On a Pedestal

Courtesy of the Boston Public Library, 

Leslie Jones Collection

When it gets too hot
in this town there's not a lot
of comfort one can get
in the form of something wet.

I climb in to get my kicks
and escape the baking bricks
and I whistle at the chicks
and ignore the tuts and tsks.

They say this bath is for the birds,
but it's good enough for me!

Refill on Ghost Town Road

Canteens empty quickly,
crossing the Mojave,
even in an air-conditioned car.

We exit at the first
oasis
(or is this?)
to bring our hoarse throats
to the trough.

Fuel prices through the roof
temperature higher
the desert station's occupied
by an empty cop car
and a pancake-tired van
that might have been waiting
thirty years.

The attendant flickers past
to check the air pump
and fades from view.
(There's plenty of air here.
What we need is agua.)

Stacks of water bottles
glow an eerie blue,
a tempting illusion of refreshment.
We brought our own.
We sneak to the back,
fill them with lukewarm water
from a chipped sink
in the dusty washroom,
and make our escape
before the mirage can fade.

A living town is just around
the next bend.
We fill our saddlebags
with cool, moist fruit
and wonder
is the water really wet?

Yukon Gold

A Magpie Tale

photo by Agustin Berrocal 

Hank leaned against a tree.  The rough bark bit into the flesh of his forearm as he rested his forehead on his sweaty skin.  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.  Air was the only thing he could still afford, air and the water that trickled mockingly past his feet.

A crunch in the leaves startled him, but he did not look up until he felt an arm around his shoulder.

"You still here, son?"  The grizzled prospector looked Hank over, shaking his head.  "How'd you come to pick this sorry ravine?"

"Mr. Wallace at the Land Office said it was a good claim, sir," Hank said, shaking old Sam's arm off.

Sam snorted.  "Wily Wallace was a snake-oil salesman long afore he joined up with the guv'ment.  He ain't changed his spots none."

Hank bit his lip, and looked down at his scruffy boots.  Sam sighed, and patted the young man's shoulder again.  "You've done your best here.  Go on home, son.  Take up a trade, find a nice girl."

"I can't," Hank whispered.  "I can't go home."

"Why not?"

Hank straightened up, pans clanking in his pack.  "Times were hard after Papa died.  Mama sent me to sell the herd, to get enough money to keep the ranch.  I met a man who made me a better offer:  trade the cattle for a prospectin' kit, head north to where the streambeds are made of gold, where a young man can dig up enough to buy the ranch and the herd five times over, all in one afternoon.  I took his tools and just kept goin'.  I thought I could make a quick fortune and be right back.  And I knew in the back of my mind that if I told Mama, she'd call me a fool."  Hank sat down on a stump, and put his face in his hands.  "She would've been right."

"Get back to your Mama, boy.  You've worried her long enough."

"But I keep thinkin' I'll find some gold in the next pan.  Or the next.  Just one more . . . And that's all I can do.  I've spent everything I had.  I can't even buy a ticket home."

Sam pursed his lips.  "Now, I might be able to help you out a bit, for your Mama's sake."

Hank stood up and adjusted his pack.  "No, sir, I've got to do this on my own.  So long," he said, tramping into the ravine.

Hank walked upstream until he was too dizzy to go on.  He unpacked his pans and sluice box, wondering when his stomach had stopped growling.  Had it given up on him, too?  He spotted a few unripe blackberries and choked them down, but felt worse than before.  He sluiced his throat with the cold mountain stream, then set to work.

Scoop, shake, sort, swat mosquitoes, repeat.  Hank's eyes grew heavy.  Scoop, shake, swat . . .

Hank woke with a jerk.  He could see stars between the pine needles.  A bat flitted across the sky.  Something skittered through the underbrush.  And what was that smell?  It was so faint he thought he must be imagining it.  Then a breeze came down the slope, bringing more of the scent.  Hank scrambled up and felt his way through the trees, following his nose.

He rounded a boulder and found himself at the entrance of a cave.  His eyes ignored the shadows and focused on the light shining a few yards inside.  Sinking to his hands and knees, Hank crawled toward the bed of gleaming nuggets.  He closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks for this bonanza, then reached--

"What you think you doing?"  A gruff voice issued from the shadows.  "You burn hand.  And it not your food.  For my man."

Hank sat back on his heels as an immense woman detached herself from the darkness.  He took in her unkempt hair and robe made of rough skins.  He thought he ought to be afraid, but he blurted out, "But I'm so hungry!  Taters have never smelled so good.  Please, mayn't I just have one?"

She squatted on the other side of the fire and fixed Hank with unblinking eyes.  "He miss even one.  You eat his food, maybe he eat you instead."

Hank shivered.  He wrapped his arms around himself, but the shivering didn't stop.  He started to feel dizzy again.

The woman narrowed her eyes.  Using a stick, she pulled one of the potatoes off the bed of coals.  Leaving it in front of her left toes, she cocked her head at Hank and asked, "Why?"

Hank poured out his story once again.  He wasn't sure the woman could understand all of it, but she didn't move while he spoke.  When he finished, she nodded once.

"Eat."  She pushed the cooling potato in his direction.  He took it in both hands, closed his eyes, sniffed, then took a bite.   It tasted even better than it smelled, warm and soft and almost buttery, even though she hadn't spread anything on it.

"Oh, thank you, ma'am.  This is better than any gold."  Hank licked the crumbs off his fingers.

"True," the woman said, raising her shaggy eyebrows.  "But now you hide."

Hank heard a crashing in the trees outside the cave.  The woman pushed him toward the wall, and covered him with smelly furs.  Lying still on the stone floor, Hank lifted the fur to peek out.  He saw a massive foot, as long as Hank's whole arm, and covered in dark, matted hair.  He decided he'd seen enough.

"Where my food?" rumbled a gravelly voice.  "One gone."

"Bear steal it while I fetch water."

"What I smell?"

"Bear.  I get it.  Make rug next day."

The big foot kicked at Hank's hiding place.  Thankfully, Hank's yelp coincided with a massive sneeze.

"Bear?"

"Bear.  You eat food."

Hank listened to slurps, grunts, and a few more sneezes as the owner of the foot devoured the potatoes.  Despite his terror, and a little envy, he fell into a deep sleep.

Hank woke to early daylight.  He found himself bouncing along on a fur-clad shoulder, still wrapped in the bear skin.  "Hey!" he cried.

"Shh."

The bouncing stopped.  The huge woman set him down on the turf next to the stream.  Hank scrambled up.  There was his pack, his pans waiting on the bank.  He reached to pick up the sluice box. 

"No.  You not need."  She stuffed Hank's pack with pale yellow potatoes.  "Take these, plant at home.  No come back."

Daylight was not kind to the woman.  Now Hank could see spiders in her hair, the grayish tone of her skin.  Still, he remembered his manners.

"Yes, ma'am.  Thank you, ma'am.  This is my treasure, now."

Her granite skin crinkled around her eyes as she patted his head.

"Good boy."

She stepped back between the trees as Hank shouldered his pack.  He thought, briefly, of how much heavier it would be if it were full of gold nuggets.  A lot heavier, but not nearly as tasty.  Considering prices in town, he should be able to trade a few taters for the price of a train ticket, and still have enough to plant on the ranch.  Maybe he could even send Mama a telegram.  Hank whistled as he toted his edible gold back to civilization.

Demitasse

A Magpie Tale

Supermoon 2013, Julio Cortez, AP 

rosy teacup moon

half full or half empty now?

dreams of liberty

Chamber Music

A Magpie Tale

© Charleston Trust Photograph by Axel Hesslenberg

She thought she would wilt
when the parlor door shut.
Perched on a sticky folding chair,
she fluffed the ruffles of her sundress,
but the flicking of her funeral fan
simply sent more sultry air
to slap her face.  The men in ties
tuned up, brows glistening,
peering at the pages through
the thick humidity.  What could
the black spots mean?
She caught a breath as they caught theirs,
and with a nod, bows stroked strings,
growling, prowling, sweetly singing.
She closed her eyes and flew away
on the soaring, sudden breeze.


This door takes me back to Charleston, South Carolina.  Someday I'll return and soak up the heat of the Spoleto USA arts festival...

Cape Henlopen

A Magpie Tale

Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall

The ocean waves

at me

feigning nonchalance.

Two can play this game.

I stand

like a stop sign

at the edge

and wait.

Transparent, tentative,

the water washes near,

withdraws.

Again it approaches, 

gives my soles a chill tickle,

sneaks away.

The sea surges,

sucks at my toes,

absconds with streams of supporting sands.

I shift my weight

when it looks away,

settling into a deeper foundation.

Now it sends

an unsuspecting jellyfish

amid the foam.

I flinch

and eye its translucence

as it flows behind my ankles,

just where I might have stepped away,

and back again, relieved, 

into the surf.

The sun winks

on its crony waves

and turns up the heat

beating my shoulders without scruple.

Still I stand

until the mountain waves come to me

and I am ready

to dive in.

Northwest August

A Magpie Tale

 

Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth

 

Open windows wide

let soft breezes warm the house

soak up dazzling beams

leave the fire unlit until

clouds prevail and sun retreats

 

 

 

Summer Love

A Magpie Tale

Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Moth wings caress the light,

blinded by a bright desire.

He still sets her heart on fire,

but it's too hot tonight.

Bathing in Banff

A Magpie Tale

from my recent journey through British Columbia and Alberta, Canada

People of Chilmark, Thomas Hart Benton, 1920

An international cast of tens
dons bathing suits to sit and soak;
twenty minutes suffice most folk
at thirty-nine degrees centigrade.

Some few have brought their youngsters in,
who splash with wild aquatic joy.
Do they amuse, or just annoy
the statues steaming in the shade?

Sunrise Over Kamloops

A Magpie Tale

from my recent journey through British Columbia and Alberta, Canada

Wheat Field with Rising Sun, Vincent Van Gogh, 1889

The sun sneaks up in Seattle,

light filtering through layers

of cloud, needle, and leaf.

Some days only birds can tell

that dawn has come at all.

Along the Thompson River,

smooth hills hardly hinder

the whole sky's growing glow.

Still I resist rising

until the sun turns its spotlight

upon my thin tent door

and morning insists

that it not be ignored.



Lurking by the Tap

A Magpie Tale

I'm holding a bulbous water balloon.

I've filled it as far as it goes.

I'll drench my brother before he takes aim--

unless he has the garden hose!

Lost and Found

A Magpie Tale, which began with a family brainstorm

     "Mom, look what I found!"
     Melissa looked up, gloved hands full of weeds.  After a month of unpacking boxes and organizing the house, she had finally decided to tackle the yard.  The beautiful garden had been an important factor when they bought the house, but she just had not had time for it since.  Now the carefully tended beds were full of weeds.  And some other things, too.  She had found bits of plastic, a soda can, a toy car, even a broken spade.  What could Sarah have found this time?  She pushed her way through the peonies to where Sarah squatted over her treasure.
     "See?  A watering can!"
     "Well, that could be useful." 
     "And it is so pretty and green.  May I keep it, and water all the flowers with it?"
     "Of course.  The Hansens must not need it anymore.  Bring it along, Sarah."
     The little girl picked up the watering can's curved handle.  "Oh, look!  They forgot a sock, too!"
     Melissa gingerly plucked the tube sock from the dirt.  "Do you want to keep this one?"
     "Eww, Mom, no thanks."
     Placing the sock next to the pile of weeds, Melissa moved on.  Sarah set the watering can down among the daisies, and ran off in pursuit of a butterfly.  Melissa attacked a tough clump of dandelions.  Soon Sarah came bouncing back, and picked up her treasure again. 
     "Another sock!" 
     Melissa looked over.  Yes, peeking out from the daisy leaves was a man's black sock.  Mr. Hansen must have been more careless than she had thought.  She put this sock next to the first, and uprooted the last dandelion.  Sarah dropped the watering can in front of some lilies, and turned somersaults across the grass. 
     When she came tumbling back, she found a pink baby sock.  Then a soft blue lady's sock.  The stack of socks was keeping pace with the pile of weeds.  Every time Sarah picked up the watering can, she found another sock.  None of them matched.  Melissa was puzzled.  The Hansens had not seemed like people who would toss their socks off with a wild impulse to work in the garden.  But she had barely met them. 
     Then Sarah approached with yet another sock.  This time she looked troubled.  "Look, Mom.  It's my favorite sock, the one with butterflies on it." 
     "I'm glad you found your favorite sock, dear."
     "But I lost it before we moved.  A long time before."
     "Maybe another little girl lost a sock just like it, right here."  She thought the Hansens only had sons, but they must have entertained visitors sometimes.
     "No, Mom.  I didn't want to lose my favorite socks, so I wrote my initial on them.  See?"  There, on the toe, was a backward letter S.  Melissa looked back at her daughter, who solemnly proclaimed, "This must be where the socks go."
     "What?"
     "When you fold up the clean clothes, and the socks don't all match, you always say, 'Where do the socks go?'  It must be here, and the watering can finds them."
     Melissa stifled her impulse to call Sarah's idea silly, and proposed a diversion.  "Will you put some water in the can, and water these poor roses?"
     Sarah willingly ran to the tap and filled the can to overflowing.  She lugged it back to the rosebush, and poured.  Along with the water, out flowed five more odd socks.  Melissa jumped.  Sarah just pointed.
     "See?"
     Then another voice rang out.
     "Mo-om!  I can't find my soccer socks!"  Max looked out of the back door.
     Melissa sighed.  "Where did you see them last?"
     "I left them on my floor after the game last week.  And they aren't there any more."
     "Did you look in your drawer?"
     "I don't have time for this, Mom.  I need to get to practice."
     Melissa handed Max the watering can.  "Go look in your drawer.  I need to wash my hands before I help you."
     Max groaned and headed upstairs.  Melissa listened for the thump of the watering can on the floor.
     "There aren't any socks in my drawer.  C'mon, Mom, I'm going to be late!"
     Melissa stood at the bottom of the stairs.  "Max, will you bring me the watering can?"
     "What watering can?  I need my--oh, here are some socks!"
     Max returned, fully dressed for soccer practice.  He handed his mother the watering can, picked up his ball, and waved as he hurried out the front door. 
     Max's mother and sister watched him run down the sidewalk.  The white tube sock on his right leg covered his shinguard neatly.  The blue and yellow striped sock on his left leg reached nearly to his shorts.
     "I think you are right aboug the watering can." Melissa smiled at Sarah.
     Sarah was laughing too hard to answer.

Firebrands

A Magpie Tale

photo by Eli Snyder

Crimson dragonflies

hovering in the steamy haze

aspire to breathe fire

and set the restless field ablaze.

Shadow wings are fanning

the flames of August heat.

You can't extinguish summer,

it still simmers in retreat.

Dependence

A Magpie Tale

Our Founding Fathers

would not have set off fireworks

on the Sabbath Day,

but give thanks and pray

to the God who set them free

from mortal tyranny.

He was to be their King.

In whom do we now trust?

Happy Independence Day, USA!

Hygiene to Go

A beef cattle judge from Glasgow

once found he was late for the Show.

His kilt had no pocket--

he'd just have to sock it,

and keep his blue toothbrush in tow.

Inspired by Magpie Tales and this photo from the Royal Highland Show 2010, posted on Scotland for the Senses

Midnight Blade

A Magpie Tale

     "All right, then. Meet us at the tree house at midnight. And don't forget your knife!"
     Todd nodded and walked away quickly. He could hear them laughing behind him, but he didn't dare turn around lest he lose his nerve. This time he was going to do it. He wouldn't have another chance.
     His grandmother would never understand. Todd had spent a couple of weeks with his grandparents in Fort Yukon every summer since he could remember. He knew the local kids almost as well as he knew his own neighbors, and he was comfortable playing with them. They had always teased him about having to go to bed early on the long summer evenings, but he had no choice. Grandmother retired promptly at 9:30 every night and arose at 5:30 each morning, no matter the season, and expected everyone under her roof to do the same. What Grandmother expected, happened.
     In the past couple of years, the teasing had intensified. "Come on, it's still light," they pressed.
     "You don't know my Grandmother," he mumbled, embarrassed at his fear.
     "Oh, we know your old lady," they smirked. "We live here, remember?"
     Todd sensed that there was more going on after his curfew than another game of tag. This year he was fourteen, nearly a man, and it was time to defy his grandmother.  Secretly, of course.
     Grandpa would have understood, and might even have given Todd a few hints. He had come to Alaska as a young man, looking for adventure. He had never struck it rich like the heroes of his old Gold Rush tales, but he always maintained that there was treasure in the hills, in the rivers. He had spent his summers hunting, fishing, showing the tourists how to pan for gold. Grandmother had sometimes allowed Todd to go along on day trips. He loved hiking the rugged country, listening to Grandpa's stories. But Grandpa had died last winter. This summer, Todd's mother sent him to help Grandmother pack up the house. She would be flying back with him, to live in an apartment near his family. He was working hard, without much time to socialize, but his friends cornered him on the way back from an errand. He made a commitment.
     How would he fulfill it? Grandmother's locks were famous in this small town, and her sharp ears would surely detect any attempt to open them. Todd slowed down, discouraged. As he reached the house, an old rain barrel caught his eye. Probably it was rotten, but he went to check it out. A thin layer of water lined the bottom, left over from last week's rain. Todd tipped the barrel over, and heaved it up again. It was actually quite sturdy, he found as his face reddened, but finally he positioned the barrel, upside down, beneath his bedroom window. He could just reach the sill. The barrel could be his ticket out.
     But how could he obtain a knife? Todd thought longingly of his own pocketknife. He had worked so hard to learn how to use a knife, how to oil it and hone it and pass it safely. Only after Todd had certified as a responsible blade user had his father presented him with a new knife. It was perfect, from the shiny red exterior to the tiny corkscrew inside. Todd proudly took his knife to Scout camp, where he used it to cut the rope for the clothesline, open his morning juice cans, punch a new hole in his belt, and trim the leather pouch he crafted. When he found the right branch on the ground, he shaved it into an ideal hiking stick, complete with his initials carved into the top. Todd felt like he and the knife had bonded. They were a team, inseparable--which is why the knife was in his pocket when his canoe tipped over. He hoped the fish admired the slick red rectangle at the bottom of their lake.  He could not have brought the knife through airport security, anyway. Where could he get another? Could he borrow a kitchen knife? No, his grandmother would notice, and be inconveniently curious.
     Todd breathed deeply, then walked around to the front of the house.
     "What have you been doing?" Grandmother asked as he pulled open the screen door. "Are you quite all right?"
     "Yes, Ma'am. Just, ah, watering the flowers."
     "Indeed." She eyed him narrowly. "Well, back to work with you. Please pack the clothes in your grandfather's study, and the contents of his desk. I've already removed the important papers." She handed Todd a roll of tape and two boxes that were clearly marked as "Donations."
     Todd did not know why Grandmother called this room a study. Grandpa had called it his den. He had spent the dark winter days holed up in here like a black bear, tying intricate fishing flies, poring over his maps, dreaming of expeditions past and future. Todd folded the familiar flannel, wondering if the new owners could love the outdoors as much as Grandpa had.

     "Off to bed with you," Grandmother commanded at precisely 9:23.
     Todd dutifully donned his pajamas and brushed his teeth. He listened carefully to his grandmother's ablutions.  When he heard the muffled flush, he slid his window open, then pulled the blackout curtain closed. Nervously reclining on the bed, he could not sleep. Todd sat up, took the knife from under his pillow, and cautiously polished the blade with his shirt. He hoped it was sufficiently sharp. He lifted the curtain to take a better look at the edge. There was no reflection. It would do.
     Todd's eyes flew open at 11:47. He could not believe he had really fallen asleep. He pulled on his jeans and a sweatshirt, patted the knife in his pocket, and poked his head under the curtain. How could he sneak through the neighborhood when there was still so much light outside? Even the sun was watching him over the treetops.  He hoped the neighbors were asleep. But first he had to get through outside. He hoisted himself up--and realized that he had not opened the window far enough. Gently lowering himself again, he opened it wider.
     Squeak!
     Todd froze. Had Grandmother heard? No, there was no more sound. He climbed through the window, stretched down until his toes met the barrel, and scampered away. He ran through the back yards until he reached the trees. He checked his watch again, sure he would be late. But he still had a minute, just long enough to reach the foot of the old spruce.
     Brent was standing guard, looking more serious than usual. "You got it?" With sweaty hands, Todd showed him the knife. "All right."
     Todd climbed the rope ladder, heart throbbing, hands slipping. Brent climbed up behind him, and pulled the ladder into the tree house. Todd knew he was trapped. He looked up at the solemn youths surrounding a rough table. Then his mouth dropped open. Enthroned at the head of the table was his own grandmother.
     "It's about time you displayed some gumption, young man." She nodded curtly. "I trust you brought your grandfather's knife?" Todd nodded weakly. "Do shut your mouth, boy."
     Majestically, the old woman addressed the young circle. "Welcome to the annual meeting of the Summer Solstice Turophiles' Society."
     "What?" Todd gasped.
     "Cheese lovers," whispered Brent.
     "Rachel, will you pour?" Grandmother handed a bottle of sparkling cider to the girl on her right, then distributed cutting boards and bowls of crackers.
     "Todd, slice this Gruyere for us please."
     Relieved, Todd opened Grandpa's knife and set to work. Between slices, he exchanged smiles with his amused friends. He even saw, for the first time, the twinkle in Grandmother's eye that had attracted Grandpa's attention so many years ago.