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.

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.