Nellie Long and the Old Tin Bucket (F)

Well that’s different, Nellie Long thought to herself. An old tin bucket upside down on the path. A tin bucket like Uncle Seve punched holes in and used for flower pots.

The morning sky was deep blue, the breeze was cool, and here in her woods was an old tin bucket. Yes, her woods.

Nellie was the one to name Grandfather tree and North pine and Giant Flower tree and Corner oak. She kept count of the geese babies each spring and watched quietly when a doe and her fawns were drinking at the pond.

But today, an old tin bucket.

You may think Nellie to be brave and bold for walking right up to the bucket and turning it over. But that’s what she did.

Like a snap of her fingers, there he was. A tall fellow, very tall. Nellie looked from his boots to the top of his head. He was wearing jeans and a light blue dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to above the elbow, and he had a yellow bandana around his neck.

Nellie stepped back. “Whoa! Who are you?”

The man stepped back. “Whoa, yourself. Who are you?”

“I’m Nellie Long, and you are in my woods.”

“Well, Nellie Long, I am Antonio Thomas Robert Edward…Smith. Antonio, in short.”

“Where are you from? I haven’t seen you before.”

“Yes, not from here, and I must be going. Thank you for your kind service this fine day, Nellie Long.” He started to turn from her.

“But where are you going?”

“Going? I am going. I am here now, but now I will be going.”

“What place are you going to?”

“Place? Place? No place. I am going. You ask a lot for someone so, uh, much shorter than me.”

“I am four feet and three-quarter inches tall.”

“Hmmm, are you sure about that three-quarter part?”

“Measured twice on the last day of school.”

“Oh, well, measured twice. In that case, I will never doubt you again.”

“Where did you come from?” Nellie noticed his eyes were blue, but then they looked kind of blue and gray.

“Where? Oh, I am here now. But not much longer. Must be going, you see?”

Nellie folded her arms across her chest. “You are complicated, Antonio.”

“Me? Me? Why here you are taking up my time, and I don’t even know who you are. You could be a strawberry muffin or a sweet potato—a very good costume, by the way. You might be, could be, even, a friend from a long, long, long, long time ago.”

“I’m not any of those things. Can you fly?”

“If I could fly, and I’m not saying I can, and I have to be going…the answer must be no.”

“Do you run really super fast or are you really, really super strong?”

“No, no, not either of those, I must admit.”

Nellie stuck out her lower lip a bit. How could this man, this Antonio, be under a bucket like Uncle Seve used for flowers and not have any super powers?

“Nellie, you seem like a very nice person, and you did help me out, but, as I have clearly said, I must be going.”

“Can I go with you? Maybe for a little bit?”

“Oh, no. No, no, not possible. No, no. My travel notes do not allow such a thing.”

“Travel notes?”

Antonio took out a small leather notebook. “See?” He held it out so Nellie could read the cover. Yes, in gold letters, Travel Notes.

“What kind of things does it say in there?”

“Hmmm, usual things, rules of course, always rules. Places I’ve been, people I’ve met. Schedule, very important. Which means—“

“Will I be in your travel notes?”

“You? That is a very good question. Let me make a note of that question.”

“That is not a real answer.” Nellie stamped her foot and folded her arms again.

“Ah, a real answer. Now what would be a real answer, Nellie?”

“Yes! Yes, I will be in your travel notes.”

“Okay, fine. Let me go ahead and check.” Antonio slowly paged through the little notebook. “Let me see. Hmmm… Why, yes. Sure enough, there’s your name. In capital letters.” He turned the page toward Nellie.

Yes, NELLIE LONG.

Nellie smiled, even blushed a bit.

“I can tell you that’s very rare, don’t see that every day. All capitals. You must be a very, very special person in my travels. But, as you know—“

“You must be going.” Nellie sighed.

“Indeed.”

“Will I see you again? Ever?”

“That I cannot say.”

Nellie stared into Antonio’s eyes. “Is that a real answer?”

“Yes, dear Nellie, that is the real answer.” And with that, Antonio was no longer standing in front of her.

“Antonio?” She listened. A mockingbird. Some crows. An airplane in the distance.

When Nellie turned around to go, there was the old tin bucket on the path ahead of her. Now, instead of being empty, the bucket was filled with Daisy May Shasta daisies. Just like Uncle Seve grew for her.

“Uncle Seve?”

Nellie would have to make a note of that thought when she got the bucket home.

 

 

 

Dirt

I come not to bury seeds, but to praise dirt. --Lucius Agricola

You know, dirt, the thing that makes your dinner. 

Dirt, soil, stuff under your grass, under your fingernails.

You chew your nails? More dirt for you.

You don't do dirt work? You gotta get out of the house, my friend.

The smear on your forehead when you wipe away sweat with a gloved hand. 

You don't sweat? Seriously, get a life. 

Jam the tip of your finger into a mound of dirt and set 3 cucumber seeds, Braggers, Straight 8s, or Suyo Longs--I don't care.

Drag your finger--sure, same one--drag that finger through the dirt and gently sprinkle tomato seeds. Lightly cover. Super Sweet 100s, Baby Boomer Hybrids, or Omars Lebanese.

Scatter French marigold seeds across a raised bed, and add--dirt.

You want to call it garden soil, fine. But it's dirt.

Now, grab a shovel because we are going digging. Okay, you are. In the dirt. Make a nice hole for those Knockouts or Roses of Sharon or Forsythia, or be bold, plant a tree in your yard. In the dirt. 

Yes, a tree. River birch, crape myrtle, ornamental plum. A Drake elm. Just think, someday a 30-ft tree growing in your dirt. 

You don't have dirt? Get. A. Life.

Or at least get some containers, and then get some dirt. 

Better than dirt? Lavender growing in your dirt.

Or Coreopsis. Or pansies for crying out loud. 

Dirt on your forearms. Dirt on your knees. A fingerprint of dirt on the brim of your hat, cap, or bonnet. 

Dirt on the rim of your water glass. Now that is living. 

Ashes to ashes, after all. Dirt to dirt.

Now get out there, and dig, dig, dig!

 

A Death in the Mountains (F)

In horror of death, I took to the mountains— Jetsun Milarepa

That morning—that morning we were two hours out from Skiu when Tate dropped to his knees, head bowed, hands palm down on the gravel path. Dorje reached him first, a hand on Tate’s shoulder.

“Mr. Thomas, Mr. Thomas, he is not good.”

I slipped off my pack and kneeled in front of Tate. A thin gruel of spit and blood ran from his lips to his chin. “Damn, Tate. Tate, try not to speak. Just breathe.”

We were above 11,000’, the sky sullen with low clouds.

Tate’s shoulders heaved, his lungs drawing deep, searching for relief. I remembered Janice imploring him “Come back, Tate. Come back home.” Again, “Come back home. You must come back home.” He kissed her on the mouth and smiled. “Always do,” he said.

“Tate, we want you sitting up, so Dorje is going to put our packs behind you.”

“Water, Tommy,” he whispered.

“Not yet. Let your breathing settle.”

“I’m no good, Tommy. Never make Nimaling.”

“Quiet. Lean back into the packs. Lift your chin up.”

“No good this time.”

“Dammit, Tate. Shut the hell up. Save your breath.”

His body heaved, a groan, a harder rasping, a spray of blood. I dabbed at his chin with a glove. 

“Maybe we should stretch him out on his back.” Dorje nodded. Gently, we lowered his head onto my pack. We stretched out his legs.

“Better?”

Tate coughed. “Uh-huh. Hurts bad. No good this time, Tommy.”

“Stop saying that.”

A little breeze came up, snow flurries. Dorje caught my eye. He shook his head.

“Tate, what do you want me to tell Janice, if—“

He gestured for me to lean closer. More of the bloody drool leaked from his mouth. 

“Tell her.” His nose was bleeding now. “She’s here with me.” He touched his chest.

“Dammit, Tate. I’m sorry.”

“On me. Brother?”

“Yes? Yes? Dammit, Tate.”

His last breath, so shallow, released. And he was gone.

Dorje closed Tate’s eyes. “Through the triumph of his death, may he be able to benefit all other beings, living or dead.”

I stayed on my knees. “Janice” I muttered.

“We must move his body, Mr. Thomas.”

“What? What. Yes, I know. I know.”

“There is a ledge just above. There will be good.”

“No. I just can’t leave him out in the open.”

“Then beneath the ledge. We will make a mound of stones over his body.”

We took Tate’s sleeping bag from his pack, unrolled it, and put half over his body, and turned him so he was wrapped completely. Dorje zipped it closed.

I reached under his head and chest, Dorje took him just below his knees. We in halting fashion carried Tate to the base of the rock wall. Without a word, we went about collecting stones, some a few pounds, some maybe 15 or so.

And we were done, his final place in this world looked as if a small rockslide came down. Dorje cut some rope and tied Tate’s scarf in the middle. I cut up several pieces of his t-shirts, which Dorje tied on as well, and we draped them over the mound and anchored the line with some of the heavier rocks.

Dorje kneeled and closed his eyes. “May longevity and vitality be unhindered by illness, accidents, and suffering. Please bestow the blessing to fulfill our sterling wishes and aspirations. One with all Awakened Ones through time and space.”

I added an “Amen”. I looked at his stony grave, my brother at rest, and at his mountains and Dorje, but I couldn’t think of anything more to say.

“We must go now, Mr. Thomas. Snow is coming.”

 

 

 

 

Crab

On the menu are crab bites, crab cakes, crab legs, and crab salad, but I am here for an oyster po-boy.

When I was a young lad, my paternal grandmother would sometimes on a Saturday morning drive us out to a pull off on the south side of the Gandy Bridge. She would hand me a spool of kite string and a long-handled dip net, and she would take up a good size metal wash tub with a paper sack of gnawed-over chicken bones, mostly wings and drumsticks.

We would walk down to the water's edge, slip off our shoes, and wade into the warm bay water. The sun would be up--already hot--and the air cottony thick. My job was simple enough, to toss out just beyond knee-deep a piece of chicken knotted to the line by my grandmother. Slowly, then, I would reel the bait in towards her where she stood stock-still, tub floating behind her, net at the ready. 

"One on" she would say softly. The trick to keep the bait moving, but not too fast or the crab would break away.

Swoosh, splash, a roll of the wrists, and into the tub. One. And back out the bait.

Sometimes the crabs came in one after another as if waiting in parade formation. Sometimes not. 

"Throw it over to the right a bit."

I used an underhand toss. Splash. And the slow retrieve.

Swoosh, splash, two.

I remember the taste of my sweat on my upper lip. Water flat, the palms' fronds behind us motionless.

Swoosh, splash. Swoosh, splash. Swoosh, splash.

When my concentration lapsed, my grandmother would move us a bit in or out depending on the tide.

"Over to the left. Slow. One on."

And so we would work, if not rhythmically at least steadily. The tub filling, crabs scrambling over each other, claws flashing, dozens and dozens of them--a family supper in the offing.

I don't remember how many exactly, but they would feed up to 10 of us--huge bowls of fresh crab salad.

Of course, going out to crab was the better part of the day. The chore, the real work, picking the meat out after cooking was not fun. I'm sure I didn't set any kind of record, but I did enough over the years so that I never wanted to pick crab again.

The folks next to me are at the snow crab legs. No thank you. I prefer not to scrabble for my meat--except for oysters. And here comes my po-boy.

While You are Sleeping

While you are sleeping,

I make the rounds, watering can in hand,

to the vegetable beds—tomato plants,

cucumber vines, sweet potatoes.

 

Your sleep the sleep of innocents,

I like to believe,

your dreams of coloring books and mint 

chocolate chip and a kitten you do not have.

 

A sprig of crabgrass popped up

in with the Straight 8s, my fingers

pinch the invader, more to come,

so I have learned over the years.

 

But what of bad dreams now, do they intrude

more or less often—alone out back, 

the gates locked, you run 

and run but no escape to be found.

 

Perhaps the morning sun will rescue

you as I soak the containers,

roused, your feet firmly planted,

a stretch, a yawn, padding out to the kitchen.

 

Thus, the world reborn as it should be,

as I wish it ever so for you.

Lyman 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Via Cross (F)

I drove up from Beaufort, my monthly visit with my great-grandmother. Dorothy took my coat as I entered the living room. My great-grandmother calls it the salon.

“Here, Robert, kiss me while I am still alive.” She tipped her head to the side and I kissed her cheek.

“Good, now sit here, close to me. My hearing, you know.”

“Yes, M'am.”

“Do you like my hat?” A green velvet fedora. She lifted her chin and gazed toward the ceiling. Her eyes seem focused on something, something unseen.

“Yes. Chic. Did you eat lunch, Gramma V?”

“Oh, Robert, like your father, boring. Dorothy takes care of our dining. You know that.” She tapped her cane for emphasis.

“What did Dr. Weston say during his last visit?”

“Do you think I am a child, Robert? The same, the same, the same. I’m dying, still dying.” She slumped back in her chair.

She pointed her cane at the wall behind me. Her Glory Days collection she called the photos. “They never complained. They bragged, they shouted, sometimes wept right here, right here on bended knees, heads in my lap. But no complaints.”

I waited.

“Oh, Ernest was so shy, so shy. People missed that about him.” She looked to the left and right around her. “I wish I could smoke.”

“Gramma—“

“Oh, don’t say it.  And Scott was so shy. Why were those boys so shy? So much greatness. Here in this room. Your great-grandfather, he was great in his own way.”

“I guess the days seem slower now.”

“The days, these days are merely counted. Oh, Robert—“ She leaned forward and rested her chin on the top of her cane.

“Is it true William Faulkner only stayed here when he visited the city?”

“Bill, yes, only here. Such a gentleman. Such perfect manners. Scott had good manners, like a good schoolboy, until he loosened up, then he would talk and talk, tell the funniest stories about other people. I really need a cigarette.”

“Who was the worst guest?”  I knew the answer.

“Well, Norman, was. I thought him a great bore. So belligerent, and why? Talent, talent like any of them. Sweet, sweet to me. He put his wet shoes up on the furniture. He smashed glasses. He swore. I didn’t like him. Your great-grandfather thought him worth the bother. Sweet man. Sweet to me at least. Didn’t like him a bit.”

Again, a pause, a stare, far off to somewhere, somewhere else, out there, far away.

“Do you know why no one visits from the college? Because your great-grandfather, the great man, is dead. Or they are all dead. Every last one of them. What a shame. Or maybe not.”

“I’m sorry, Gramma.”

“You know what 96 is—not 97. Isn’t that marvelous. Louise told me that yesterday. That girl, you should have married her, not Charles. Charles seems somehow incomplete. And that girl.”

“They are a good couple.”

“Good? No, you and Louise would be great. She would make you great.”

“Gramma, please.”

“True is true. No arguing with the true. Do you have any cigarettes?”

“No. And don’t pressure Dorothy about buying some.”

“I hope you will be better company at dinner. Why don’t you go change clothes. Dorothy will fix you a drink when you come down.”

I stood up.

“True is always true, Robert.”

“Yes, I suppose it is, Gramma.” 

I was nearly to the door. “Louise would make you great.”

Lyman 2021

 

 

Thursday Twofer

                                              Breaking Ground

the grass freshly cut

the shovel chopping through the crust of earth

breaking ground

for each forsythia

each a living thing

 

after divining the spot

glances over my shoulder at the late afternoon sun

and then turning my head

imagining the arc of the sun

come up in the morning

some sweat on my forehead

a sting in the corner of my eye

and back into the task at hand

by a hollowing to secure

their places in this world

each a living thing

 

and with those three grounded now

I turn to the butterfly bush

the impulse buy

and with each spade of earth

I think of butterflies and hummingbirds

that may delight a child

may delight the child in me

each a living thing

Ladson 2013

Ruminations

Yes, the cup was broken,

then mended.

Yes, the cup was empty,

then filled.

 

From the well of your goodness,

I drank.

Deep, the cup.

Deeper, the well.

 

In you I am

a swimmer in a pool of cool, deep water.

Deep, the water.

Cool, the water.

 

In you, I am.

Ladson 2013

Life Event

 I'm pretty sure many folks are aware a social media behemoth gives them a Life Event button. From time to time, I'm tempted to identify events like the first cucumber plant emerging from the soil or the flowering of a transplanted butterfly bush as life events.

Ironically, jokingly. Like the small joke I made with students and friends at some point in my 50s. "At this stage in my life," I would say, "upright is all right." 

A thought which clarified into a notion of satisfaction at opening my eyes each morning--so far, so good. Alive to another day. A life event of a rather high order I would suggest.

Of course, I appreciate our signaling deeply transformative events--birth of a child, wedding, graduation, death of a loved one. My retirement, 8 years ago. 

Right now, or so I would make the case, is a life event. Bound, perhaps, in the smaller moments like listening to the roiling of pasta cooking, the cooing of mourning doves, the splashing about of children in the summer pool.

And I get that the moment at hand is fleeting, our attention often diverted, urged along by assessments of the past and concerns for the future. Maybe planning a so-called life event.

Today, staying present seems a strategy often thrown our way to not let ourselves flounder about, grasping for the future we may or may not take in hand. What I'm suggesting is thinking of each moment as a life event.

Perhaps my mixing together of what you think of as the mundane with your sense of the extraordinary seems trite or even ludicrous. But, yes, turning on the dishwasher is your life in the then and there.

So, too, is reading this post. And I sincerely thank you for letting me share in your life's events.

Doc Lane (F)

Doc Lane was sitting in the last booth next to the bar in the Sink-r-Swim Bar & Grill on East Ashley Avenue. I was there because a regional magazine editor saw an article I wrote for another regional magazine and she wanted around 300 words about Lane and they wanted half a dozen photos to choose from. Diane King was to handle the camera.

He waved us over as our eyes adjusted to the muted light.

"Mr. Lane, I'm Greg and this is Diane."

He stopped stirring his bowl of gumbo. "You IRS or police?"

"No, sir."

"Then it's Doc. I was named Doc at birth and I am known by Doc and you call me Doc, too."

"Okay. Doc." I slid into the booth. Diane started her work. "Thanks for your time, Doc."

"I got time. First set starts at 7. Not like over on Shem Creek. They want me playing at 5."

"Well let me start with some basics, confirm some facts from the state music hall of fame."

He nodded and took a spoonful of the gumbo.

"You were born in Eutawville? In '52?"

"Yep, '52, that's right. Eutawville, that's wrong." He grunted. "I was born outside of Lane closer to the river. We're Lanes of a sort. Mama moved us to Eutawville to live with her older sister."

"Thanks. They need to fix that information in Columbia."

"Oh, that stuff don't matter."

Diane stepped up to the booth. "Doc, would you tip that cap back just a bit for me."

"Yes, ma'am." He tilted the worn cap with a Dekalb logo to the top of his forehead. "Y'all want some gumbo? I get it free, no charge."

"None for me." Diane shook her head. "Doc, you got your first guitar at 5?"

"First real guitar, yep. Had a guitar with 3 strings from Woolworth's when I was 4. Didn't matter too much, way too big for me to handle right."

"Guys, I'm going to step back to shoot both of you in the frame. Just keep talking to one another."

"And you were self-taught?"

"Till I went to church in Eutawville. Organ player gave me lessons for 25 cents a week.  I think I surprised her by practicing so much. She fussed none of her other students did their practicing."

"Do you remember the first time someone paid you to play."

"Not really. Started with birthday parties, sometimes just folks getting together, one time--maybe 10 or so--a wedding party."

"First recording job?"

"Well, a man drove down from Florence and said he wanted to record me. Paid me $10 to play "Sweet Georgia Brown" and "Johnny B. Goode", but I didn't hear from him again. He did say I had the longest thumbs he'd ever seen."

"How would you describe your style, your approach to music?"

"My style." He set his spoon down. "If it was fast, I played it slow, and if it was slow, I played it fast. Folks seem to like that."

Diane lightly tapped the table. "I think I have enough."  

"Okay. Doc, what to you think your legacy will be?"

"My legacy? I got three guitars, no house, no family, no children, no grands. Legacy? No more than folks remembering hearing me or a few old records. Until they're gone, too."

I shifted myself out from the booth. "Well, Doc, we thank you for your time."

"Time, sure, sure, plenty of that I do have. Y'all keep safe on the road home."

Lyman 2021