Perch

A Magpie Tale

Dodos, by Jeanie Tomanek

I am queen of my tree
don't coop me up
or clip my wings
don't be sore
when I dive
and soar
but come
and fly with me


I love this artist's work.  Do click the link to see more!

Reflection

A Magpie Tale

Photo by Elena Kalis

The barrier is not so firm, but fine.
Did you catch a glimpse before slipping through,
leaving behind
the canker that muddled your mind,
limbs weary from fighting the current?
Is the other side a reflection
of this murkiness, but clear?
Take along your vivid colors.
A sweet savor trails in your wake.
Rest with the saints in glory,
but we know you won't be still.
If work there be to do, you'll find it;
idleness was never your ideal.
Family ties still anchor us--
we'll watch for your beacon smile
when our turn comes to cross
and wait, with you,
'til every silken hair will be restored.


For my mother-in-law, Sierra Sue Osgood, 1946-2013

Extreme Swishing

A Magpie Tale

Marcelle Lender Dancing the Bolero by Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec

"--and it's a proud day for Liechtenstein.  Fabian Bürzle has captured not only the gold but a new world record in the Top Hat Limbo, stooping nearly two centimeters lower than the second-place contestant from Spain.  Now we'll turn it over to Stanley for the next event in the twenty-fourth Impracticalympics."

"Thanks, Bob.  Francine and I are here in the Grand Ballroom for the finals in the 50-meter High Heel Hurdles.  After a day of tough elimination rounds, the top challengers are lining up at the start.  What do you think, Francine?"

"These ladies have come a long way, Stanley.  They've faced tough scrutiny of their shoes this year, but all the finalists' heels are within the regulation height range of 8.5 to 13 centimeters.  And each is wearing the standard three petticoats."

"Hasn't there been some controversy about that, Francine?"

"A few participants caused a stir in the World Games two years ago, running in miniskirts and shoes with added rubber soles.  But the International Committee ruled last September that the miniskirts were unsightly, and rubber soles were contrary to the spirit of Impracticality.  Only plain leather soles are permitted for this competition, and petticoats are mandatory."

"What about the jewelry?"

"The runner from Sweden is toeing the line, wearing only a light silver chain.  Heavier necklaces are favored by traditional athletes, but the Committee hasn't imposed any weight regulations yet."

"The ladies are assuming their starting positions for the final race of the High Heel Hurdles.  The starter raises his pop-gun and . . . they're off!  China takes an early lead, with England and South Africa close behind."

"I love the swish and click of this sport, Stanley.  Thanks to Our Corporate Sponsors for the in-floor microphones that share it with our audience."

"England pulls ahead, Sweden gaining.  It's amazing how they can clear those hurdles, Francine."

"It takes most athletes years of training and determination, Stanley.  Practical experience helps, too.  We've seen impressive performances from young mothers whose toddlers are restless at church."

"Oh, no!  The runner from South Africa wobbles and--could she have broken a nail?"

"It's a beginner's mistake, Stanley.  Only the high stress of international competition can bring that out in an athlete with this much experience."

"China and England are necklace-and-necklace, Sweden straining to catch up.  And . . . Velocita Gonzales from Venezuela takes a great leap over the last hurdle for the win!" Stanley rustles his papers.  "Wait.  Where did she come from?"

"Venezuela, obviously."

Stanley shrugs.  "And it has been another amazing race, full of triumph and tragedy, in the twenty-fourth Impracticalympics!  Next up, platform shoe diving, and the 1,000 meter butterfly chase.  Stay tuned."

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.

Authenticated

How often do you get to see a piece of history about which you have written?  If you are a local historian, probably pretty often.  But I traveled a long way, and was still surprised to see this one:  the very pouch in which Ezra Allen kept his gold dust.  Remember that?  It's an important detail in my play, An Authentic Christmas.  And I saw the real thing in a display case at the Mormon Battalion Historic Site in San Diego, California.  The Site is a delightful place to visit, with friendly staff, an interactive multimedia presentation, and hands-on activities at the end.  Learning about my ancestors' experiences left me with a greater appreciation for the air-conditioned van in which I had just crossed the Mojave Desert.  Stop by and visit if you are ever in the neighborhood, and give a sigh for poor old Ezra and Sarah.

Demitasse

A Magpie Tale

Supermoon 2013, Julio Cortez, AP 

rosy teacup moon

half full or half empty now?

dreams of liberty

Featured on MMB

I've just returned from a hot, sunny vacation to the comforting gray blanket of the Pacific Northwest.  I'm catching up with laundry before catching up on blogging, but I did notice something in my queue that I'd like to pass along.  I recently joined the contributing writers at MMB, and my first article was published today!  MMB features value-centered prose, designed to uplift and entertain.  Check it out!

Premiere

A Magpie Tale

The Promenade, 1918, by Marc Chagall

Today is the beginning
One grand moment that ensures
You'll have eternity

Roll out the red carpet
Shine the light on your premiere
Today is the beginning

Reflect upon the past
Picture what may come to be
You'll have eternity

Prepare to improvise
Life won't always follow script
Today is the beginning

The great romantic leads
Step into supporting roles
To last eternally

Dream together in the clouds
Grounded in serenity
Today is the beginning
You'll have eternity


For my sister's recent wedding

Discover more about eternal marriage at Mormon.org

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...