spongy soil to pay their rent, let alone have some money left over for fish or coal.  The Laird would certainly be harsh in his retribution for their insolence, and they walked as though they knew it.

It was when Duncan MacPhee passed that her soul blackened into obscurity.  Duncan was the most God-fearing man she knew.  Many said he should be the reverend rather than the sot they had.  As he walked past Mairi’s croft, she could see blood matting the hair on his head and in his beard.  Here was a man who, of all men, had no sin.  He lived day-to-day by God’s word.  He prayed night and day.  If God would love and protect anyone, it would be Duncan MacPhee.

Yet, here he was trudging back from the confrontation with the constables and on his head a sign that God had not been with him, had not protected him.  Could it be Duncan was also being punished?  Could God not forgive him this once for all the years Duncan had been his most devoted servant?  As the Lord’s devoted servant, Duncan suffered like every other crofter.  Diseased crops, starving beasts, and a demanding landlord plagued Duncan no less than it did, say, David Conroy who drank too much, whose every sentence contained curse words and who routinely disappeared leaving his family to fend for themselves.  His life and Duncan’s life were equally hard.  How could that be?

Did God not care?  Could he not see this part of the world to know the pain and suffering they were enduring?  Had he washed his hands of men only to intervene in the world to punish?  Is there not a better way, a more compassionate way, to deal with our misery?  Can He not think of anything better?

Mairi took a deep breath and turned to go inside.  She stood next to the fire for a moment, then said, “Lads, come here.  I dinna know when yer Da will come home.  It may be soon, or maybe no.  I’m sure the factor will soon call and charge us to leave.  So, we need to be ready.  I’ll be relyin on ye two to help.  Do ye understand me?”

Niall and Ailean nodded.

Mairi looked into the fire and continued, “Aye, we’re on our own now.  There’s no one to help.  We must do what we have to.  Rely on no one or nothing.”

Autumn Light

Isn’t it brilliant, pure, pristine?

Perfectly presented primary colors

and all their many derivatives

captured in what were, a moment ago,

atoms that found their way

to the boiling, roiling surface

and burst into vigorous flames

so that the cardinal now passing

through the explosion’s afterglow

is brilliantly and pristinely crimson

against an intensely pure royal blue.

The Last Wild Goose

This is a story I wrote at a recent retreat.  I’d been having a bit of a block going, so I decided to write on an actual experience I had and jazz it up.  As it turns out, I didn’t jazz it up that much.

 

There were scraggly beards, hair jutting from long ago worn out caps with forest green camouflage and mallard tail feathers stuck in the rim and cigarettes squeezed between fingers that, even in the blackness of pre-dawn, looked like they hadn’t seen soap or scrub brushes in days.  Some were short and fat, others tall and slender.  Nearly all spoke in short choppy sentences that either tried to hide their level of education or declared their lack of it.  These were the men on whom the State of Delaware entrusted its waterfowl conservation efforts.

Into this crowd of farmers, fishermen and failed auto mechanics I walked . . . the dude at the dude ranch.  I’d haved the day before and my brown camouflaged had was only two years old.  From where I parked my SUV, amidst a lot full of pickup trucks, I found my way through the blackness and glowing cigarettes to the bare, 60 watt bulb above the small trailer.  Immediately below the dangling bulb, a doublewide window had been removed.  In the window was a woman of nearly sixty years who had obviously sat when she should have been exercising.  As I arrived at the window, without looking at me she flopped a clipboard onto the window sill.  I took it, filled in the short form with my name, address and hunting license number and took the plastic chit with the number 61 and handed the clipboard back.  She took it without saying a word.  I worked my way back through the bobbing cigarette embers to my SUV where I opened the back hatch window and scruffed Maggie’s, my golden retriever’s, ears while holding her back from jumping out.

A short while later, I could see the cigarettes begin to bunch toward the trailer window, so I close the hatch and headed that way myself.

The lottery for duck and goose blinds on Delaware public land was a rather simple affair.  The woman in the window drew a ball with a number from a wire cage, like they do at bingo.  She would the shout out the number and the person with the plastic chit that had the number she called would then come forward and choose a blind from those remaining.  At this station, there were six or seven blinds that always went early.  Some were above ground water blinds and some were pit blinds in fields.  After these six or seven blinds had been chosen, the crowds started dwindling rapidly, cursing their luck as they left and vowing to try again . . . probably tomorrow, or the next day.  They had nothing better to do.

This day was no different.  The first six or seven blinds went quickly and the crowd started to thin.  By the time the woman in the window got to the twelfth number, there were fewer than ten men waiting.

I was the sixteenth number drawn.  I walked to the window and handed her my chit.

“Not much left, is there?” I said looking past her at the map that showed the blind locations.

“Nope.  Ya gonna try another day?” she asked.

“How did number 21 do yesterday?”

She looked at yesterday’s tally sheet, runningher finger with its overly manicured nail down to the number 21.  “Nuthin.”

“Oh, hell.  Give me 21.  It’s too nice to spend the day in front of the TV,” I said.  The woman spun in her chair and hung my plastic chit with the number 61 on a hook on the map so it covered blind 21 and spun back around.

“Good luck, Hon.  Don’t forget to check back in with all yer killins.”  Her laugh sounded like a cackle while she reached for another ball from the wire basket.

I turned around from the window and saw there were only two men left . . . both refuge dudes.

It was still warm for December.  I broke a sweat taking the aluminum canoe off the roof of the SUV, hauling on my shoulders to the edge of the slough and filling it with decoys.  By the time I’d moved the SUV out of site and pulled on my waders, my T-shirt was damp.  Maggie, on the other hand, was releasing as much energy as she could after having been cooped up in the back of the SUV with all the decoys.  She would bounce on her front legs and whine in anticipation, then dash off into the darkness.  In a moment, she’d return and go through the same motions.

Blind 21 was a water blind.  It sat at the end of a wide tidal slough.  To the left, a levee headed east.  To the right, the slough opened up as though it was a small lake until far to the south it constricted and dumped into a tidal river, both the source of the slough’s water and the route of its drainage.  Behind the blind, fifty yards to the west, dry land and a woods.

As I set out decoys, the air was still.  The light of the sunrise was becoming more prominent, but it hadn’t started budging the air, and I wasn’t sure it would.  So, I arranged the decoys for a south breeze, like we’d had the day prior.  The large group of decoys to the left, a small group to the right and an open landing area to the left center of the blind.

After setting the decoys, I stowed the canoe behind the blind, covered it with camouflage netting and climbed into the blind where Maggie was waiting, tail thumping and toe nails clicking on the plywood floor as she pranced.  The blind was three to four feet deep with a 2X4 bench in the back.  I put my gear on the bench, took my hat off and pulled the two lanyards, one with a goose call and one with a duck call, over my head and put my hat back on, loaded my shotgun and leaned it in the front left corner of the blind.  Finally, I poured myself a cup of coffee from the stainless thermos.

Before I could take my first sip, I heard shots from somewhere south of me.  I looked at my watch.  Yep, shooting hours.  I looked in the direction of the shooting, but could see nothing in the air.  Maggie went still and whimpered a bit, then looked at me.  Her head was cocked, her ears perked up and the skin on her head formed a slight roll above her eyes giving her the appearance of having eyebrows.  The expression was as if she was saying, “Well . . . what’s going on out there?”

“I don’t know Mags,” I said while scratching under her neck.  “I don’t see a thing.” 

She’d forgotten what the question was and was focused on the neck massage she was getting.  That was the last gunfire we heard for a while.

An hour later, the sun was fully up, I’d not heard anymore gunfire, the mosquitoes were beginning to swarm and Maggie was asleep on the floor of the blind.  It was beginning to be obvious why this blind was still available when my number was called.

Half an hour later, I was sitting on the bench pouring my last cup of coffee, cursing the mosquitoes and beginning to wonder how long I was going to put up with this when I heard it.  A single honk.  It sounded like it was behind me.  I looked at Maggie.  She didn’t move from sleeping.  There it was again.  I stood and looked over the back of the blind.  Nothing.  I looked to the right.  Nothing.  Then, from over the tops of the trees behind me, a lone goose had its wings cupped, intent on landing with my decoys.

I ducked down, quickly turned around and reached for my shotgun.  Maggie slept.  I could hear the wind in the feathers as the goose skimmed the top of the blind.  The click of the safety going off didn’t worry me about the goose hearing it.  It was too late for the goose.  Maggie slept.  I rose, put the shotgun to my shoulder, found the goose with the end of the barrel and squeezed the trigger.  Maggie woke.  The goose cart wheeled.  I shucked the spent shell from the shotgun.  Maggie was frantic.

The goose fell outside the small group of decoys on the right and was motionless.

“Hunt bird, Maggie,” I said in almost a whisper but with the enthusiasm of someone surprised with their success.

Maggie went to the opening at the side of the blind with what appeared to be true intent, then stopped.  She pawed the air outside the opening with her right foot.  She then turned and looked at me with the same look I’d gotten earlier . . . the “Well, what now?” look.

“Hunt bird,” I said again only more forcefully and while motioning out the side of the blind.

Maggie turned and looked out the opening, looked back at me and her ears drooped.  In Maggie’s younger years, water was water.  Brackish water, salt water, sweet fresh water, it didn’t matter.  Maggie would launch herself into it at barely the hint of suggestion.  Sometimes her abandon was so complete that she completely submerged when she hit the water, head and all.  When she emerged, she’d be slightly disoriented, but soon would gain her bearings and begin paddling to her target.  Now that she was getting older, her willingness to abandon herself for the water had been tempered with age.  At that moment, I think I understood and didn’t press the issue.

I moved her away from the opening and stopped out of the blind and into the water and muck.  I looked out beyond the decoys to the sprawled goose and decided I was not going to need my shotgun to finish the job.  So, I uncovered the canoe and unhooked it from the back of the blind.  I pulled it around to the side so I could use the step for going into the blind as a step for getting into the canoe.  I knelt forward of the back seat and reached for the oar.

Maggie wasn’t going to hear of it.  She pawed at me and whimpered and whined. 

“Look, you’re the one that chose not to go.”  I should have known better than to talk to her.  That simply made the whining worse, now punctuated with a yelp.  I pulled the canoe back to the blind opening and before I could even offer, she jumped into the canoe and scrambled to the front.  Then she looked over her shoulder at me as if to say, “Okay, I’m ready now.”

As we pushed away, Maggie looked like Kate Winslet on the bow of the Titanic.  Her front paws were on the raised point of the canoe while her hind feet were on the canoe floor.  It was damned near regal looking.  I could  almost imagine her raising her left paw, pointing forward and barking, “Damn the icebergs, full speed ahead!”

Maggie watched the floating goose as we approached and leaned over the side to sniff as it passed the canoe bow.  She nearly tipped us over.  When I picked up the goose, Maggie resumed her post, eyes fixed on the horizon and on the future.  Through the entire turn of events, she didn’t get a drop of water on her.  Soon she was sleeping again on the blind floor.

This had suddenly become a banner day.  This one, lone, stupid goose had single-handedly changed my despairing of any fortune into the hope for a full bag.  Only three more geese to go.  Better yet, a south breeze had picked up and had blown away the mosquitoes.

Forty minutes later, the blind at the south end of the slough started calling for geese.  I looked down at Maggie, who was still worn out from her last effort, and said, “The farmers are calling, Mags, but they sure don’t sound like any goose I’ve ever heard before.”  I spoke to deaf ears.

It took several minutes before I could see what the south blind was calling to.  Then further south, winging well above shotgun range, a flock of seven or eight Canadas were riding the south breeze headed north.  They weren’t in a line or ‘V’ formation, but they weren’t really looking for a place to stop either.  They appeared to know where they were headed and were simply going to leisurely wing there way to it.  All the honking and squeaking from the blind to the south of me wasn’t going to sway their determination.

Still, when the geese had left the south blind behind and were passing high and outside my block of decoys, I thought I’d give them a couple of quick honks for no other reason than to practice my calling.  I also thought I could embarrass the farmers in the south blind as well.  So I raised the goose call to my lips and puffed while cupping my hands around the other end to slightly muffle and soften the sound.  The result was a short, clear and pure ho-ONK and I was pleased with myself for its tone and realism.  I followed with another short ho-ONK and then let the call drop back to my chest.  Maggie looked at me.

To my amazement, a pair broke left from the flock, dropped in altitude and headed for my blind.  Holy shit!  I crouched down, put my hand on my shotgun and hoped the farmers were watching.  Through the dead foliage on the blind, I watched as the wing beats of the two geese became slower and shallower.  They were interested in landing.  Then they banked slightly left and leveled off.  Their new route would take them slightly outside the decoys.  That would mean just barely in range of my shotgun dramatically increasing the odds of a crippling shot.  I decided to wait.

South of my blind they turned left.  Their wing beats became stronger and I was afraid they were giving up.  So I gave them one more quick and muted honk.  That was all it took.  They both wheeled left and headed straight for me, wings cupped in an inverted ‘U’ committed to land in the opening between the two sets of decoys.

I took my gun in both hands and found the safety switch with my right index finger.  Maggie was no sitting up with those golden triangles on either side of her head. 

When I stood, one goose was about three feet above the water and the second, about five feet.  They saw me and immediately tried to gain altitude and distance.  When I look back on it, it was panic, pure and simple.

I leveled my barrel on the higher of the two and pulled the trigger.  I distinctly recall that it fell like a shot-down World War Two fighter plunging into the Pacific Ocean.  The second goose was not disoriented, turning and climbing directly toward me.  I instinctively found a lead and shot.  The bird tumbled and was so close that it hit the front of the blind before splashing into the water.  Then all was still except for the hollow clicking of Maggie’s toenails on the plywood.

I quickly retrieved the two geese with Maggie supervising.  It was a rare event for me . . . a clean double . . . my first with geese.  I needed only one more to have my legal limit.  If I got it, it would be the first time I’d ever gotten my limit in geese.  Were the farmers watching?

My next opportunity cam within minutes of getting back in the blind.  Once again, I was given advanced warning from the south blind.  This time the flock was twice as big and was travelling the west side of the slough . . . my side.

I stayed low in the blind so as not to be seen and watched as the fifteen birds approached.  They were low.  They were really low.  Low enough that if they flow over my decoys, they would definitely be in range.  It would be a tricky shot.  Not the kind of shot I prided myself at being particularly adept at.  It would require a sizable lead because of their speed.

I didn’t call.  They showed no interest in landing, so I didn’t think calling would do much good.  Besides, it might actually frighten them a bit and drive them out of range.  I quietly watched.  As the lead goose approached the farthest right decoy, I took my shotgun in hand.  When it was directly in front of the blind, I stood and took aim at the goose I thought was nearest.  I pulled the trigger.  The goose behind the one I was aiming at fell.  My lead had been that far off.

I was astounded.  Despite my poor shot, on the water lay the first time I’d ever shot my limit of Canada geese.  A smile of satisfaction crossed my face and I felt like whooping, but didn’t.

I looked to the north to watch the flock I’d just shot at depart.  Then from among its numbers, a single goose banked hard right and descended from the climbing geese.  As I watched, this lone goose, honking all the while, headed straight back for my blind.  To my amazement, it cupped its wings without hesitation, then rocked side-to-side spilling air and losing altitude quickly, finally splashing down within a foot of the belly-up goose.  Then, from this lone goose now hovering over its fallen mate, came the most mournful and heart-piercing cry.  It rattled me so that all I could do was stand silent in the blind and watch this pained animal circle its mate and listen to this wild creature mourn using the same words it had been using for eons, but with a tenor and tremble that gave the words a whole new meaning.

I watched and listened for what seemed to be hours, but was actually only minutes, before preparing the canoe and loading Maggie onto her perch.  When I started moving around in the blind, the lone goose stopped its crying and instead focused its attention on my every move.

I slowly oared toward the lone goose and its dead companion and noticed that the lone goose was keeping itself between me and the dead goose.  The lone goose’s head was upright, proud and ready.  It swam back and forth, as though pacing, but always ensuring to keep itself between its companion and the invader.

When I got close, I shouted at it trying to frighten it into flight.  I smacked the water with my oar, both with no results.  Maggie leaned over to smell the goose as she passed, but the lone goose hissed and briefly charged.  Maggie sat up straight, shocked by the feigned attack.  Maggie’s retreat nearly spilled us.

I shoved out my oar trying to brush the lone goose away, but it ducked the oar hissing and pecking at it with its beak.  Still it stayed between me and the dead goose.  I tried to move my end of the canoe in to nudge the lone goose out of the way, but it charged then rose up on its tail and flapped its wings as a threat.  This action, however, got Maggie’s attention.  She stood and faced toward the goose.  The goose, in turn, shifted its focus to Maggie.  This allowed me to stealthily reach out with the oar and pull the dead goose toward me without the lone goose noticing.  I plucked the dead goose out of the water, stored it on the canoe floor and quickly began rowing us backwards to the blind.

Half-way back to the blind, I stopped rowing and watched the lone goose.  It was swimming in circles, looking all around for the mate it had sworn itself to defend.  When it was finally satisfied that its mate was no longer there, it spread its wings and slowly, it seemed, prepared for flight.  When airborne, its wing beats looked labored, its body lurching with each flap.  It climbed into the breeze, then turned north and eventually disappeared behind a distant tree line horizon.

I took Maggie to the dry land behind the blind.  Even she seemed subdued.  I returned to the water to retrieve the decoys and empty the blind.  Loading the SUV was mindless work. 

I drove to the check-out station to report my hunt results.  It was the same place, the same old trailer, the same old woman as when I checked in and picked my blind.  When I got to the window, though, there was a sheet of plexiglass covering the open hole.  I knocked on the window.  The woman rolled over on her chair and lifted the plexiglass out of its brackets and set it to the side.

“Which blind?” she asked blandly.

“Twenty one.”

“Well . . .” she looked at me.  “Nuthin?”

I held up the four Canadas by their necks.  “Four.”

She smiled, turned to the tally sheet, noted the number and said, “Got lucky, huh?”

“Yeah . . . I guess you could call it that.”

Story Beginning

Here’s the beginning of the new story.  It accounts for about a quarter of what’s written so far.  I’m open to any comments or critiques. 

 

“I’m falling apart in my old age,” he said while staring at the cup of coffee he was turning in his trembling hands.  It was almost an exclamation of martyrdom, like he was now going to tell me of his suffering so that I would feel remorse for his situation.  The damned thing is, I did.

“Why?  What’s happened?”

“I now have macular degeneration in my other eye.  I’m having a hard time reading anything and I’m afraid I’ll lose my driver’s license.”

“Is it that bad?”

“Here.  I’ll show you,” and he pulled a magazine from the center of the table and stared at the cover.  “If I look directly at something, I can’t make it out.  Take the title here.  I can make out the three letters on the left and the three on the right, but the ones in the middle are grayed out.”

It was as if he now thought I could see what he saw.  As if, somehow, the eyes of my father had some special connection to the eyes of his son so that I could experience the gravity of what he was experiencing.  I could only nod in agreement.

“It makes reading really hard, and on the road, signs are near impossible until I get close enough that it’s too late.  If I’m someplace new on a four-lane, I won’t see my exit until it’s too late to take it.  I won’t be able to read it until I’m that close.”

He sat back in the chair, but kept both hands on the table, palms down as though the table might try to float away.  I stared at the table top, though I could feel his gaze on my forehead like he expected me to say something.  I didn’t.  I did notice, though, that the center seam on the table, where the table comes apart when you add a leaf, was in desperate need of cleaning.

“I can’t play golf by myself anymore.  I can’t find the ball after I hit it.”

Another pause of unrequited anticipation.

I finally look at him and ask, “Are you doing any exercises or stretches to help stay limber?”

“I’m an old man.  Not much time left.  Do I want to waste what little time I’ve got left with stuff I don’t want to do?  Nah.”

“Well, then, you gotta expect that you’re going to get stiff and your golf game will suffer.  It’s what happens the older you get.”

“You’re not telling me anything new.  I’m the one that’s seventy-seven and let me tell you,” he shook his head, “it’s no cakewalk.”  He paused, then realized what had just happened.  “Wait a minute.  We weren’t talking about getting stiff.  We were talking about macular degeneration.  What are you trying to do?”

“Dad, I don’t know what to tell you about your eyes.  I don’t have any suggestions for you.  From what I know, it’s an irreversible condition.  So, I latched on to something I could make a suggestion about.”

Dad crossed his arms resting them on his belly and stared at the table top.  “I guess I can’t blame you.  I guess I sound like the old ladies at church.”

“No.  You don’t sound like that . . .”

“Yeah, I do.  And I’ll stop.  I use to hate listening to them go on and on about every little ache and pain.  Last thing I want is to be one of them.”

I could only chuckle.  It was a chuckle of sympathetic disbelief.  And it was for his benefit.  The thought of Dad becoming as frail as the church ladies was almost ludicrous.  Yet, he was now frail and I could easily imagine him telling Stan and Fred the latest development of his macular degeneration as they descend the steps from the sanctuary.  I couldn’t let him know, though, that that was how I now saw him.

New Story

I’ve started a new story, but I’m hesitating to share it just yet.  It’s a little personal.  A mixture of fact and fiction.  As of right now, the characters in the story are rather obvious.  I’m not sure I’m going to change that because I anticipate that the only place the story will get “published” is right here.  So, I will likely end up posting it at some point.  It will take me a bit though. 

So far, the title is “Ode to an Urn,” the urn being an urn for ashes.  The theme is personal relationships and how they’re affected by how the people with the relationship have different views of what happens after death.  It’s a two-character story and, so far, dialogue seems to be dominating.  When I’m ready, I’ll post the story in segments.

Poem In Progress II

I finally sat down and did some editing on this poem tonight.  My changes are included in the version below.  The most obvious change I made was to remove the stanza about the universe.  It just seemed out of place to me.  The poem was doing  fine with the trilobites only.  Another obvious change was the title.  Because the poem is intended to be an underhanded questioning of religion, I thought the original title was a little off the mark.  I also strengthened the questioning in the third stanza.  Throughout the poem I made some word changes.  Some were made for the sound of the poem.  While writing and especially editing poetry, I read it outloud to see if it sounds smooth or to listen to the flow.   Once done with the edits, I read the entire thing out loud once again to see if anything grabbed my attention.  All that being said, my primary concern with the poem at this point is that it needs a little more massaging to make it flow better, be more lyrical and less like narrative with odd carriage returns.

 

THANK YOU FOR TRILOBITES

Thank you for river gravel

that, before asphalt or concrete,

made up driveways where I would sit

for countless hours sorting fossils

and would be, could be precious stones.

 

Thank you for the small trilobite found

one day in a neighbor’s riverbed driveway,

an out-of-its-element, water-borne slug

now crystallized, calcified, solidified

older than the Earth some say.

 

As I turn the stone slug in my hand

thank you for the modicum of intelligence

that keeps me curious about trilobites still

and such other mysterious things as

who am I thanking and why.

Poem In Progress

I jotted down some notes for a poem while I was on my last trip and I thought it might be interesting to see how a poem evolves.  So, here the first draft.  I don’t remember what prompted it, except that the idea germinated from a poem I read.  My notes consisted of the first stanza and then the words trilobite, universe and intelligence. 

DEAR LORD

Thank you for river gravel

that, before asphalt or concrete,

made up driveways where I would sit

spending hours sorting for fossils

and would be, could be precious stones.

 

Thank you for the small trilobite

found one day in a neighbor’s driveway,

a prehistoric, water-borne slug

now calcified, crystallized, solidified

older than some say the Earth is.

 

Thank you for the universe

and the chance to see time

as it was before you created it

before it spilled from whatever source

you decided and into an imagination.

 

But most of all, thank you

for the modicum of intelligence

that makes me wonder why

I’m doing this.

 

So, there it is.  There are certainly problems with it as it is.  It’s pretty choppy, the language needs some sprucing up, and the last stanza needs expansion for balance.  What I’ll do next is spend some time looking at it, removing and replacing words and phrases, and perhaps entire stanzas.  (For instance, it just came into my mind that the third stanza about the universe feels a little out of place, so I’ll see how the poem sounds without it and then make a decision.)  The next post will be the next version with an explanation for the changes made.

New Poems

While I still don’t consider the block to be over, here are a couple poems I’ve written.

 

WHEN CANADA COMES TO CALL

 the leaves quiver in excitement and

the air gasps and sighs in bliss,

the sky’s washed clean and polished

allowing the clouds to gather speed

as they swiftly slide southward,

and I wish that a little more often

Canada would come to call.

 

 

FOR GRANTED

 I go to sleep each night rather than gazing

at minute specks of light, flames so massive

that next to them I would be mere dust,

because they’ll be there again tomorrow night.

 

But what if I’m wrong about tomorrow?

What if each star in the night sky has been

snuffed out, extinguished?  Would I not,

forever on, be able to sleep soundly again?

 

And what if, when the morning sneaks

through the blinds throwing slanted shadows

across the bedspread and onto the floor,

I reach for you and you’re not there?