Denham Springs Student dies from Swine Flu

Subject: Denham Springs, LA HS Student that Passed Away...Crucial Info

This is a chronological summary of the medical situation as it unfolded for 19-year old Taylor Brian, the DSHS student who died Saturday of Swine Flu.. It is being shared by Judy Frye Speziale, a family member of Taylor's.

She has shared this timely information in the hopes of preventing another person, especially a child, from dying from this virus. Time is critical if symptoms appear! Please do not take what seems to be the common cold or cough for granted.

Unlike typical flu which seems to more readily attack the vulnerable very young and very old, the statistics being gathered on Swine Flu indicate that it is hitting the general population age group more. And a vaccine is not anticipated until mid-October. - - - be
alert and immediately seek medical attention if you or someone in your family experiences a cold or sore throat.

On Saturday, 9/5/09, my son in law (Kelly Root) and my daughter (Stacy) lost their 19 year old niece (Taylor Brian) to pneumonia related H1N1(Swine Flu) virus. Taylor was a senior at Denham Springs High School.

She was treated for strep throat on 8/20, got better but still had strep
on the 27th, began throwing up and was hospitalized in BR Gen on
Bluebonnet, with a touch of pneumonia on 8/29. She was tested for H1N1
and the family was told it would take 10 days to get the results. When
her fever got up to 105 over that weekend and she was placed in ICU.
Her oxygen level got so low, she was given a paralytic drug and put on a ventilator Monday. Tuesday chest tubes had to be inserted. Wednesday, another swab for H1N1 was taken and a lab in BR, which as I understand will be dedicated for this type of testing, revealed Thursday she tested POSITIVE for H1N1. They tried to wean her off the paralytic drug in preparation for removal of the vent, but could not because the blood pressure and oxygen levels dropped.

The family received a call about 3 a.m. Saturday to return
to the hospital as her levels dropped as she was being repositioned.
This time they could not get her back and she passed away around 4 a.m. She was buried on Wednesday.

It appears this virus attacked her lungs with a vengeance. The family
was told her lungs were like one big blister.

The reason I am relaying all of this to you is so you will be especially
alert if your child, grandchild, niece or nephew has any type of cold or
sore throat, you can take immediate action. We don't know if Taylor
had the H1N1 virus before getting strep or vice versa. In any event a
perfectly healthy young woman died in a very short time.

Is Facebook the Brave New World?

As I sat down with a cup of coffee this morning and started reading my Facebook page, I saw where a friend of mine had voted on yet another Facebook opinion poll.
Along with 3, 565 other people, my friend had voted “no” in the “Un-Americans” poll, which read:

Question: "Nancy Pelosi says that citizens of the United States who disagree with health care reform are Un-American. Do you agree?"
- Yes
- No
- Maybe

Well, gee. Who would vote yes on that? What a stupid thing for Pelosi to say. So I Googled it.

It turns out that what Pelosi had actually stated was that she felt that the people who are disrupting Town Hall meetings and shouting down the opposition were being un-American. It’s okay to disagree; but people should be allowed to be heard.

I learned about Facebook at a seminar I took on social networking. In my seminar, I learned that social networking sites like Facebook can be used to promote your business. I’ve got friends; my friends have friends; their friends have friends. Used wisely, you can get unlimited exposure without the cost of advertising. What a great idea.

But these polls! Who writes this stuff? I’m certain that there are people with vested interests in both sides of the healthcare debate creating misleading polls in order to sway public opinion. And other issues, too.

Voting in a Facebook poll doesn’t really mean anything. Or does it?

On Facebook you can see how your friends voted and they can see how you vote, On Facebook, people are quite often sheep, going along with the opinions of their friends for the same reasons they did way back in high school. Rather than checking the facts and daring to be different, they want to be part of the crowd. It's a subtle and easy way to encourage groupthink by manipulation.

Is there any way to know which Facebook user created a poll? Was it your BFF Susan or was it an insurance lobbyist?

In today’s new information age, it is more important than ever that we take responsibility for sorting through all the information at our fingertips, and finding out which information is reliable and which isn’t.

At the very least, it might keep your mother from forwarding yet another email about catching HIV from infected needles hidden on gasoline pump handles. And when you find a misleading poll on Facebook, rather than rolling your eyes or biting your tongue, announce to all the other poll voters that what they’re voting on is nothing more than another case of misinformation designed to make them get into lockstep with whatever idea they’re trying to get across.

Be the black sheep. If you’re losing friends for telling the truth, then maybe you need new friends.

So now I’m wondering if I should start my own fake Facebook poll. And how much I can get paid for doing it. I just heard that Sarah Palin wants a bill to okay the killing of all the polar bears in Alaska. Do you agree?

Yes
No
Maybe

Wink wink. You decide.

The Fall

At this remove
it seems clear
The star you thought
you were
was shaken
from the tree, fallen
from such a height,
dashed and bruised and
worth less
than you were before

It must hurt. This lessening,
this diminished
sense of mind. Or
is it not yet real?
Do you still
bend down from
your heavens to
squint through the
clouds at my unself?
My nonpersona?

Nevermind. Go
climb back up
the bark,
find the high
limbs that touch
the twinkle. Sink
back
into your loft.

Smile.

Like there's nothing
in this world that's
wrong.

Gone South

If anyone who's following this blog is wondering why I haven't posted much lately, it's because I'm busier'n a cat covering crap on a marble floor. I've been doing a lot of freelancing and photography, and I'm working on another blog, as well, that seems to be taking most of my time. Please feel free to come take a look. I'm having a lot of fun with it. You can find me at Tales of the Shantybellum.

Smoke in the crack

An early memory. Ribbons
of smoke curling
past the lamp.
Gin and tonic
and lipstick on the glass
and laughter.

You, slender as a reed,
fraught with a need
to be more than you
can be.

Laughter brandished
like a sword.  Smoke curls
against the door,
circles three times
and makes its bed in
whomever you've become.

Your skin hangs
on your skull,
yellow teeth and pale
bones beat a dying rhythm.

I look into your eyes
and hear them pleading.
You look at mine.
Can you hear them scream?

How long must we watch
as you eat yourself
from within? How long
before the smoke
no longer lingers?

Hint: A trip to Back to 1975 would be nice this Valentine's Day

Back to 1975
When I was a freshman at the University of Mississippi, I lived in New Dorm, at that time the largest dormitory on campus.

For those of you who aren't familiar with Ole Miss, it is rife with fraternities and sororities that have a chokehold on social life at school. I was a Delta Gamma pledge that first year, sans boyfriend. Even though I was in a sorority, though, I never felt like part of the crowd. I always felt a bit like an outsider.

I'll never forget stepping off the elevator on the lounge floor that morning and having the scent of literally THOUSANDS of flowers hitting my senses. Every girl in that damned dorm must've gotten a bouquet of flowers...except, of course, for me.

All day girls would rush up to the desk that ran the width of the front of the dorm between the two sets of double doors out front, squealing with delight that their boyfriend had sent them flowers for Valentine's. It was a depressing cap on an already depressing day.

When I got back from my first class to find even more flowers and more screaming, ridiculous girls, I'd had it. I went up to my room and pulled out my new American Express card -- the one I'd gotten only for emergencies. Well, this was an emergency, wasn't it? I dialed the florist:

"I'd like to order some flowers, please."

"How much would you like to spend?"

"Hm...let's see. How about fifty....no. Make it seventy-five bucks."

In 1975 you could get a hell of a bouquet for $75.

"What would you like on the card?"

"To my darling, sweet beautiful Elodie from your secret admirer."

I left that stupid bouquet down in the lobby for two days and fielded all kinds of questions from my sorority sisters whose bouquets couldn't hold a candle to mine. It was glorious. Well, almost. I still hadn't really gotten anything from anyone.

It wasn't long before I realized that the reason I felt like such an outsider was because I wasn't the kind of girl who squeals out loud when some kid sends her flowers because it's Valentine's day and he's supposed to walk the walk. I wasn't the kind of girl who enjoys spending hours discussing what color material we're going to choose for our rush outfits the next year.

So I turned in my little anchor pin, put on a peasant skirt and joined the counterculture in Oxford, Mississippi, working at The Gin and The Hoka Theater, and enjoying it immensely.

If I had it to do over, I'd not have joined that sorority, but I gotta admit, I really did think it was a stroke of genius to buy those flowers and watch while those women chewed on the mystery of my secret admirer.

I Wouldn't Treat a Dog This Way

As I drove out the gravel drive on my way to town this afternoon, I saw a deer carcass in the field. I have no idea how the deer died, as it was too far from the road for someone to have shot it. As I passed, I saw one of the dogs lying next to the carcass. I thought it was the hound I affectionately refer to as Prince Valiant.

The dog saw the car and hopped up and ran towards me. It was then that I realized he was hurt, favoring one paw. For a moment I was confused. The paw just didn't make sense. Then I realized with horror that this wasn't Prince Valiant at all, but the whisper of a dog that had been starved nearly to death with a mangled paw. That deer was probably the only meal he'd had in weeks.

This was as bad as anything I've ever seen on Animal Cops. The dog's ears had huge chunks torn out of them. His one good foot looked as though it had some broken toes; his tail hung at an odd angle and appeared to be broken; you could see every bone in his pathetic body. Even so, he showed me no fear and climbed right up into my car when I opened the door. I noticed later the clear indentation where he'd worn a collar that had rubbed the skin raw. Someone had had this dog like this for a long time and neither sought veterinary care for him or fed him. He'd probably been dumped at our driveway sometime this morning, for he hadn't been there an hour before when my father walked down to the gate to get the paper.

I plan to send these photos to the local paper and ask for information on who owns this dog. If I find out, I'll do everything in my power to see that the bastard who treated a fellow living creature this way gets the full force of the law thrown at them. I'm not a violent person, but I make no promises if I find you. Bastard.

My favorite room

My favorite room was a room in my house in California. It had large picture window with a southwestern exposure and was bathed in an incredible light during the afternoon. We had a birch tree in the yard with willow-like branches through which the light filtered, making patterns dance along the wall in the evening light.



One day, I set a vase of tulips on the table, and each one filled with light, like a fine, bone-china cup filled with sunshine spilling out onto the table. On another day, an arrangement of calla lilies caught a rainbow that moved around the bloom like a genie coming out of a bottle.



The room was beautiful, too. We had a baby grand piano in there, and there always seemed to be an amber cast to the light.



I liked to open that picture window and lie on the sofa a read and doze listening to the sounds of children laughing and dogs barking, of cars passing on the street in a gentle rain -- the sounds of life. I'd open the French doors in back, as well, and listen to the water fall in the spillways in the pool and the parakeets' joyful, raucous arguments with pigeons that ate their spillings outside the cage.



The palms sighed, "Hush," on a gentle breeze, afraid they might wake the Santa Anas, and the sun boiled down behind the hills, angling her light in a silver spray.



I don't miss California, but I miss my room -- my sanctuary. It was the most peaceful place on earth.

Blast from the Past - The Hoka Theater

For anyone who was in Oxford, Mississippi in the late 1970's, you'll love this documentary about The Hoka Theater.

Last spring while on an impromptu driving trip, I went to Oxford and looked for the Hoka. I was there when the Hoka got its start and many of my fondest memories are of hanging out with friends and occasionally running the old film projector.

It was gone, torn down a couple of years ago to make room for some new development. It made me sad. But I had lunch with Ron Shapiro, who gave me a copy of this film. I was delighted to find it online today and share it gleefully with any and all who would like to see.

Enjoy.

Sorry We're Open from Joe York on Vimeo.

Preserving Folk Art at Mississippi Cultural Crossroads

I"ve got a new article in Country Roads Magazine this month. Mississippi Cultural Crossroads in Port Gibson, Mississippi is raising money so they can continue to to promote the educational, cultural, and economic development of the citizens of Claiborne County by providing and supporting programs in the arts and humanities which will develop talents, provide outlets for personal expression, and create opportunities for persons of diverse cultural backgrounds to celebrate their heritages and gain respect for other cultures.

*Photo - Jessica's String by Jessica Crosby

Out and About

Tommy and I went to Zachary, Louisiana over the weekend to listen to some music at Teddy's Juke Joint, which is described as the last authentic juke joint on the old Highway 61, also known as The Blues Highway. It's located in an old shotgun house, and it's everything a juke joint ought to be. Teddy, the proprietor, was there, all dressed up in his hat and signature blue cape, spinning records between sets while his wife, Miss Nancy, served food and drinks. I had the fried catfish. Mmm!

We listened to some incredible Blues music by the Lil' Ray Neal Blues Band. Ray is an incredible guitarist who's played with some of the biggest Blues names around -- BB King, Bobby Blue Bland, Bobby Rush, and others.

On the way back home the next day, we stopped in St. Francisville, Louisiana and toured Rosedown Plantation. Built in 1834, it was the home of a wealthy cotton planter, Daniel Turnbull. It consisted of about 3,500 acres which was tended by nearly 500 slaves. The house fell into disrepair in later years, but was rescued in the 1970s by a wealthy oil heiress, who put $10 million into restoring the house and the formal gardens. It has 28 acres of formal gardens.

It is now the property of the State of Louisiana, and is one of the most fascinating tours I've ever taken. Much of the furniture in the house is original, and many of the family papers are displayed, giving guests a real peek into what life was like so many years ago. A thoroughly enjoyable trip.

Now They've Thought of Everything!

Do any of you allow ads on your blogs? I've been doing it for awhile now, and while I've never had enough of a readership to actually reap any profits from it, I have gained something valuable.

I was editing a post one day, when I clicked on one of the ads. It was for something called a Pulse Pen by Livescribe. They had a little video of a group of people at a business meeting with the boss from Hell, barking orders in staccato and dashing back out of the room saying, "You got that?"

It's obvious from the horrified looks on everyone's faces that, no, they hadn't "gotten that." Who could possibly keep up?

Then we see the calm, collected fellow in the corner with his Livescribe pen -- a pen that not only records audio of everything that's being said, but also stores the notes you've written in a .jpg format that you can upload to your computer and share with others.

And what I consider it's BEST feature: If you're reading along in your notes and you can't make out what you've written or you missed something, all you have to do is tap the pen on the word in your notebook and the audio that was being recorded when you wrote that word instantly plays back.

It's a special notebook -- I call it the Magic Pad -- with tools at the bottom of the page that when tapped, allow you to start or stop recording, bookmark an important place in the notes, jump forward, jump back, adjust volume -- everything. It's just....well, it's amazing.

So I bought myself one. I never learned shorthand and have always had a problem keeping up when taking notes. It's the best thing I've ever bought. It does exactly what they promise it will do, and it's easy to use. I wrote an article with my new pen this weekend, and it made my life so much easier, I was dumbfounded.

No, there's no user's manual an inch thick that one must learn in order to use their pen. Just a tiny little booklet that helps you set up your pen. Then you download the Livescribe software from their site and you're ready to work.

Folks, this stuff is genius. And I'm so grateful to have found it, I'm treating them to this little free ad of my own. Be sure to tell them you heard it here.

www.livescribe.com

The Garter, the Sword and the Veil

I've got an article in Country Roads Magazine this month.  Just click on the title of this post to go read it.

Tomatoes & Brie with Linguini

This is one of the easiest, most delicious recipes I have.




Tomatoes & Brie with Linguine

Okay. I admit it. I'm lazy. But I've also got very snobby

tastebuds. Pleeeease give me recipes that will indulge my inertia!

Here's what I made last night:

tomatoes, lots of 'em. Yesterday, I used a variety of organic
yellow, orange and red cherry-sized, teardrop and plum tomatoes. Also
used these little teeny, tiny tomatoes I've discovered at Von's that
are the sweetest I've ever tasted, and no bigger than a large
blueberry. They're called Mini Charms and come from Victory Garden in
Livermore, California.

1 lb. of Brie cheese, rind removed, torn into irregular pieces. (The
lazy soul that I am, I also discovered Alouette brand, rindless Brie
cheese. It's delicious and soft and comes in one of those little
triangular packages. Find it with those potted Alouette
cheese spreads.)

1 cup cleaned fresh basil leaves, cut into strips

3 garlic cloves, peeled and finely minced

1 cup best-quality olive oil

one-half teaspoons salt (I prefer coarse, Kosher salt. Just tastes
better)

one-half teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

One-and-a-half pounds linguini (I like the fresh linguini, but am too
lazy to make it myself, so I buy it at the market)

Freshly grated, imported Parmesan cheese (optional. I don't use it.)

1. Combine tomatoes, Brie, basil, garlic, oil, salt and pepper in a
large serving bowl. Prepare at least two hours before serving and set
aside, covered, at room temperature.

2. Cook the linguini.

3. Spoon linguini into small serving bowl and (I use a slotted
spoon, it's very oily) spoon sauce onto the pasta and EAT!

Reflections

Pink in the afternoon

Mississippi River Bridges at Natchez, Mississippi on Christmas Day, 2008

Long Ago and Far Away - Daddy and Joe Remondet

Long Ago and Far Away - Cee Tee Kelly

I've Had It Up to Here and I Just Won't Take it Anymore

Dear Mr. Hurd (CEO of Hewlett-Packard),

I spent two-and-a-half hours on the phone last night for the second time in a month because my printer/scanner will not work. It's still broken, a software problem, I'm told. Piyush in New Delhi had to get off the phone last night because he was going into overtime and has promised to call me back today.

I have this scanner because my last two did not work either. So I bought a recycled scanner, paid around $70 in order to talk with someone in New Delhi for as long as I like, and paid another $50 in order to get a new scanner delivered should this one break.

My HP laptop loses power because the place where you insert the cord is loose. I'd send it in, but HP wants $400 to fix it. So I'm backing up all my information to an online source, after which I'll probably dump the computer and the printer/scanner.

Or I could send it in to HP so that they can sell it to another schmuck as "recycled," thus ensuring Piyush job security in New Delhi.

I'm thoroughly disgusted. I have an article due today with photos I needed to scan to send in to my editor. I will miss this deadline. Thank you, HP, for all your help.

Sincerely,

Elodie Prichartt
loyal customer for 10 years

Hewlett-Packard Photosmart C5180 All-in-One Scanner/Printer

Echoes Gallery, Photographs by Lee England

I got a new job yesterday working at Echoes Gallery in Natchez, Mississippi. Echoes is owned by Dr. Lee England, who is a photographer extraordinaire. You can see and purchase more of his photos at www.englandphotographic.com.

Merry, merry.....

I used to lived in a house in California that just got the most gorgeous afternoon light. A couple of years ago, I was putting away the Christmas ornaments and just had to grab the camera to take some photos of them in that light.

Then I had an idea. Using graduated bowls with tape securing the bowls, I poured water into the space between the bowls, tucking some berries and leaves and small branches into the water and then stuck it in the freezer to freeze. When it was frozen, I removed the bowls and had a gorgeous ice bowl into which I put some of the Christmas ornaments.

I took pictures with the idea of making my own Christmas cards out of them. As the ice melted, the bowl became clear and some of the leaves peeked out of the ice. It made some interesting shots.

This year I finally made the cards. They're great, if I do say so, myself (and I do).

My favorite time of year

Seen from the Porch

Goodbye Charlie

Goodbye, Charlie

You know you've lived
too long
when you're still
alive after the trees
you planted have died
of old age.

The air is turning
and the leaves
the hurricane left
crumble underfoot
like distant memories.

The sidewalk
at Main and Commerce,
where Cee Tee, all
crossed eyes and paranoia,
combed his greasy hair.

The auditorium. Sy,
bent half in two
over a wheelbarrow
selling chewing gum and peanuts
His cowboy hat and skin,
black and lined
as a story.

Violins at night.

Nellie lost to the flames,
Dabney's beautiful eyes,
Leigh Ann's hands and
the bay gelding at the
county barn that
sixteenth summer.

Mud swirls in patterns
in the river, arrowheads
and pottery shift on
ancient sandbars,
disappear, appear again.

I thought I heard you
calling from the porch,
but it was just
the subtle thunder
of a passing storm.

Waiting for Gustav

Saturday morning
and the sky
is gentle blue

Has it been
only three years
since I watched
a mother

find
her dead son's
marine uniform
in the ruins
of her home?

soiled in ways
that will never
wash out.

The detritus
of a nation's
failure rubbed
into the fabric
of the world

Politicians smile,
announce the coming
victory

raise joined hands
in triumph
speak about a bright
and shining future

They do not see
the haunted eyes
of frightened souls
fleeing from the coast

and the sky
such a gentle blue
today.

Shanty Bellum Guesthouse Natchez, Mississippi

www.shantybellum.com

A Quiet Evening

"What's wrong," he asked,

and she gazed, passive

past

the foot of the bed,

considered

whether to tell him

how she felt, wondered

whether it was worth

the extra tension, whether

it would pile up

against the door

like snow,

pinning them inside.

The rain poured down

like complaints, the storm

downgraded

from a hurricane

to a nagging

wife.

She thought

about concessions

she'd made, things

she'd left

unsaid

to keep the peace,

and sighed, sadness

eating

at the corners

of her eyes.

"Nothing," she replied,

"Let's read."

She picked up

a magazine

and read aloud

in a voice

that was sure

and confident

but never speaks

out of turn.

Old Friends, New Regrets

The hummingbirds
have
vanished,
and, too,
the butterflies.
No rain
and the heat is
heavy,
like summer
in Morocco.

They found
Jimmy's body
by the pool
yesterday
after two
days
in the sun.

Eulalie died
by the tub,
three days gone
before we missed her.

Like finding
the bones of cattle
at a dried-up pond.
This drought
will not relent.

So why is it still
so green?

I had promised
Eulalie a call,
but the phone
just rang
and rang.

And Jimmy,
he was young.
He'd made a fortune;
hence, the pool.


I thought
there would be
time
for reunions
later.


I asked Kelly
if he'd play
"Old Man"
on his guitar
Friday.
I listened
and sang along,
remembering
that last long drive
in LA
when I mourned
my lost youth
and wished
I could hurry things
along.

And now
I miss
old friends
but hang on,
a stubborn Pagan
in a world
full of Christians
telling me
it's not too late
to be saved.

But it is.

Next time
I'll let it ring
and ring
until someone
picks up the phone.

Pictures of Home

The Phantom of Kingston Road

Photo Credit: Http://flickr.com/photos/wizmo Thank you, Wizmo!

The first time I noticed him it was the holidays – I can’t remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas. I was driving home on Kingston Road when I saw the little white dog running down the road after a car. I slowed my car and he started running toward it. Then another car passed. His ears perked up as it neared; then as it blew past, he ran after it.

It was obvious what had happened; it broke my heart. How could someone just dump a little dog like that? You could almost hear him shouting, “Wait! Wait! You forgot me! Come back.”

As the car drove on, he gave up and trudged back toward his post by the gate where he’d been left. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds. He was just a little terrier mix, cute as could be and desperate to find his family.

I parked my car and got out. He stopped, eying me -- wary and distrustful. Remembering all the dog advice I’d heard throughout the years, I tried to make myself as unimposing as possible, and crouched down on my knees, holding out my hand.

“Come on, fella,” I coaxed in my highest singsong voice – the one reserved for babies and pets. It almost never fails. “Come on, baby!”

But he wouldn’t come. If I tried to inch closer, he ran away, refusing to be bribed with kindness. So I went home to get something more tempting. I came back with cold cuts from the fridge. But he was adamant. All he wanted was his family, who he was certain were in the next car coming down the road.

The weather forecast for later in the week was for below-freezing temperatures. Lying in my warm bed, I wondered how he’d make it. The next day, my father and I set out a humane animal trap, baiting it with leftover roast and hiding it behind some branches so it wouldn’t be stolen. But no matter how many days we left it freshly baited, he wanted nothing to do with it.

In the meantime, we and several other area residents began putting out food and water for him, comparing notes on our efforts to catch the little scamp. Somehow he survived the cold weather, even seeming to thrive. He moved up onto the embankment by the road, where he’d sit like a proud watchdog, guarding his little kingdom by the Kingston Road, but still chasing after passing cars, certain his family would finally stop. Hope must spring eternal in the canine heart, too.

Every day on my way to and from town, I’d hold my breath, hoping he hadn’t been hit by a car. Often, I’d not see him at all, and wondered what had become of him. Then one day there he’d be, watching for cars and running after them, day after day, then week after week, the little white, elusive phantom of Kingston Road. I dubbed him “Phantom” in my mind, and saluted his persistence. Some days he looked so cocky and proud I laughed aloud, and began to look forward to seeing him surveying his little kingdom.

Finally one day about three months later as my father crested the hill, he saw what we’d all been dreading. Phantom lay beside the road, perfectly still while a kind and concerned woman bent over him, looking for signs of life. He lay breathing but unconscious and broken. Daddy took him to the vet where he died later that night. It was painful and it was sad and it was all so unnecessary.

I often wonder about the people who left their little dog by himself on the side of the road at holiday time. I wondered if they ever traveled down Kingston Road and saw him bravely trying to recapture his people. I wondered if they had a happy Christmas. There are crosses along Kingston Road where people who’ve died in automobile accidents are honored, their memories cherished. There is no cross for Phantom; only regrets.

I regret not calling the Humane Society – something that in all my efforts, hadn’t occurred to me. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’d have been able to catch him and prevent a senseless death.

I attended a fundraiser for the Humane Society at The Elms last weekend. They’re raising money for a new shelter with more room and better facilities than the one they’re presently using with even enough room for the occasional horse, mule or other large animal.

In lieu of a roadside memorial for Phantom, I think I could honor his memory best by asking you, Reader, to make a donation to the Natchez Adams County Humane Society. And, please, please, don’t leave your pets to die painfully on a lonely road. The phantom of Kingston Road will haunt me for years to come.

Natchez Adams County Humane Society
392 Liberty Road
Natchez, MS 39120
601-442-4001

Mailing address :

P. O. Box 549
Natchez, MS 39121

Please denote on check whether your donation is for the building fund or the general fund. Thank you.

Time to Spare

At your cousin's wedding
your mother and her sisters
talked of husbands no longer there.
Their eyes whispered,

"Do not be so cautious,
for even love that lasts
is lost."

They wore bangles
bought by men
they thought they would know
forever,
dresses made of silk
they would trade for one last
memory.

A diamond for a touch,
for one warm breath upon a face
lined by time.

A thousand recollections
floating in a champagne stem,
held in shaking hands
that once touched
skin and lips and
never thought about
goodbye

Let us love, you and I,
while we have time
and life and bodies
Now.

Spring!

I don't know if it's just me or if it's an incredibly beautiful spring, but the blossoms this year just pop. I had to take some pics.

Life and Death

When I was a kid, our neighbors had a camphouse out in
the country in Rodney, Mississippi.  In the late
1700 - 1800's, Rodney was a bustling river-port town. 
During the Civil War, it was fired on.  There's a church
there still standing with a cannonball lodged in the
front wall of the building.  After the war, the river
meandered off course, leaving Rodney without its
port.  There's practically nothing there now except for
a few little shanty shacks and hunting camps.

Anyway, my childhood neighbor, Claire, was in town
and wanted to ride out there.  We hadn't been in nearly
35 years or so. So we called my other childhood friend,
Alma, and her friend, Eric, and rode out there.

We weren't sure we'd make it.  The Mississippi River is
at flood stage, and although Rodney is no longer right
on the river, it's still flat bottomland, and floods
occasionally.  We made it out there, although the water
had crept right up to the road where the church is.  As
we were leaving, we talked to a woman helping her
96-year-old mother evacuate the little  shanty house
she's lived in all her life.  She was hesitant to leave,
creeping back across the creaking old plank stretched
over the waters to recheck the lock on the door, only
a few feet from where an alligator had been seen a few
minutes prior.

I was ascared of water mocassins, but Claire was
determined to climb the forested hill behind the church
to see the old deserted cemetery where some of her
ancestors are buried.

The cemetery is amazing.  I thought it was just going
to be one of those family-type plots, but as we walked
further and further into the woods, I realized that there
were headstones poking up out of the weeds and
trees as far as I could see.   We couldn't tell it yesterday
because spring is here in full growth, but if it had
been wintertime and the hills all bare, you would've
been able to tell that one of the rises we were walking
over was actually a gun embankment.

Well, amazing as it is, we didn't see but one snake, but
Alma's called today to tell me she'd found two ticks on
her, even though she wore long jeans tucked into boots. 
I took no such precautions, so we'll see how I fared.

I thought I'd post a few of the pics I took.  It was an
eerie, amazing place, full of magic and mystery.  The
graves date way back to the early 1700's, filled with
the souls of those long dead and buried, and being
consumed by living plants.

On the Road

After the mandatory six-month waiting period, the date my divorce was to be finalized was fast approaching. I'd been fielding calls from an hysterical ex who'd suddenly decided he didn't want a divorce and wanted to "talk." His calls were so frantic, I decided to disappear until after the divorce was final.

So I got into my car and drove, wandering through parts of the country by myself that I've always wanted to see, stopping along the way to take photos and see places I remember from my youth.

I found this one street off a cotton field with a couple of old storefronts, all crumbling and abandoned. One had the remnants of a bar with broken pottery still sitting on the counter top. The other was just the shell of the building, open to the sky with trees and vines growing up the floor and walls. I stepped inside the door to get a better shot when it sounded like the building was falling down on top of me. I ducked as a huge owl swooped down out of the rafters over my head and into the tree behind the building.

When I checked into the B&B, the fellow who checked me in said, "I understand no one is to know you're here. Don't worry; your secret's safe with me."

I thanked him profusely and checked into the most charming little room in a garage behind a big old house once owned by a man who owned a 20,000-acre plantation and killed almost every bear in the state. It's a beautiful house, reminiscent of an English country cottage, right in the middle of town. They've got 12 acres surrounded by Days Inn, Burger King and other tacky establishments. A little piece of heaven in the middle of town. There were three other couples staying at the house. Very nice folks from Kentucky, off on a road trip of their own. They had the whole main house to themselves, while I took the room in the garage.

That night I went to a liquor store to buy some wine. The security was so tight, I had to pass the money through a slot in the wall, and they passed the wine through a bigger slot. "Are you here for the Blues thing?" the lady behind the bulletproof glass asked me. "I didn't know there was anything," I replied. "What's going on?" "Oh, a bunch of women came in a little while ago saying some woman's in town who's famous -- a singer. They wanted little bottles of wine they could put in their purses." Ha!

So I went to have dinner at a fine restaurant where the food was sublime. I saw the other couples from the B&B there, and went over and introduced myself. "What are you doing in town?" one of the husbands asked me.

"Oh, I'm just here for a little quiet time," I said. "I want to do some writing and photography."

They were very cordial and invited me for breakfast next morning. Then I went to see the Blues lady. Definitely a hit with the menopausal crowd, of which I realize I'm a member. It was so odd, being in this Blues dive with a bunch of old yuppies with lines around their eyes, wearing their dainty PTA clothes and grinding to the lyrics:

"Baby, you got somethin' in your toolbox that I aine' got in mine,
Maybe you could use it to show me a good time."

While I was there, the other couples came in. They'd driven all the way from Kentucky just to hear this woman sing. I was standing at the bar when one of the women came up to get a drink. I smiled and said hello.

"So, I hear you're getting a divorce," she said.

I had to laugh. I remembered Pal (the guy who checked me in)telling me, "We don't care what you've done. We just want to talk about it."

I felt kind of sheepish after my suave dodge of the husband's question earlier. I had a couple of margaritas and watched the crowd, and went home early (around 11 p.m.) The other couples staying at the B&B stayed out 'til about 1 a.m., and looked a little raggedy this morning. But they were nice folks, asking me about my book business and getting all excited when I showed them the book I found at Goodwill by Captain Kangaroo that was signed.

"Oh, my God! I LOVED him!"

I did, too. Was it so very long ago? Well, I guess maybe it was.

That day, I moved over to another B&B that is a little bigger and has more atmosphere. I woke up the next morning to the mournful sound of a train whistle on the tracks. I love that sound, even while it makes me kind of sad. It makes me feel like a child again, all tucked safely into bed and hearing that whistle, feeling secure in the bosom of my home and wondering about the lonely souls out there riding on the rails. Someonbe told me later that the tracks are now defunct and no trains ride them except for the one engine I heard that's owned privately by this fellow who just loves trains. He drives it about a mile down the tracks and back every day, blowing the whistle like a kid with a toy. God, I love small towns.

That morning I walked across the parking lot to have breakfast at this little dive that serves the best scrambled eggs, grits, bacon and toast in town. While I was there, I saw a wizened old Black man with loaded dice play tricks on a couple of tourists, and brag about all the places he's been. While I ate my food a cat jumped up on the counter and started eying my plate.

"You better watch him real close," said the waiter behind the bar. "He sneaky.

I wondered if the health department knew about Catty Can (his name). Pretty soon, Catty Can tried to make a move and I swatted at him and said, "Nope! Not today, partner." He gave me a wicked, disgusted look and lay down on the counter, waiting for another opportunity until the waiter snuck up behind him and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and tossed him on the floor.

The days passed. I drove all over the state, enjoying my solitude and my newfound sense of freedom, feeling powerful and introspective. I think every woman should take a road trip by herself at least once in her lifetime. It's a trip.

---

Mississippi Music Hall, Clarksdale, Mississippi

While in Clarksdale, I stayed at a sublime little B&B known as The Mississippi Music Hall. It's an old plantation commissary filled with music memorabilia and painted in colors reminiscent of the island for which the bedroom gets its name -- Isla Mujeres. The glass in the commissary windows is cobalt blue, bathing the room in Blues.

It's an attractive place to stay for musicians and music lovers visiting Clarksdale for a taste of the Delta Blues. Conveniently located next to the Delta Blues Museum and across the parking lot from Morgan Freeman's Blues Club, Ground Zero. For information on staying at The Mississippi Music Hall or its sister B&B, The Big Pink Guesthouse, go to: www.bigpinkguesthouse.com or contact TommyPolk@hotmail.com.

Cardinal Sin

When he came, he wandered
down the stone path,
the wind an echo
of a hush, a rush
of air.
He called her name,
but all he heard
was more of the same.

He found her
on a ladder on the porch,
crying.  Four dead cardinals
in a pile lying
by the bench.

She dipped
a rag in soapy
water, wiped
the filmy glass.

"Birds can't tell
the windows from the sky,"
she cried, "and neither can I.
Neither can I."

And when the glass
was wiped tranparent,
she reached down,
picked up the silver
teapot that had sat
tarnishing in the breakfront
for years. She picked
it up, poured water
down the pane.

And his laughter and delight
at such a sight
shattered all she knew.
Birds flew.
Feathers and sunlight.

The View from Here

Bamboo in the Light

Kingston Road, Natchez, MS 2/21/2008

Dreaming

I dreamed
about someone
I see once in awhile.
Not
a friend.  Just
some man.
But
in my dream
his skin
had thinned,
his hair gone
gray, and he looked
fragile.
I don't
even know him,
really.
So why was I crying
when
I woke
with the hands of an
old woman
twisted
in the sheets?

Refugees

Refugees

He walks with me
in the meadows of my mind
through patterns and rhyme
and meters I'd long forgot
until he pointed
at them lying in leaves
of dappled brown.

He taught me how to listen
for the sound of light
on water seen only in
peripheral and gone
if I turn
my face to gaze

to understand the need
for touch, how time
slows down
when the fog comes in
and sound is muffled in a
cool, moist cloud

how loudly silence rings
in trees hissing in the wind
and remembering the
joy of standing underneath
the mossy oak

Strong, like those limbs
that cupped us, children,
unaware that wind
can crush us or caress
and how to know the difference.
Find shelter from the storm.

The Rookery

The Rookery

A cold wind descends.
Moonlight trembles
on the water,
reflecting my
regrets.

The dog like a stone
in darkness sits,
melding into trees
no breeze can dare
betray.

Leaves crackle softly
under feet, my neat
plans scatter
to the sound.

We wait.

Soon, like phantoms
they descend, ballerina
light one moonlit
night, haunting
Egret Lake
at the Bullfrogs' Ball

The sound of pterodactyls
grocking, black legs walking
white wings, sharp beaks
in bleakest fall,
all is egret white.

On its silent perch
one lone blue heron
sits a silent sentinel
a messenger from Hell
Old Grim, himself
to tell us all a story
of the untold ages,
of how the feathers and
their fathers from
the spent volcano
rose again.

Listen closely to the
sound of feathers on
the air, watch the landings,
see the sights
at the Bullfrogs' Ball.

Every evening you can
find them, rattling sabers
telling tales, phantoms
riding on the wind
at the Bullfrongs' Ball.

Change

Perhaps it would be better if I don’t speak.

Reflect the silence back into the water,

listen to the evening come in to help

the night begin its dark trip behind the

white hot sun.

The winter apples turn.

Fall nudges summer gently to the side.

The pages of this book that will not

be lain aside rustle toward its solitary end.

Anticipation turns to fear

that winter will not be forgiving.

Silence becomes prayer.

Breathe the honeyed quiet,

rise again, begin anew.

Afterglow *Winner, Internet Board Poetry Competition, November, 2007

We crossed the country bathed in beatitudes, the transmission leaking oil clear across the continent to the Orange glow hovering on the Western horizon. . My bridal veil flowed out the window, my virginity the hood ornament on the old blue Mercury, as we tried marriage on for size, rolling the flavor on our tongues like SweetTarts, cheap but tasty. As quickly as we rushed into that foul folly, we hesitated to bring it to a close. You collapsed under the weight of it all, and I, hardened by your rage and drama, signed the papers as quickly as I did the parchment that got us into this mess in the first place. It's time to leave the Golden Promise, retrace that oily trail to its start, where trees still stand after 300 years and family welcomes you home, no matter what you've done or where you've gone or who you've become. But it's never quite behind you, that Orange glow, no matter what comes next. It's always there, waiting to remind you that no matter how wise they think you are, how worldly or sophisticated, you're still a damned fool. Just old now, and not so pretty anymore.

Oak of the Golden Dream

The oak that used to watch
me twenty years ago was gone
one day.  Huge, it was, in
the middle of an onion field.
A friend in summer, a skeleton
of beauty in winter, home
to hawks and crows. There's a Lowe's
there now, where they sell
oak flooring, oak tables,
oak of every kind, except living.


The old covered train trestle
that watched over
the Santa Clara River
is gone, too.  I only just
noticed last week,
riding past the new
apartment complexes,
shopping centers,
and foreclosure signs
on my way to God knows where.

I wonder if they'll notice
when I'm gone, too.  Gone
to find the oaks, and bridges
and history that California
left behind.

Look away, look away, look away.

In a Dream

At dawn when the fog
lay heavy on the lake
and sounds were muffled,
I picked blackberries
In a dream.

The world was soft and white,
no vivid blue sky to
sear my eyes and make
them tear.  I stood where
the bluff sloughed off into
emptiness, and peered down
to see if I could find myself.

I listened, but heard only
The grass whispering, shhhh,
Its lilting voice urging calm.
I saw a jeweled coil
At my feet, and thought
It was a gift from you.

I reached, but it moved,
And before I knew what
Tricks can lie in fog-shrouded
Dawns and dreams, it struck * a snake.
You.

And as I fell headfirst into
Whiteness, I woke, in sheets
That wrapped me up in dread.
Our bed.  In white.

Pink Flesh

We picked figs under a white moon
the night you left, your jaw set
and determined, though I tried to soften
it with sweet pink flesh, peeled and offered up
with powdered sugar.

You'd have none of it, sent me to the
bedroom to find the old suitcase
with the bamboo handle -- the one
you carried through Europe the summer
Mama died.  That was the year the birds
all left.  Remember?

You lived in that little shotgun house
on Highway 61, and played harmonica
for hours on end, tears trailing
the dust down your cheeks.  I looked
for you then, but you were done.

I whipped butter in a bowl, crushed
figs and cried for all the birds
that would never get to steal them,
picked and put up as preserves
to sit on shelves forgotten 'til
the end of time.

The Cat Whisperer

Well, we got new carpet, and the house was just too darned clean. So we figured the only thing to do was get a new puppy to break it in. Meet Versace, our puggle -- a new designer breed that's a cross between a pug and a beagle.

Our older dog, Chuey, is kind of nonchalant about it, if not outright depressed. But I think he's beginning to figure out that this is actually a cat that will play with him instead of just getting mad and stalking off. And the cats? Well, you know how cats are.

We have three cats -- two fat, long-haired, laid-back, all-purpose cats and one skinny, high-strung Siamese. The two big cats are being rather cool, just walking by and ignoring the puppy's attempts to raise a ruckus. But the Siamese is beside himself, hissing and making an astoundingly graceful leap over the baby gate to escape the little alien who's invaded his heretofore peaceful kingdom. Slowly but surely, though, he's making occasional forays into the den to sniff noses, hiss and then slowly slink away. I'm sure they'll get used to each other in a few more days.

The funniest thing Versace did was the other evening when Bamboo, the Siamese, had jumped over the baby gate into the kitchen while Versace happened to be in the room. They both stood stock still, just looking at each other. Then Versace hunched down on her little tummy and slowly stuck her rear end up in the air waggling it just a bit. Then -- very, very slowly -- she put one foot forward and stopped, holding perfectly still. Then -- slowly, slowly again -- she put the other foot forward and stopped, staying stock still like a lion stalking its prey. Finally, she couldn't stand it any more and dashed forward, causing Bamboo to make his escape back over the baby gate. It was hilarious. I've never seen a dog actually stalk anything like that. I'm used to dogs that just go gaga, running helter skelter after whatever they want, making lots of noise and acting altogether kinda stupid and silly.

So far and thanks to the baby gates, the carpet remains unmolested. And Versace's quickly getting the hang of this housebreaking stuff, amazingly quickly, in fact. So there you have it. The latest scoop on poop.

Signs

The signs were there for years, really.
For the sake of continuity, for safety,
we chose to ignore them. But one too
many rows finally broke that poor old
camel's back, and rage poured out,
broken levees spilling
a messy molten rot.

It's silly in retrospect. Twenty-seven years,
one child
and a dead parent thrown away
for the sake of how best to hang a picture.

You'll call your sister to talk, forget
the times you called her crazy, and
cherish every word. But we both
know why the dog hid under the piano.

And even though your parents still smile
brightly from the gilded frame on the mantle,
the Studebaker shining like new hope,
we all know how it ended. She wished
she'd chosen better, and he went to the
luau in a bright cotton shirt, before the dirge
was even finished. He danced with all the girls.
You only live once. Thank God.

And the Studebaker's rusting at the junkyard,
only good for parts. Fewer every year.
So I set my sights for home, taking into account
El Nino's summer tantrums. Bought gas that's
too expensive for this war-weary world, but
surrendered, for there's nothing else to do but drive.

By the time I pass Arkedelphia you'll have faded
into a waking dream, and I'll pick up where I left off.
Exceptfor the child whose grace will never die.
And when I lie in my grave looking out at the
passing sky, I'll thank you and hope she finds
what I never did, and once found, knows what to do
with it, without anyone's help or hindrance.
Just knows.

Comic Relief

And now, for a little comic relief....

What happens to cats who hack up furballs on the new carpet

Cherry Grove Plantation

Cherry Grove

All around the old place,
the dead visit. The
day he opened up the trunk
of that sweetgum tree,
and before we saw the
horseshoe hanging inside,
something brushed against
my face. I heard a nickering
far away, and the smell of oiled
leather and candlewax.

A few days later Lloyd
found an anvil half
inside an oak tree, back
by the old barn. It was ten
feet up that tree, and
the color of storm clouds
when the air smells like metal
and electricity breaks
it right in two. They say
a shipwright lived
there once. I know.
I've heard him hammering.

That was before the rumor
of the slave revolt across
the road. Nineteen men killed,
tortured, all for the sake
of a child's tale. A child
named Obey. No excuses.

The crape myrtle we cleared from
the back forty bled claret-
colored sap, and stuck inside
one old, stubborn knot
was a skeleton key.

The silver lying all around,
tarnished forks and bone-
china plates. Daddy said
she burned that house a’purpose,
took the tram to the train
and left town. Nobody
Ever saw her again.
But to be frank, I don't
believe it.

I saw her walking in the fog
one morning, early. Picking bones,
rearranging bricks,
breaking twigs over and over.
She saw me too.
We've been talking
back and forth, she and I,
between the branches.

The Journey

The Journey

I spent the day enfolded
in the car, searching for reasons
not to go home, yearning for something
I couldn't name.  I'd left the inland desert,
traversed the valley and listened to
the songs of my youth.

A young Neil Young sang
to the old man I'd become
and I was struck with such
a sudden sadness it shocked
me from my reverie.

I looked around at other drivers,
their faces expressionless, resigned.
And no one saw the difference.

The car rode the crest
of the Sepulveda Pass and eased
into its descent like rolling off
a bed mid-dream. Before you know it
you've hit the floor, slightly hurt
and wondering how you'd not
seen it coming.

The Getty loomed like Mount Zion
in the dirty sky, all angles and white.
The trolley sidled up the canyon wall
like a magician delivering sinners to Saint Peter.
The City of the Angels crouched like a cat
below, and the air suddenly changed.

I exited on Santa Monica Boulevard,
and waited at the light.  The bums are back.
It's like it was in the '80s, and everything
new is old again.  The blush of dusk hung
like a persimmon on the horizon.

Numb with anonymity, I followed the stream
of lights that curled back into the valley.
This is all there is.  No rhyme.  No reason.
Just this.  And more of this.

I stopped at Circle K for milk,
and when I turned the corner
onto Copperhill, I stopped.
A coyote.  In the sweep
of the headlights, he was
beautiful and lithe and seemed
right at home, even here.
I wanted to tell him so.

He trotted easily, crossed the street,
unafraid.  He stopped at the edge
of the brush and turned to watch
me, as if to tell me something.
"Go home."

And I cried because home is so very far away.

Fan Dance

Oh, the joys of having a tall friend who doesn't mind telling ridiculous stories on herself. I went to see my friend Raven yesterday, who's a beautiful, buxom, 6-foot-tall blonde, newly single with a new boyfriend.

"I went to see Jim yesterday," she said. "He's just so sweet."

"Oh?" I guess this is why she doesn't call me anymore. Hmph.

"Yes. I'd only been at his house a few minutes when he told me how pretty and sexy I looked."

"Aw," I said, completely hiding my total annoyance. It's been awhile since I felt sexy or pretty. "Isn't that sweet?" I gave the obligatory grin. If I thought about it long enough, I could learn to hate this woman.

"Yeah. But you'll never guess what happened," she replied.

"Oh, do tell," I gushed eagerly. Not.

"Well, when he told me I was lookin' all sexy and everything, I started doing this little pole-dance kinda thing."

As she told me the story, Raven began gyrating around the room with her little finger poised provocatively at the corner of her mouth, a sly grin on her face, and a come-hither look in her eye.

"I was dancing like this, see?"

"Mm-hm." God help me.

"And I was all, 'Oh? You think this is sexy? Well, you want somma this?'" She ran her hand down her leg to her ankle.

"And you want somma that?" She ran her hand up her side, teasingly stroking her annoyingly perfect bosom.

"Hmm." Cough.

"And then I started pulling my shirt off over my head like this? And just when I got my shirt off and my hands were up in the air, there's this, 'Thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack, thwack!' I got my hands caught in the ceiling fan and I couldn't get 'em down 'cause they were all tangled up in my shirt."

Raven's little underarms flapped like flags in the breeze as she demonstrated.

HAR!!!

Oh, Raven. How can ANYBODY not love you! You are a crack up, honey.

Oh, by the way. I'm glad you're not hurt. Really, I am.

In the Woods

She walked in dappled brown
The trees emboldened in
Their bare embrace
Reached down, carressed
her freckled frown
from their anchored
heights to touch her face

A pile of tiny bones
Ivory needles in forgotten
Threads.  Small
Among the roots and rotten
Acorns put away
Peeked out and shuddered
Hid itself away

Circled round like fiddlefern
Tiny boxes, vertebrae
soft as chalk
And fragile whispered
Under baby's breath
Don't leave

She knelt, blinded by the dapples
Darting through the trees
That sighed and shivered.
Enchanted by its size,
She lay beside it gently
Closed her eyes and smiled

In the Going Down

It's in the going down of the setting sun

the jumping up of fish, the sound of a splash

in the soupy murk of dark water and the buzzing

of the locusts on a warm summer night

that makes me long to be there in here's stead.

It's in the utter beauty of crimson clover

over purple vetch, the Chow's refusal to fetch

sticks thrown and the hound's slappy tongue

that waits in wet anticipation for us to catch up.

It's in the happy fart of a buckskin horse rolling

in a rolling field, the burp of tupperware on the quilt

my grandmother made and the stars that never shine

quite as brightly anywhere else.

It's the knowledge that no matter how far you are

or how many years away, there will only be one place

that makes you feel like this. Only one time that's truly yours.

Poor Monster

In the quiet morning
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead of pinked flesh,
a chill threatens from the door
that won't quite close.

The wind teases
the cracks around the casement,
searches for purchase on the slippery ledge,
its sucking need just outside.

The winter sky has gone
dull white, a rictus that sucks
the color from the earth.
And no thousand trees' brown
fingers can pull it back.

It is the season when the weak
tire of waiting and the strong grow tired.
It perches on the sill,
spies through the shutters,
ruffles it feathers and waits
for the shattering.

Poor Monster.

It is consumed with lonely
and it wants only
you. Wrap yourself in dread
and wait for the final signal bell.

The last train leaves at dusk.

Sweet William

I cannot seem to wipe the image of him,
thin and so very childlike,from my mind.
His sweet hopefulness is counterbalance
to his rage, and one never knows which
you will encounter, though with gentleness
and hesitation, he can be bought like a colt
with sweetfeed on a winter’s day. He nibbles,
gingerly at first, then sure, and follows placidly
along, while hidden from sight, lie the prod
and knife patient and ever sharp,
waiting to bring him home.

Roar

Roar

All around the city sparrows fell
Pigeons lay like litter in the streets.
That's what it took to make us stop,
Look up and think
about the end.

Is this how it begins? Not with
a bang but a flutter? When I
came across the turkey on
the north fork trail I wondered
how long we’d have.

The clouds hung low, like
Dirty cotton in the sky
A nagging ache behind
My brow. I squinted
against winter’s
Stubborn glare. Is it too
Bright? Or is it darker
Now than it has ever been?

If God’s eye is on the sparrow,
Where is his ear? A thousand
Thousand feathers fall like
Prayers from the air.
And everywhere ~~ silence.

This little angel was keeping watch over the grave of a little girlwho died in the yellow fever epidemic in the early 1800s. She'dalways been afraid of storms, so when they dug her grave, they madethe side of the grave glass and dug steps down so her mother couldcome and visit her and comfort her during storms. When I was there,there were a number of stuffed animals and toys on the steps.Someone must still come to visit that child and keep her from cryingduring storms.

The Broken Obelisks

Beneath an old crape myrtle weeping Spanish moss on a bluff overlooking the Mississippi River stand two broken obelisks – side by side – in a small cemetery. Two lives cut short. They were brothers.

Their broken pillars are joined by their mother’s, which is complete – a life lived full. The plot was once surrounded by an ornate wrought iron fence, now almost completely gone, leaving only the gate, which seems to warn those who enter that there is much sadness here. And, of course, death.

Joseph Neibert was 11 years, five months, nine days old when he died a year before his brother, Thomas was born.

On Thomas’s obelisk is the following inscription:

Thomas Bird Neibert

Born August 11, 1836, Natchez, Mississippi

Died June 22, 1858, Carrollton, Louisiana

The following lines written by himself and published in the New Orleans Delta almost two years before his death would seem to have been influenced by a foreshadowing or premonition of his early entrance into that new life which he now so fully enjoys:

A New Life

Ever, ever more regarding
Suns that long have had their setting,
Dreading future steeps to climb
I have lingered faint and weary,
Looking backward to the time
When my being, fresh and cheery,
Hastened onward to its prime.

Now, with brighter visions burning
From the past my spirit turning
In the future seeks its home.
Angel wings are folded o’er me
And I listen, rapt and dumb,
To the loved ones gone before me
While they whisper, “Brother, come.”

One unseen is ever near me,
Buried brother risen in light
With his thrilling angel fingers
Clasped in mine, my way is bright.
And my spirit no more lingers,
Murmuring o’er its springtime flight.

My great grandmother had a little boy who died when he was a year old named Joseph Neibert. I suspect we are somehow related to these brothers, but had never heard of them before my trip to the old cemetery two days ago.

I’ve heard tell that a broken obelisk means the person died by suicide. I hope it isn’t true, but wouldn’t be surprised. We’ve had suicides in our family. Poets, too.

The Lemon Drop Shaker Shakeup

My neighbor Judy and I tried a new product last night -- The Lemon Drop Martini Shaker that I found at Target. The martinis are deelish; however, there is one slight problem. It comes with this little container of really pretty yellow sugar that you're supposed to line the rim of the glass with. It's friggin' impossible to get it open! So Judy wanted to write a letter of complaint to the company that makes it.

"Well, okay," I said, "But lemme have a couple of these dranks first. I'm a MUCH better writer when I'm in my cups."

So we had a drank or three. They taste like kamikazes, by the way. I dashed this off and sent it, post haste, to the complaint desk at El Paso Chile Company last night. No reply so far, but it IS the weekend. I'll let you know if I become famous.

Dear Shir,

I am writing to ask you a favor, please. I NEVER buy edible products at Target Stores, but your Lemon Drop Martini shaker looked downright delectible, particularlyarrly the beautiful yellow crystals of sugar sitting tauntingly on top of the shaker. They teased me. They beckoned to me, the light winking off those golden candy crystals under the department store lights, postioned just so, to take advantage of my compulsive nature. And even though I was on my way back to the office, I simply had to answer that call.

Thus armed with shaker, sugar, and Kirkland brand vodka (bought on the run at Piggly Wiggly) I returned to work via the ladies room. With my assistant keeping careful lookout at the door, I proceeded to mix the most delicioush lemon drop martini I have ever seen. All it needed now was the amber-colored crystalized sugar to crown the glass, which had been lovingly kept in my office freezer behind my desk for just such an occasion. I was so excited you would've thought I was drinking absinthe! But I could not allow myself one taste until my creation was complete. I needed to add the sugar to the rim of that glass.

I twisted the top. I turned it. I pulled on it. Heck, I even tried pushing it further inside. However, even with all the industrial-strength office supplies at hand -- staple removers, Swiss army knife, cuticle scissors, tweezers, tampons, etc., it was impenetrablebleble. I was unable to crack that sugar case.

Twisting it hurt my wrist. Banging on the desk caused my boss to look up and ask what was going on.

"Oh, nothing, sir. Just a spider! I've taken care of it."

Next, I tried the tweezers. They broke. Dammit. Finally to add insult to injury the jewels from the tips of my newly applied Lee Press-On Nails flew across the room, striking my boss's pet parakeet, Piccolo, in his cage. I think his vision is permanently damaged, and he's been making a strange croaking noise ever since.

Needless to say, I was desperate. I tried again, pulling out the heavy artillery -- the black onyx Scorpion Fantasy letter opener from Lord of the Rings my mother in law gave me for Christmas last year. Nada. Nothing. I looked at my trusty assistant and said, "Jephrey, stop playing with my mascara and get over here. I need help with this sugar."

Jephrey's eyes flashed. "Don't call me sugah, sugah."

The next thing I knew I'd been slapped, not only on the face, but also with a sexual harrassment lawsuit. Hmph! If he thinks I'm getting him tickets for that Barbra Streisand concert that's coming up, he's got another think coming. I don't care if Judy Garland, Cher, Lisa Minelli and Marilyn Monroe are returning from the dead....oh, wait. Lisa's not dead. Well, anyway....I am now unemployed and awaiting my arbitration hearing.

Please advise if you plan to make your package more user friendly, as I've had an offer for employment at McDonald's, and their bathrooms have swinging stall doors. I must be able to work more quickly in the future.

Thank you for your earliest attention to this matter. Unless this problem is rectified, I won't be drinking tee many more of your wonderful-but-difficult martoonis.

Shincerely yours,

E. me

How I Suffer for My Art

Dang! How do I get myself into these things? After having taken about a five-year hiatus from writing dorky magazine articles, I received an email from the editor of a local magazine last night.

Hi,

You still "in the biz?" :) I have a quick story with a health angle (nutrition and skin), complete with list of 2-3 experts to call ready to go... About 800 words... Due Thursdayish? Pay is 12c per word. Probably wouldn't take you any time at all.

Let me know if you are interested.

Thanks,

T. Editur

A hundred bucks? Sure. Why not? Right? So I tell her yeah.

She writes me back:

Great! Here's the angle: With so much talk about how to improve our looks on the outside, what do these experts suggest as far as improving our looks (age/skin, etc.) from the inside? Nutrition, supplements, particular food, sleep, diet, excercise, ??? Heavy on the quotes, with a credibility statement (short, i.e. Dr. Whitehead, a dermatologist with 20 years experience,...) for each...

Here's the contact list:

Dr. Whitehead's Dermatology - 555-3686

The Bottom Line -- Health - 555-2900 , Kathy Krabs

Inze Black of Sagacious (she might not "fit" - she is a natural store that sells pure aromatherapy stuff, etc. - however, if "stress" is an angle, it might fit well. ). cell: 555-5989

Thanks for the last-minute assistance!

T. Editur

Piece of cake. Right? Ahem. I just shot off the following to my editor:

Tee,

Holy crap! Wait. Maybe I should rephrase that. I shoulda asked you what The Bottom Line -- Health was. I just interviewed Kathy Krabs and started out by saying, "Now, Kathy, first please tell me what is it you do and what The Bottom Line -- Health is, because I'm not familiar with it and want to make sure I get everything right."

I'm all poised with my nifty little pen and my notebook.

"She says, "Well, I'm a certified colon hydrotherapist and I've been doing this for a little over nine years, and..."

"Waiddaminnit. You're a what?"

"A certified colon hydrotherapist."

"Oh! Okay. I thought that was what you said, but wanted to make sure." (snicker)

Then she told me all about it and ambushes me with, "What are you doing tomorrow at 11 o'clock?"

Think! Think! Think! Damn. I couldn't think fast enough.

"Um, uh....nothing?"

"Oh, great! Then I insist you come in tomorrow for a complimentary session."

"Um, but you know, my husband? He's got irritable bowel syndro....."

(Yes, I know. That was an evil thing to try.)

"Forget your husband," she says. "I want you to come in and have a session. That way, you'll be able to write about it better."

Egad! I knew writing articles could be a pain in the... Wait. Let me rephrase that.

So, Tee... Heh.... Do I get combat pay for this? Just kidding.

I'll let you know how it all comes out tomorrow.

Waiddaminnit.....let me rephrase that.

me

So then my husband says, "Hey! don't you have an appointment with Dr. Baba tomorrow?"

"D'oh! Yeah!"

So when Kathy Krabs calls me back to finalize the appointment, I say, "Um, hey. How long is this gonna take? Because I just remembered I have an appointment at noon tomorrow."

"Ohhhhh, dear. It takes at least an hour and a half. Is it something you can cancel?"

Big Sigh of Relief. Shew!

"Nope. Sorry. No can do. See, it's with my shrink and if I miss it I have to pay for the missed session. $400 an hour and all, you know?

(Before you ask, heck no I don't pay my shrink that kinda money.)

"Oh, well."

Heh, heh, heh. I'm all proud of myself for shagging outta that one when she says, "But, hey! I could squeeze you in at 3 p.m. How about that?"

Dang! Did she have to word it that way? I was so shocked, all I could manage was, "Um, uh, yeah. Sure."

"I'm so excited," she says. "Aren't you?"

"Yeah," I laughed right out loud. "I can hardly wait."

Toopid! Toopid! Toopid! I've GOT to learn to think on my feet better than this.

My first inkling was a sound of wings,
Heavy, beating the air so close by that I ducked,
Afraid that dragons might be searching.

But it was only a crow, one sole sleek
Messenger flying low so as to whisper
With its wings.  Whisperings.  Of what?

Then a delicate tick, tick, tick.  What is that?
Time to flee, it said.  Time to turn and run.

Then it grew dark and loud -- a crowd
Of raucous birds, red splashes on jetblack wings
Like chevrons, epaulettes on minions in the sky,
All screaming a single mantra, *Why? Why? Why?*

And then a ping, like the string of a guitar
Strung too tight, and I felt a sting in my
Leg and fell, too late. Too late to turn back now.

The Hiss of Fall

The sussurus of fall slides

through treetops’ shushing

answer to the distant stars

The twinkle static radio

of new beginnings’ endings

and the start of things

Not yet begun

A white sound spun from

A swinging earth

that rocks her children

With indifference

And grace

Come sit here

On woven bricks

We’ll march the chairs

Across the porch

And watch the past pass

Slowly quick, eyes dull

Like crepe and slow as 

paper planes

Look down high up

And count the days

We rock and wait in 

Heaven’s bell

Clap your hands and

Raise your voice

It won*t be long ‘til

Silence rings.

The Tractor

It stood motionless.
The Deere at the edge of the woods,
as though waiting for something to,
someone to bring the come-along
and finish what we started.

The bushes moved in -- guerilla soldiers, stealthy.
The bush hog lay wounded in the grass.
And standing in that patch of angled sunlight,
the heat ticking off the hours
and days and years of reflection
and rejection,it seemed as though

I heard a sigh. The trees, their reply
showered leaves like trouble
you'd just as soon forget. Birds
burst forth with screams.
Why? Why?

Had the tractor been brought
to clear the brush or had the brush
moved in to claim the tractor?
Who was the warrior here? Who the vanquished?

Insect battalions chant their nightly ululations
and the creepers crawl.
Like a Confederate soldier
who fought someone else's war,
the Deere stands a silent sentinel, slowly bleeding
precious oil into the ground and asks
us to remember, or at least to not forget.

Will man ever make order out of chaos?

Listen to the land. She will tell you.
Beyond the darkening woods, behind the hill,
you can feel it in the ground.
A distant rumble growing closer.
Thunder, hoofbeats -- the coming roar.

August 14, 2006

A Hollow Space

A Hollow Space
By E.P. Ackerman

"The big sweet sweetgum by the front gate finally died."

Every death affected him these days, animal or vegetable.

"Oh, really?" I answered, still unaware of its significance in the scheme of things.

"I took the tractor and went down to the gate to cut it down the other day."

He crushed a pecan with a hammer. Shells skittered across the counter and spilled onto the floor.

"I hooked a cable onto it, up high so I could pull it down, you know?"

I nodded, having seen it done many times before. "

And then I went to cut a vee out so it'd fall the way I wanted it to. It's a big tree."

I shuddered. He had no business pulling down trees like that sweetgum. He was eighty-two, and still doing the work of a younger man. But to tell him otherwise would be cruel. Better to let him die quick and violent than to take away his power.

I remembered the time we brought the pony into town in the back of the Scout. The pony wouldn't budge. He was a stubborn brute with a mean streak. Finally, he reached down and picked up its front hooves and put them on the tailgate. Then he squatted down behind its hindquarters and lifted while we children watched, astonished, as muscles strained and bulged and 600 pounds of horse was heaved bodily into the truck bed.

Those boys are men now. They still talk about it in tones of marvel and wonder.

"Well, when I started making the cut, I got about six inches in, and realized it was hollow. So I worried that it might not fall the way I wanted. I called Power & Light and told them they’d better send some people out to cut it down. It could fall the other way and bring down those lines out on the road. You know?"

I nodded, quiet.

"It was the weekend. So I left it hooked to the tractor 'til they came out on Monday. They brought a crane and cut it off at the top, got it down to a manageable size. Then they said, 'Let's go ahead and pull it down with the tractor.' So we pulled it over. It broke about halfway up the trunk. And you know? It was the strangest thing."

"What was?"

"When it broke, the front half of the trunk fell off, but left the rest of the tree standing. And inside the trunk, about six feet up, was a horseshoe hanging on a nail."

"You're kidding."

"No. You should've seen the look on the faces of those men. That tree had to be over a hundred years old. And it was solid, all the way around. No knotholes, nothing. And six inches thick. "

I had to see. Before we left the house, he put the cat outside.

“Oh, no,” he said as he opened the door. “There’s a dead chipmunk out here. One of the cats probably killed it.”

“He's brought you a present.”

I smiled. He didn't.

“I wish they wouldn’t. They’re cute little things and I hate to see them dead.”

It surprised me to see him so upset over a chipmunk. I could remember when we were little, and he’d come home with a deer he’d killed. He’d hang it from the rafters in the barn, make a cut all the way around its neck and set a hook into the skin. He’d attach a chain to the hook and attach the other end to the bumper of the Scout. Then he’d back the Scout up, pulling the skin clean off the deer. It was quick and bloody with a thick, coppery smell that hung in the air. He didn’t give it a second thought.

Now he spent his days putting out salt licks and corn, and chasing off anyone who dared try to poach a deer, in season or no. It was late afternoon and the light was slanting at sharper angles, sending shadows out across the field. We stopped by the workshop in the woods.

"See that metal post right there?"

"Yes."

"Okay, now look over there."

He pointed to another post some distance away.

“Those two posts are forty feet apart. If you take a string and tie it between the posts and measure 20 feet, that's where you'll find the water line for the house. I know because it broke one time and I had a heck of a time trying to find it. When I did, I made sure to mark it. I couldn't mark the exact point because it's in the roadbed, but you measure, and that's where it is. I'm probably the only person who knows that."

He sighed and his shoulders seemed to sag.

"You’re going to need to know these things when I’m gone.”

I nodded but couldn’t speak.

“You know, when people die, it really doesn't matter who they were or what they did. They're only remembered by the few people who knew them, and once those people are gone, you’re forgotten. It's like you were never here at all."

I knew he was right. I’d thought it, myself, on occasion. We spied two deer eating acorns under the oaks before they saw us and fled for the woods.

"Brandon died day before yesterday."

“Oh, no. ”

Brandon was the golden retriever he’d rescued a couple of years ago. He couldn’t stand seeing a dog without a home and he now had a pack of about 14 dogs. At least two or three times a day, they’d gather in the front yard. One would begin with short, high yips and within a moment the others would join in, howling and yipping at ghosts.

Brandon had been a steady quiet, companion who never complained.

“Remember how he chased after the car the last time you were here? A few days later he just lay down and died. He seemed just fine, and then he died.”

I wondered how old he'd been.

We stopped beneath the oaks from which the deer had fled. He showed me how to tell the difference between a buck and a doe.

“The scat the doe leaves looks like little round balls, like pebbles. See?”

I looked.

“Now, look over here. This is a buck.”

Several mounds of scat, larger than the first, like little mushrooms bloomed beneath the tree among the acorns and the leaves. I thought about all the lessons I’d missed by moving so far away.

By the gate, the trunk still stood as he'd left it. I looked down into the hollow. Twisted through the trunk was some ancient barbed wire that emerged again on the outside of the tree.

"Only thing I can figure," he said, "is somebody hung that shoe on that fence a hundred or more years ago, and the tree just grew around it."

He reached in and pulled out the shoe where he'd hung it.

"Well, I'll be," I said, shaking my head. I wondered why the shoe hadn't become embedded in the tree. Who had put that shoe on the nail? How long had they been gone? Does anyone remember them? I tried to remember when barbed wire was invented. How many people had come and gone since that day?

I remembered the arrowheads we'd found in the lakebed a few years before, just feet from that spot.

"I'm tired," he said. "I don't know why I'm always tired lately."

We started back to the house so he could lie down for awhile in the cool of the evening.