3:00 pm

Today’s assembling at our church was somber and striking. I say “somber” because our dear friend, Miss Ruby, departed this life Friday afternoon. Her final battle with cancer was shockingly swift, and her entry into Paradise was a relief from pain and burdens.

Miss Ruby was one half of the Hash twins, identical twin girls who celebrated their 71st birthday on this past October 3rd. Miss Ruby and her twin, Miss Edna, never married. They worked side by side for 35 years in the cafeteria at Holston Valley Hospital. They lived in the same modest little house for almost all of those years. They were fabulous knitters and crochet-ers, and were known for their considerable cooking skills and hospitality.

Miss Ruby had a sweet, childlike faith. She couldn’t tell you much about Calvin or Luther, and she wouldn’t have been able to describe the hypostatic union if you placed a pistol to her gray temple. But her love for her Savior was palpable and constant. Her works of service were many and notable. Her knowledge of the gospel was intimate and genuine. There was no play-acting to Miss Ruby. She was a living epistle to those who knew her. In the year and a half that we fellowshipped with her, we came to know her as a gentle, steady presence, utterly without pretense.

Both Miss Ruby and Miss Edna were keenly interested in our granddaughters, and every Sunday would ask us, “How’re them grandbabies doin’? How’s their mama and daddy a-doin’?” The fact that Ruthie and Rhiannon are twins made the Hash twins a part of our house and a part of our family in a very real way, and I think Miss Ruby knew this. I hope she knew how much we loved her, and we look forward to seeing her again on that great dawn over yonder.

We’ll be attending Miss Ruby’s funeral tonight. The burial will be tomorrow afternoon, and neither of us will be able to attend. We’re grateful that we’ll be able to pay our respects and join the rest of the congregation in mourning tonight. John will be preaching her funeral service. His sermon this morning was very powerful, and I was reminded again of the difference between (a) the all-too-common theological lecture masquerading as preaching and (b) true, Spirit-filled preaching. Real preaching is one of those things that, once heard, one never forgets…and one recognizes it instantly the next time one hears it. Today’s sermon was like that. The presence of God was so thick in the room, so palpable. It was like fire.

I went to the doctor on Thursday and had my first real physical in over 10 years. The doctor was a young, pleasant fellow, and we hit it off right away. I am less enthusiastic about his unsmiling staff, particularly the stone-faced Yankee nurse who triaged me. But I digress.

The upshot of my physical, in the doctor’s own words: “For your age, you are remarkably strong.”

Did you enjoy that as much as I did? Remarkably strong. Yes, yes. I like this doctor.

Anyway, he noted that my blood pressure is high, but also conceded that it might be a bit of “white coat syndrome” (which I suspect was the case). I am returning to his office tomorrow morning before work to be fitted with a special blood pressure monitor, which I will wear for 24 hours. This will help the doc determine whether or not my BP runs high consistently, or only during times of normal stress. I told the girls at my office that I plan to be very zen-like, very contemplative tomorrow. Even if a patient has a seizure right in front of me, I plan to say, “Ah, the path of life is full of flowers. Here now is a flower called ‘thrash around on the floor.’ I shall go to my desk and do breathing exercises now. Oh, and would someone help this dear lady, please? Make that a stat. Peace. Out.”

I also have to get a full panel of blood work done in two weeks. The doc gave me a lab order so I could have it done at my office instead of making an extra trip to his. The girls at work are salivating over the chance to possibly stick PeePaw with a needle. And after all I’ve done for them.

Since it was her day off, MeeMaw accompanied me to the doctor’s office. Afterward, we ate at the Lynn Garden Restaurant nearby, which we’d heard was a very good old-timey place. Well, it was. Very good country food at a great price. Nice, friendly atmosphere, too. And immaculately clean.

When we left the restaurant, we went and picked out some curtain rods for the family room. MeeMaw had curtains among her many schemes for the weekend.

So it was only natural that we would go on Saturday and find curtains. MeeMaw had already found some that she liked, and wanted to get my opinion before purchasing them. She had also wanted to visit a large flea market she’d learned of, a big one in Abingdon. Turns out that we found two flea markets there, and spent quite a bit of time browsing in them. Naturally, we found some books. We got seven or eight books for three dollars.

Then we went to eat at Perkins Restaurant – patty melts all around – and finally made it to the curtain place. Once we finalized MeeMaw’s selection, I took one set of curtains out of a package to make sure they were the right item. Then I tried to get the curtain back into the package. MeeMaw was watching in horror as I folded, stuffed, and crammed the fabric back into the impossibly small plastic zippered thingie. People were walking by. People were staring. So I said, in a very loud voice, “No one will ever know!” Only I said it in my faux Scots accent. So it came out in a banshee bellow, “Nae’un’ll ivurrrrrr nuuuuuuu!” Just once in my life, I’d like to be addressed by a security guard as “Sir,” without having to hear the added words, “We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

On the way home, we took the old Bristol Highway, which has the most eye-popping fall foliage you can imagine. We found a striking dilapidated old church along the road.

Situated across the road was a “newer” Methodist church, though this one was probably at least 75 years old. It had a set of horse steps out front. I remember seeing these in front of churches and public buildings when I was a boy down in the delta. They were put in place so that a lady might avoid mounting a horse from the ground (which, in skirts, is no mean feat). All she would have to do would be to ascend the steps to the platform. A gentleman would lead her mount alongside the steps, and she would merely have to swing up into the saddle.

The view of the little valley behind this church was very pleasant.

Also along the way were several tobacco barns. Many of the girls with whom I work had relatives who used to raise “backy,” as the locals call it. We found this one sitting near the road. See the long, tawny leaves hanging on racks, waiting for the final journey to cigarette, cigar, pipe, lip, or nostril?

And this one demanded attention, with its dramatic black boards and the hay drying in the left side and the tobacco curing in the right side. Did y’all know that almost all tobacco barns are painted black? This is a fine image of the ingathering of a man's labor.

As we arrived home, MeeMaw took these photos of the valley across from the cemetery. You’ll notice that most of the trees over on the Clinch Mountain ridge are getting bare.

And here is what Possum Cough looks like today, in full autumn splendor. A gray, cold Sunday. A gift from a good Father.

From our little cemetery, one can see this view:

Here’s one more photo of MeeMaw and her beloved equines.

Shorty the donkey was cutting up a fuss about something outside a little while ago. But now he’s gone silent as the clouds. And right now, sitting here in the cold, gray stillness of a Possum Cough Sunday afternoon, I can yet hear Miss Ruby’s clear voice, soaring above everyone else’s, as she sang and worshiped. Her life was a hymn, writ large in beauty.

7:59 pm

In less than 12 hours, we will be back at work, miles from Possum Cough, surrounded by strangers. Postmodern life likes us not.

Halloween and last night, we watched a cauldron full of old horror movies. Most of them were very enjoyable; some Vincent Price masterpieces, some Hammer classics with Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing, etc. But one (of which we were only able to bear about 15 minutes) was called 2000 Maniacs. It was the charming story of a town full of Confederate ghosts who lure some silly Yankees (redundant?) to their doom. It had the high production values and acting caliber of, say, the average megachurch dramatic skit. Stay far from it.

Most of you probably know by now that we are landlords to a horse and a donkey. Our near neighbor Ernie's son Gabriel asked if he could overwinter the pair in our pasture and woodlot, since the pasture where they summered is pretty much played out, grass-wise. I said, "Sure, glad to have them." Ernie fixed a barbed wire gate to seal off the two entrances to the south pasture. Unfortunately, he didn't think about the two entrances down by the yard barn in our back yard. Thus, he woke up on Saturday morning and found both critters down the hill in the road. I went out and tried to help him rustle them back towards the pasture, but they weren't cooperating. He finally lured them back with a handful of Honeynut Cheerios, of all things. So once they were in the pasture, Ernie rigged another pair of gates, and all was well.

The horse is Domino, and the donkey is Shorty. This morning before church, they were up on the rock ledge behind the house that we call Five Pines.

We drove to church in separate vehicles, since I had a worship committee meeting after services and MeeMaw didn't care to sit and stagnate while we met. When we got to the bottom of our mountain pass, there were two paragliders swooping around the sky along the highway. On the way through the Carter's Valley area, we saw a little dog run out in the road, wearing a Tennessee sweater. Just as I was laughing about this, a big ol' doe flushed from the field and ran across the road in front of me. MeeMaw and I both gestured wildly to each other. The deer didn't gesture back.

Yesterday, I painted one wall of the dining room. MeeMaw picked the color, a lovely dark blue-green. It looks old-worldy. Possum Cough is beginning to take on the look of OUR home, and this is good and proper.

Just at sunset, I went up into the woodlot and prayed, and then went to see if either Domino or Shorty would come to me. Domino ignored me, munching away on thistles and pokeweed. But Shorty sauntered over to within six feet, his cross emblazoned on his gray shoulders. I'm sure we'll be buds before too long. I shall bring him Cheetos. Or PopTarts. Any donkey who would go for HoneyNut Cheerios will be a sucker for a variety of Frito-Lay products.

I had to vacuum up the ton of ladybugs with which we've been invaded. Took me about 15 minutes with the ShopVac. They were everywhere...in the carpet, on the ceiling, on the walls, in the light fixtures. I started to ask MeeMaw to assist me, but she was harshting on BonBons and mumbled something like "I'm gonna watch me some Days of Our Lives!" The horror. The horror.

Rest well in the November air, beloved family members. And remember to wear black on Tuesday. It is, after all, the appropriate color for mourning.

9:37 pm

Samhain and the biting air, once again.

Luther and his hammer, once again.

Tradition and ritual, as important and meaningful in our lives as we allow them to be.

By the time Samhain is over, the question will have been answered: "How many trick-or-treaters will make their way down the poplar-lined driveway to Possum Cough?" We will play no tricks, and will likely hand out few treats. I will be on periodic patrol, though, since All Hallow's Eve falls on a Friday, and past experience indicates a higher potential for hooliganism than if the date were a Monday or a Thursday. If someone comes a-calling with toilet paper or eggs in hand, they will find a more malevolent presence in these four acres than in any slasher film. That I promise.


MeeMaw and I send our love to you all, and our prayers that y'all are safe.

Here...a poem and a short story, both a few years old, but apropos to 31 October in any year.



31st Church

The grape-juice bunch that quakes at the thought of a pirate-
Clad toddler with a plastic pumpkin full
Of colored sugar is the same crowd who never

Flick a backward thought to a tonsured
German priest on this day. They’re too
Strapped with ferrying their slattern-painted

Daughters and their lip-poked sons to some
Mortgaged fellowship hall where such forming
Ones will fritter off the hours under

The lettered eye of some facilitating
Specialist and steep in music worse
Than Sabbath ever poured between black grooves.






ALL HALLOWED YEARS


Truth be told, I’ve done very few good things in my life. I like to think that the effects of some of those few good acts may extend beyond my time on this earth, and that people yet unborn may somehow benefit from them. And in those moments when I worry over the bad things I’ve done or the good things I’ve neglected to do, I am tempted to believe that the bad deeds I’ve committed are still whirling in the air somewhere out there, eager to alight on someone fashioned in the same flesh as mine.

The first time I saw Old Joe, he was walking down my street, headed for home. The kids in town always called him Old Joe, though none of us knew why, or if “Joe” was even his name. We knew him more by his habits than his Christian name. His habits made him an attractive target; that’s what we knew of him.

He carried a paper sack under one arm, and we knew that a bottle of sour mash was hiding inside. The adults in our families had told us of how Old Joe was a drunkard, ever alone, an odd man who had no friends. Some thought he might have been married at one time, and others suspected that he had spent some time in prison. My family had talked of his ancient mother, long since dead, who “wasn’t quite right in the head” and who had beaten her son without human mercy. Whatever the facts, Old Joe liked his whiskey and went at least once weekly to buy a bottle. He was halfway down our block one late October afternoon when my friends and I set upon him.

The first rock caught him between the shoulder blades, and he cried out as he spun to see his attackers. The sound struck us as funny, and we laughed as we moved closer. This was my first good look at Old Joe, and it hangs in my memory to this day. His face was red, well-scrubbed and gleaming, and his graying hair was Brilliantined and parted with what must have been pride. His eyes were half hurt, half angry. For the moment, the anger took over.

“Why don’t you young’uns git on away from me?” He pointed a crooked stick of a finger at us.

“Stop tormentin’ me!”

We laughed again, but with less gusto. My friend Dean threw another rock. It hit the sack, and the clink confirmed the contents. Old Joe’s anger withdrew, and only the hurt faced us now.

“I’m tired. I worked all day. Don’t chunk them rocks at me.” He paused, watching. “Go on, now. I ain’t botherin’ y’all.”

I raised my young fist, clutching my rock, and Old Joe looked square at me. Disappointment glittered in his eyes. I lowered my hand. He raked us all with one more look, then turned and continued walking. He glanced back at us twice, but the meanness had subsided in us for the time being.

Later that evening, I asked my mother why Old Joe drank liquor.

“Who can say?” she said, and ladled lima beans onto my plate. “You’d better eat. You need to put your costume on if I’m going to take you and your sister trick or treating.”

“Well, where does he work?”

She sighed. “He doesn’t.”

“Doesn’t work?”

Another sigh. “No, darlin’. He got in trouble because he called a colored man a bad name.”

“What name?”

“Eat.”

“What name?”

She turned to the sink, her way of ending the conversation. “Never mind.”

I waited a minute to see if she would give me some leeway. “Why’d he call the colored man a bad name?”

“I don’t know. Well. I heard that the colored man made fun of the way he talks.”

“So how does he live if he don’t work?”

“Social Security.”

Social Security. I didn’t understand that either, so I ate my beans. I didn’t want to aggravate her and make her back out on taking us trick-or-treating.

As best I can remember, I didn’t see Joe again until exactly three years later. A cool Halloween, near the end of our sugar-fueled outing, and Mother was impatient to finish up and get us home. We pleaded with her to reconsider.

“Can we go to one more block?”

She sighed and shrugged, eyeing our bulging bags. “One more block. Near our house.”
We were about to walk away from the last house on that last block when my sister noticed something.

“Hey, is that somebody’s house?” She was pointing past the house, into the back yard. There was a garage behind the house. And a garage apartment at the top of a steep flight of unpainted stairs. The light was on: the universal Halloween signal. We turned to Mother, and she nodded.

“Come on.”

We knocked three times and yelled “Trick or treat!” before deciding that the garage apartment dweller was either not home or not dispensing treats. We turned to go and then heard the lock being turned and the door being tugged open. When we spun back to the door, Old Joe was looking down at us. He peered at me for a moment, but didn’t seem to recognize me as a pestilence from his past. He nodded at my mother, and opened the door wider, stepping back.

“Y’all come on in.”

Mother stepped up onto the landing and looked inside, then nodded permission for us to enter. She stood against the door so that Old Joe wouldn’t be tempted to close it behind us.
The room was dim and dingy. It was as bare as a board, containing a small oilcloth-draped table, a single frail chair, and a thin cot. A grease-spattered stove leaned against the far wall, and a skillet of bacon was adding to the spatters as it cooked. One unshaded bulb hung on a cobwebby cord from the ceiling.

“Fixin’ my supper,” said Old Joe. “Let me find my candy.”

Mother managed a smile. “If you don’t have any, that’s okay. They’ve got more than enough, anyhow.”

Old Joe turned his eyes to her. “No, ma’am. I bought candy last week. It’s just that y’all are the only ones to come trick-or-treatin’ tonight, and I’d plumb forgot about it.” He continued looking in a cabinet covered with a small curtain. I heard cellophane crinkle. “Here it is.”

I looked at his thick fingernails and his thin wrists as he dumped candy in shocking amounts into our bags. I could smell the Brilliantine in his hair. His hands shook just a little, and he smiled just a little as we turned to go. Mother reminded us of our manners.

“Thank you…Happy Halloween!” my sister called as we slipped out past Mother. I echoed her.

He answered, “Y’all are welcome.”

Mother smiled at Old Joe and followed us down the stairs. We heard the door close, and then open again.

“Happy Halloween!” his tenor voice called.

The last time I saw Old Joe was exactly nine years later. It was again Halloween, and I was now a senior in high school, twelve months away from standing on a set of yellow footprints at a Marine Corps recruit depot. I was in line at the grocery store, buying some snacks to take to a Halloween party at a friend’s house. There was a thin man in the line ahead of me. As we moved closer to the cashier, I saw that the man was Old Joe.

He had two cans of tomato soup and a single tube of saltines on the conveyor belt. I noticed the creases in the back of his neck, like fossilized prints of ropes in the sunburned skin. Old Joe had the same fingernails and the same hands. His face wasn’t as red as I remembered, but his hair was much grayer. He watched the teenaged cashier with interest and something like affection. He almost caught me looking at him.

When the girl had finished ringing up his meager groceries and announcing his total, Old Joe fished a change-purse from his trousers. An old-fashioned snap-to-close type, crinkled and worn. He opened it and withdrew two dollar bills, and then dumped the few coins into his hand. There wasn’t enough there to pay for what he’d purchased. The cashier watched him with flat eyes, offering no word, no help.

I bent over, touched the floor, and then straightened up, brandishing the twenty-dollar bill I’d been holding in my hand.

“Sir, I think you dropped this.”

Old Joe looked at me. The expression was familiar, unsettling.

“That ain’t mine.”

I cleared my throat. “I think you dropped it. When you opened your change-purse.” The cashier rolled her eyes and popped her gum.

Old Joe looked down at his soup and his crackers, then back at me. He looked at his hands and back at me. But he never reached for the money. I handed it past him to the girl, who completed the transaction and held out the change. I tried to nod at Old Joe and get him to take the change, but he was looking down.

I collected the money and offered it. “There’s your change, sir.”

He shook his head. “I thank ya. But I can’t keep that. I do thank ya.”

I nodded at him and watched him take his small sack and walk out of the store. The cashier smiled at me and lifted her eyebrows. I ignored her, watching Old Joe’s back.

When I got outside, I trotted across the parking lot to the old man. “Sir?”

He turned to look at me. “Help you?”

I looked down at his bag, at his hands, at his work shoes. “Do you need a ride?”

He frowned and swung his head side to side, declining. The gesture irritated me, and I brushed my hands at him as if I were shooing a chicken away. I had tried and wasn’t going to try again, so I said my teenaged goodbye.

“Fine. Catch you later.”

I was almost to my car when I heard him say, “Happy Halloween.” When I turned back, he was crossing the street, not looking at the approaching traffic.

I heard a horn, turned to see who it was. A carload of my friends pulled up next to me. Dean leaned out, grinning. He had plastic devil horns on his forehead.

“What’re you doing? Lose your car?”

I called him a bad name and he laughed. Then I got into my car and followed my friends to the party, where we stuffed ourselves with food and drank purloined liquor until the cool dawn of All Saint’s Day pushed us finally home, home to our full houses and patient families.

10:11 pm

We are headed to our warm, flannelized bed, where the soundless green of dreams awaits. And even at this moment, Butternut and Purrl are wrapped in their blanket, chasing dream-mice down dream-hillsides.


But something else is causing the drowsy beauty of this night....

They say that the Eskimos have over 100 different words for what we call "snow..."

Here at Possum Cough, we have only two words for snow....

"It's here."

As I snapped this photo from the back door, one of our orphan barn cats, Biscuit, was beneath the deck, yowling at me in plaintive tones. We pray that he and Frito are dry and relatively warm.

And so good-night to our beloved family. We will sleep in flannel, beneath a powdering sky, beneath MeeMaw's pine tree, which is even now flecked in brilliant white.

5:48 pm

Friday night, we stayed up late and had our own private autumn party. We lit candles and turned off all the lights and drank hot tea and watched an old Vincent Price movie. It wasn't a horror movie per se...more of a Gothic suspense tale. Dragonwyck is the story of an 1800's Dutch landowner in upstate New York and the governess he brings to the estate to tend to his child. Pretty early on, we realize that old Vincent is as crazy as a loon, and his, um, tendencies begin to manifest themselves. The movie has some very interesting subtextual things to say about agrarianism, feudal land systems, and social stratification. It's also great fun to watch. I particularly enjoyed watching Mr. Price waltz with the leading lady. Tall, lithe, and elegant (in that sinister way of his), he moves with coiled grace.

We put the flannel sheets on the bed before retiring ,and slept with a window open. The air was very crisp, but the bed was perfect. We slept in a bit on Saturday for a change, because we just couldn't bear to poke anything but our noses out of the covers. MeeMaw put it best: "It's like sleeping in a hug," she said.

I went outside and looked up at the moon, setting like its mate the sun in the western sky, but in a way most unlike the ruler of the day. The moon was pale and aloof and chilly.

I went for a walk and kept humming a tune under my breath. It took me a while to realize that I was doing it, and took a while longer to recall what I was humming. It was Tannhauser, from the Ring Cycle by Richard Wagner, one of my favorite melodies. Here is a clip of the great Herbert Von Karajan conducting Tannhauser in his inimitable style.

Speaking of Wagner, here's another clip from the Ring Cycle, this one of Siegfried's Funeral March. Some of you may recall that this music was used to great effect in John Boorman's beautiful, brooding production of Excalibur in the 1980's. Wagner's music always makes me want to go out and do something; drive my frosted old truck across a pasture, cut down a tree, throw eggs at a Republican, something.

We've had tons of ladybugs at Possum Cough lately, and a family of them has moved into the dining room. They've taken up residence on the north wall, just where wall meets ceiling. As a military man, I'm intrigued by how they are formed into a V. A perfect phalanx of beetlery. We're leaving them alone for now. The cold weather is sure to do them in before long. Or Butternut, if they ever venture below the three feet line.

We had to do a lot of shopping and errands yesterday, and were gone all day long. We started out in Kingsport, in the antiques shops downtown, and then winded our way west to the town of Rutledge, TN, where we visited Ritter Farms. It was a gorgeous drive, and when we arrived, we were able to buy some very nice produce. Our purchases included some fresh, unpasteurized apple cider (very hard to find), some homemade Amish butter, a few very well-formed sweet potatoes (MeeMaw is trying to cultivate a taste for them), and some beans we'd never seen or heard of before: red-streaked "October Beans." The farmer at the store described them as similar to pinto beans, but more flavorful. We know a challenge when we hear one. Here you can see these items, along with a bowl of chestnuts my colleague Sandy gave us from her tree. I'm going to try and start a couple of seedlings from the ones we don't eat. Very good nut-meats, those. We also bought a book written by a woman who works at the farm, Nutritional Health From a Biblical Perspective. I wish I'd looked it over a bit more carefully before plunking down the five bucks. It's really not a very good book; it doesn't fully address what the title purports to address. In many ways, it's like a poorly-prepared Sunday School class, where the teacher just throws in a ton of scripture that happens to have the appropriate word in the verses.

On the way back from Ritter Farms, we stopped and ate supper at Fatz Cafe in Kingsport, then did some grocery shopping, and finally headed back to Possum Cough. We arrived home quite late (for us, anyway) and found that we'd missed some phone calls. It was too late to return them, so MeeMaw did some piddlin' in the kitchen while I reviewed my Sunday School lesson plan very briefly, and then we had another little autumn party. Hot cider and two old b&w horror movies, one good, one dreadful. The good one was The Spiral Staircase, a very atmospheric 1930's tale of a mute girl being stalked by a killer in an old mansion during a thunderstorm. The dreadful one was House of Dracula, a shlocky Universal Pictures release that managed to shoehorn Dracula, the Wolfman, and Frankenstein's monster into 90 minutes of overwrought ham. John Carradine looked very nice in his white tie and tails; that's all we can say about his performance. Lon Chaney Jr. as the Wolfman was, well, very sad. And I don't mean that in a thespian way. And whomever was playing Frankenstein's monster got the good end of the deal, because he only had to embarrass himself for about 10 minutes of screentime. We had a great time making fun of it (and making up dialogue), though. Watching movies with us is sort of like Mystery Geezer Theatre 3000.

We managed to drag ourselves out of the flannel embrace this morning with great reluctance. I went for my walk, noting that the Texas thermometer out back registered 36 degrees. (The one in Gate City on the way to church said 33F.) A white rime of frost covered everything. I kept thinking of Dylan Thomas' lyric poem, apropos of the day:

Poem In October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.

Walking around to the stone wall, I noticed the growing carpet of pine needles, and how they all seemed to face the same direction, as if planted by a tiny fence-maker.

I looked at MeeMaw's flowers to see if the frost had gotten to them, and I saw a sad and beautiful thing. A bumblebee, dead and cold, clinging to a lantana blossom. Did he die of old age while drinking his nectar? Or did he stay out past his time to return home, only to be caught by the killing night air? I am deadly serious when I say that when my time to depart this life comes round, I hope I am found like this bee: laboring, doing the thing I was created to do.

The sun on the valley looks like the air here smells: like apples and hay and deer musk. It is alive, and mysterious, and as elusive as a dreaming baby's thoughts.

Mr. Davidson continues to cut silage for the cows from his cornfields around us. Three of the silage wagons were sitting silent and empty this morning, organized piles of slumbering lumber.

One of the bulls was grazing up along the front pasture fence, and his black hide almost reflected the shimmer of the tree behind him.

The Arrington's other Bassett hound (whose name I cannot recall, since he is usually penned) came out to accompany me for part of my walk. He's as friendly as Gus, but much more skittish. He walks with me very contentedly, but if I stop and look directly at him, he bolts and runs as if I'd just pointed a Luger at him. Makes me laugh every time. He has a bad habit of depositing his foul spoor in our yard, though. I imagine I'll introduce his flanks to Mr. BB sometime soon. A little healthy fear never hurt anyone.

When I came back from my walk, Purrl was watching through the French doors. She seems to enjoy gazing at the pumpkins. I noticed that she looks with interest at a ceramic pumpkin candle holder we have on the hearth. Perhaps pumpkins remind her of Butternut. Perhaps she is waiting for one of them to mistreat her. Poor, tragic Purrl.

On the way back from church, we stopped and took several pictures in the Carter's Valley area.

We also drove to the top of the hill in Reed Holler, where the county park is. The foliage isn't nearly as spectacular as it's going to be in a week or two. But it's still beautimus.

Turning onto our road, we noticed one of Susan Greer's lovely horses lying down in the grass. MeeMaw knows a lot about horses, and she observed that healthy horses don't usually lie down like that. We watched him for a bit, and never saw him moving. We fear that he went the way of bumblebees and all flesh. I'll ask Ms. Greer about it next time I see her.

Seeing the horse reminded me of yet another Dylan Thomas poem, Fern Hill. The excerpt that came to mind was:

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his
Shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise...

This afternoon, we took sandwiches (MeeMaw's homemade bread and homemade tuna salad) and pickles up to the woodlot, along with chairs and books. We sat and ate and read in the absolutely perfect absence of man-made sound. When the sun shifted its angle just a bit, a breeze came up and chilled MeeMaw's little fingers, so we came back down to the house and started making our evening preparations. We hope all of you are as happy and content as we are tonight, and we hope each of you sleep as deeply and warmly as we almost certainly will, beneath a covering of flannel, beneath a brilliantly-starred black freezing sky in the Virginia mountains.

We love you all, and wish you were here with us, every one of you.

7:19 pm

A splendid weekend.

Yesterday, we went to visit a man I’ve been wanting to meet. The man is D. Hoskins, an investor, genealogy expert and historian. Having read some of his work and enjoyed it immensely, I talked to him on the phone Thursday and asked if we might possibly visit him. He immediately invited us to visit, and his wife got on the phone to give me directions.

We arose before dawn Saturday morning and set out for the four-hour trip north into the Shenandoah Valley region. Much of the way was fog-draped, but we made good time and – except for a couple of wrong turns, thanks to MapQuest! – had an enjoyable drive.

As we neared the house, we were looking for the landmarks Mrs. Hoskins had described on the phone…and there they were: an iron dragon in the front yard, and a vibrant Confederate battle flag hanging from the front porch. We pulled into the drive way and got out, stretching and looking the house over. MeeMaw said, “It looks like a cottage from the British Isles,” and she was right.

As we approached the front door, it opened and a short woman with a pleasant, open face greeted us. In a sparkling Tidewater accent, she said, “Y’all caught me watering a plant. Come on in!” She showed us into the sitting room, well-appointed in subdued lighting revealing antiques and a baby grand piano, and we took our seats while she went to fetch Mr. Hoskins from his office. In a few moments, we heard a strong voice say, “Thank you, sugah. Are they in here?” And in walked Mr. Hoskins.

After having spoken with him on the phone, I was not prepared for the physical presence of the man. About my height, Mr. Hoskins was sturdy and powerful for a man of 80 years. His face was almost unlined, he had snow-white hair and beard, and eyes of the bluest ice either of us had ever seen. He wore a navy blazer adorned with a Confederate flag (not a battle flag) pin. A very handsome man, regal and massive in bearing. He crushed my hand and asked us to sit down. Mrs. Hopkins joined us in a minute, and we began getting to know each other.

He asked us several questions, and we both noticed how carefully he listened to us. This close attention was confirmed later as he recited back to us the things we’d told him earlier, things most people would have forgotten as soon as they heard them. An incurable storyteller, Mr. Hoskins told us several hilarious and incredible tales of his days as a boy, as a young man, as a warrior, as a fencer and knife fighter, as a family man.

The old man was not only gracious and warm to us, but also to his wife of fifty-something years. He clearly adores her, and addressed her as “Sugar” (pronounced “shu-gah”). He thanked her every time she did anything for him or for us. In the course of one of his riveting stories, he mentioned a man whom he disliked. He gave the main reason, and then he added, “This fellow also had a habit of speaking roughly to his wife. I won’t abide that. I won’t abide it.” Clearly, Mrs. Hoskins has never had to experience such rough speaking from her husband.

Mrs. Hoskins served fresh apple cider, and when Mr. Hoskins began to show signs of tiring, I indicated that we would be leaving soon. Before we said our good-byes, Mr. Hoskins insisted on giving us a tour of the house (accompanied by their three very large Rottweillers). When we stood up from the sofa, Mr. Hoskins said, “All right, now. Look across into that mirror (an enormous, ancient mirror hanging across the fireplace). Are you looking into it? Good. Then you’re looking into the same mirror looked into by Robert E. Lee. By Jefferson Davis. By Stonewall Jackson. By J.E.B. Stuart. And yes, by Abraham Lincoln. This mirror hung in the family home at Kelly’s Ford, and it was there when the Confederacy fell.”

I walked over and touched the frame. I touched the bookcase he had restored from being riddled with Yankee bullet holes. I thought about the eyes that had peered into the smoky glass decades ago. He showed us the maple box his great grandfather had carried in his wartime campaigns, packed with pistol and pipe and tobacco and Bible. He showed us the andirons, more than two centuries old, from an old Virginia family plantation. When we walked into the front foyer, he showed us the wooden targe on which were mounted a dozen authentic Confederate and Scottish sabers. “In case you need to take care of something going on in the front yard,” Mr. Hoskins noted wryly. And next to the blades was a brown, framed document. We read the signature and stopped breathing for a moment. It was Robert E. Lee’s signature. Mr. Hoskins explained that this was the original copy of his farewell address that Lee had given to General Early, after the surrender. Each general under Lee had received one, and this one was now resting in the home of a man who loves his people and knows their history.

He showed us more furniture that he’s restored over the years, and the massive dining room table he fashioned himself. Then we went to the small library in the back of the house, and he pointed out the family tree (with photographs!) of his bloodline, and he explained how we could trace our own lineage back with the assistance of some of his writings.

Before we left, Mr. Hoskins posed for photographs. I presented him with a collection of my poems and short stories which MeeMaw had insisted I bring along with me. He thanked me in his customary courtly way, and then helped guide us out of the serpentine driveway and back onto the busy road. As we pulled away, waving, Mr. Hoskins stood in front of his house, heels together, regal as ever. He was saluting.




When we arrived home, the phone was ringing as we came in the door. It was Mrs. Hoskins. She said, “I want you to know that I have been sick last week, and I was tired after you and Susan left. I went upstairs to take a nap, but I carried the writings you gave my husband with me. I want you to know that I never got my nap. I laid there and read every word of the works you gave him. And then I read some of them aloud to him. You are an incredible writer. And my husband wants to talk to you about it.” She called him to the phone, and that warm Virginia accent filled my ear. “Good to talk to you again, sir,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. He went on to say some very complimentary things about my poetry, including one that caught me off-guard. He said, “You are a Kipling. I recognize the thing that courses through everything you write. You are highly gifted, sir.” I thanked him and told him that MeeMaw and I had talked about them all the way home. I told him that I had told my beloved wife, “I think, and I hope, that we made two new friends today.” After I told him this, Mr. Hoskins said with great intensity, “You and I are friends, sir.”

The mountains are beginning to dress for their long sleep, and they are in the process of putting on their glorious pajamas. This morning, just before first light, I went up to the woods to pray. When I finished and opened my eyes, the mountains in the east were haloed in pink, except for the large one in the center; it was ringed in gold. The sun was about to come up. So I remained where I was, motionless, and watched. It was coming…it was coming…and there it was. Sudden and full, like music, the sun came up from behind the mountains, up from the night, up from yesterday. My cold face was immediately warmed by its light, and I thought, “I just watched a day being born. And now the day is here, and nothing can stop its progress.” As I write these words, the sun has just slipped behind the western horizon, below the gravestones and the remains of those who lie resting and waiting. A day has just passed into shadow, into memory, into night.

On my morning walk, I scooped up a fistful of the new sileage Mr. Davidson has cut for his cattle. He's dozing it into massive piles in the pits adjacent to the cemetary, where it will winter under a tarp and be used to feed the Black Angus in the fields. If you look closely, you can see the corn and the chopped-up stalks.

And at breakfast, MeeMaw finally used the toast tongs I made for her. She is being kind to her teeny fingers...

After morning worship - the lady of Possum Cough.



Rest well, loved ones.