~the morning caught me looking the other way~like the face in the mirror~
it continues to look back and the dog won’t stop barking~
who are these dead people in the room staring from the black glass box~
~Sunday Come Early~Sunday came too early, 7:30a.m., the dog banging on the door downstairs. I took her some water, told her to be quiet, went back to bed. A few minutes later she commenced to bark, bringing the neighbors into our morning. Resigned to my fate, I got dressed and went outside. Like a spoiled child, one way or another, the dog usually gets her way.
Sunday morning came too early, 1a.m., my wife and I finished watching a movie, Sling Blade. John Ritter was in the movie. He’s dead now in real life. Dennis Hopper died last year. It occurs to me that the deaths of these actors I’ve been watching most of my life, in some vague sense, has something to do with me. As if my aching bones weren’t reminders enough this Sunday morning come too early.
Aging is relative to life, isn’t it. Like it or not, if it isn’t occurring, neither are you. So I’m thankful for the good ol’ dog, my coffee morning wife and stepdaughter still asleep in her rooms upstairs, especially gifted and thankful for my five wonderful children and their sweet little ones.
I take several moments each day and night to dwell on those specific and special children of mine. The night would never end if I hadn’t held them close in my mind and spirit with each breath. Sunday morning wouldn’t occur. Who would water and quiet the dog. I am glad to be a man who has done so, three cups of coffee in to a Sunday come early.
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She lived a hard life in a world where survival was the everyday waterline of success. I left her in that white room six years ago to howl a lament in the hospital parking lot, what turned out to be her death song. My sister came to join me. “Momma’s pain is over,” she said, “She is lost to us now.” I hurried back to the room to visit Momma’s hollow corpse.
Some weeks later my good sister advised me that she, two of my brothers, and other two sisters were taking Momma’s ashes from Colorado to Wyoming. They intended to make a ceremonial goodbye, to loose Momma’s remains on the Wyoming wind as Momma had done with her husband, our stepfather, five years before. She released him to the garden and the small square of grass on their red dirt, moo cow, Wyoming ranch. My sister asked me, “Will you go with us?”
Oldest of seven children, Momma’s first son, I replied, “No, I’m not ready to say farewell to her and would never leave her with the monster man, our stepfather. The oldest of my brothers, fourteen months younger than myself, was “doing time” in the prison at Canon City. Momma never liked him much, favored me always. The two of us, my brother and me, knew a different kind of life than our siblings. We shared a love/hate bond because of the Momma dynamic. I asked my sister to divide Momma into seven parts. “Take them all to Wyoming and do what you will with five of them. Bring the two last back to Colorado after they have witnessed five degrees of separation. These two parts I will keep for myself.”
Life goes on. Six years later I found myself married to what finally felt like “the right woman” for me. She was sixth born in a middle-class family of seven children. Her father was a successful pharmacist and devoted father, her mother a good church woman and dedicated wife and mother. My wife regaled me with happy stories of family road trips and camp-outs, girl scouts and bible study. The younger man, me, would have become confused and angry listening to stories from that “other world.”
We live in California now, my wife and I, 1280 miles away from my five children in Colorado, each of those miles the one too far. Having spent her childhood in Washington and Oregon, many of my wife’s stories have the ocean as a backdrop, the most significant of those, in my opinion, were the two trips she and her siblings took, the singular dual ritual of releasing father and mother into the wind and vast deeps of the Pacific, a place they both admired, respected, and loved.
Recently I drove those 1280 miles to spend a couple of weeks with my children and grandchildren. My youngest son of twenty-three years returned to California with me to spend a few days visiting. Momma was with us in her plastic bag in the black plastic box with the lid that will never close.
My Colorado boy wanted to see the ocean and so off we went. My wife drove us the 150 squiggly miles to where California ends in the west. I took two pinches of Momma from the box, spread them on the sand-silt of the beach, pressed my fingers to my lips, tasted the silken residue of Momma’s ashes.
My son stood ankle deep in the tide. “Woo!hoo” he whooped ecstatic, speaking into his projector while filming the big water, his vast, endless and beautiful youth enveloped by and a-tempo with the terrible roar of the ages. I returned my gaze to the sand, water licking at my boots, and she was gone.
Momma was afraid of water. She took no comfort in its swell and weigh. Still I gave a bit of her back. She would have liked my wife’s people, her parents. The me I am now would have too. In another life where it was safe to let go we might have been regular folks, good people, like them.
My brother is bitter, wants no part of what is left of Momma. The ashes left are mine to do with whatever I choose. I’ll take her with us when we move back to Colorado, repeat the ocean ritual in those great Rocky Mountains we both loved so well. I might never let go of my Cherokee Mother, she will certainly never let go of me. If it were to be, the lid would close o’er that plastic box of Momma’s Ashes.
http://wordwulf.comWordWulfPacific Interlude
Today, while cleaning the garage, a strange and interesting event occurred. A dust devil, mini tornado, danced up the driveway and across the cement floor. It wandered a bit in its to and fro sway, then dashed forward where it spent itself on the phat black and chrome body of my ol’ Hawg.
Being a man of voice whose mouth has learned to close, the better to listen to nuances of phantom messages, I settled myself in the dust of my new Friend. I contemplated kicking the ol’ Hawg to life, which deed was done before I knew it. Another specific and one-time event as she woke purring on the first stroke. Entranced, I backed ‘er out of the garage, pointed ‘er toward the street and let ‘er have ‘er head.
Rolling West, down Baseline Road, memory took a swipe at me. It dragged me back to the eighties, that same street and new boots, bearded brothers before me and roaring up from behind, the guitar man, Matthew, life-Friend at my side. Up the mountain we rode, to the wedding of Phil Howell to his beautiful Asian, silken-haired lady and their wind faces under the pines. The preacher looked smart in his dark clothes, his words of troth accompanied by the music of creaking leather, the cooling metal of iron horses and darting birds, curious in their singsong quick-eyed way.
Past Table Mesa Boulevard, traffic and Boulder lights fading behind, the road smooths out, single lane, an easy climb through the foothills. For the seasoned Colorado rider, a certain preparedness takes place. Hairpin curves, jackknives await, cool, tree-shadowed paths and startling, sun-splashed views. Motor and cam, heartbeat and blood, fuse in a shift, down shift, tap the brake and throttle forward fluid movement. Sunrise Amphitheater lies just ahead, around this blind curve or that, red stones surrounded by and punctuated by sturdy pine and scrabble bush. I leave my war-worn Hawg, my dragon, on ‘er stand and follow the steep path down.
Memory quick-trips me backward to the seventies and my brothers, before the prison in Canon City stole their hearts. We hauled our band gear up that ol’ mountain, carried amplifiers, guitars, drums, and generators down into the Sun Circle where we established ourselves on that side-o’-the-mountain open stage. I drank Seagram’s Seven, howled my lyrics and played my harmonica into the mountain air and white cloud sky. Boulder lay behind me, a sheer backdrop to a young man on the edge of time and certainly unaware of the audacity of his behavior. No permits, no appointments, just music and the poor-boy Sterner brothers, doin’ that thing they used to do. A group of Jewish People appeared later. Permit in hand, they advised us they had reserved this wondrous place for a very special wedding observance. We played a couple of our songs for ‘em while they performed a precise and circular tribal dance. They applauded our efforts and fed us, sent us back smiling to our West Denver homes.
A smile comes to me slowly, like Harry Chapin said, “It was a sad smile, just the same”. I light my second cigar of the day, feet planted on each side o’ the ol’ dragon, arms resting on her handlebar wings. A sparrow lands on my mirror, gives me a wink and flits away. I wonder its lineage, generations of mountain life past. Did its forbearers hear the poor boys’ noise, witness a certain binding of troth. I swear her stones are the same, each pine needle and chittering chipmunk. Sons born since have carried my music into a new age. It is theirs now and far different somehow. I remain unchanged like the face of Flagstaff. She knows what I might only guess. Time is on her side.
Cigar butt clenched tightly ‘tween my teeth, I give the ol’ War Horse a couple o’ kicks. She coughs and sputters to life. I tickle her throttle, glory in her growl and roar. A dust devil dervish giggles from the path, rises and kisses me on the cheek; how, the mountain, she speaks.
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~my brothers & I were ashamed & afraid~
~living in the West Denver Housing Projects in the sixties~
~it wasn’t the taunting of turf bullies that scared us~
~we were poorer than the people there~
~hiding out~living with our auntie~
~had to keep our noses clean & mouths shut~
~if someone snitched us out for being there~
~we’d be tossed out~then what~
~Cats' Eyes~
~cats’ eyes stare~
~from under cars~
~I used to shoot them~
~when I was a boy~
~rounds of four-hole~
~& poison when you reached it~
~five-pot in the middle~
~I remember circles~
~drawn with crooked sticks~
~in fresh summer dirt~
~steelies & aggies~
~hot sun & glass orbs~
~ball-bearings far from the wound~
~of their greased sleeves~
~pockets worn into holes~
~bare feet and stone bruises~
~wrestling in the housing projects~
~with brown children~
~beaten for a dime~
~proud as a piss-ant~
~ &twice as hungry~
~cats’ eyes tied~
~into knots in a bag~
~cobwebs~
~& a box of old shoes~
~spider bones and ashes~
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WordWulf
~If I Father~
~eighteen when my first daughter was born~thirty-seven when the fifth child~
~my second son came to join us~
~those three girls & two boys have had quite a time with me~
~sharing life with them~the single most significant event of my being~
~has been a prayer~the oldest of eight children~searching for a lifeline~
~I wondered~if I father~
~I have watched each of them sleep~
~tasted the perfect bloom~
~of their sweet child breath~
~thought of myself ~
~as the great protector~
~keeper of precious fragile flames~
~not so much I think~
~as I witness their awakening~
~into the dawn of youth~
~the embrace of young adulthood~
~parenthood~
~I listened to their stories~
~told one to the other and others~
~voices pure and beautiful ~
~as fine silk~
~texture my ears could touch~
~while listening~
~I learned of their suffering~
~that their lives had been staggered~
~by sullen blows of doubt~
~& fear that I~
~their father~
~might come crashing~
~through those doubting walls~
~to discover them~
~in the company of the ghosts~
~of their imperfections~ ~in the night~
~voices speak to me~
~the tiny ones of my children~
~who have come to go~
~will always remain with me~
~grown past the child whispers~
~I aspire to hear~
~I answer them~
~in fatherly mumbles~
~tears in my eyes & melancholy~
~for what has passed~
~in my time of living~
~you see they are the protectors~
~of my imperfections~
~I congratulate myself on a job well done~
~because they need me less now ~
~than ever before~
~& never so much as I imagined~
~in my fatherly throes ~
~my attempts to interpret~
~fatherly duties~
~do’s, dues, & don’ts
~a symphony of tiny voices~
~echoes ring down~
~the spiral canyon of my years~
~they speak to me~
~in a perfect symmetry~
~of childhood wisdom~
~they fairly embrace me to stand~ ~there are those~
~who accuse me of talking to myself~
~they got that right~
~my children are myself~
~the very ones I am addressing~
~ones I have become~
~I may be answering questions~
~from a score of years gone~
~by and by as I watch~
~my daughter with her daughter~
~my oldest son in conversation~
~with his brother~
~twelve years his junior~
~yes daughters & sons~
~with sons & daughters~
~to all of them I say~
~I am your father~
~that is all I am~
~& in that complete~
~you lend me strength~
~make me proud~
~in a most beautiful revelation~
~the knowledge & carriage~
~of our shared imperfections~
~stepping forward through it all~
~embracing & supporting one another~
~you carry me to a place~
~of unconditional devotion~
~love without fear~
~lighting candles~
~in the dark corners of my spirit~
~I am made to be free~
~a man~
~my children have been~
~& remain yet~
~perfect sentinels of my journey~
~If I come to see beyond the shadow~
~If I come to walk into and through the fire~
~If I come to feel~
~to love and be loved~
~If I father~
~I’m a lucky man~sitting in a lawn chair~Colorado springtime~
~breathing in~breathing out~that’s enough~time spent well~
~my wife’s in California~earning our living~she’ll join me in a couple of weeks~
~she brings home the bacon~til my words find their weigh~I’m a lucky man~
~Venerable Youth~
~wherever I am~
~sparrows’ voices will remind me~
~of this day when I am~
~watching his sister~
~cut his hair~
~these vulnerable youth~
~children of mine~
~it is peaceful like~
~after love making~
~after death~
~on the afternoon breeze~
~before midnight~
~peaceful like~
~sparrow feathers~
~in a burning bag~
~Momma's Rain~ ~Writing the Pitch~
In 2010, I submitted my second novel, Momma’s Rain, to the Amazon Breakthrough Novel contest. The administrators asked for a pitch upon application. I had written a synopsis, jacket blurb, query letters, etc. but had no idea what was required for a pitch. After some research I was thoroughly confused. I cleared my head and spilled some ink, came up with the following pitch. On the strength of it, Momma’s Rain made the first cut. My novel was one of the thousand kept for further consideration out of 5000 applicants. My feeling is that a pitch is more an example of your writing style, its application to the work offered, rather than a synopsis.
Pitch: ~Momma’s Rain~
Momma and Daddy thought they had killed him finally. They rolled their boy child’s lifeless body into a blanket. Daddy smacked it against the wall then lit a cigarette. The body in the blanket didn’t offer much resistance. Nine-year-old Jerry weighed less than sixty pounds and wasn’t yet five feet tall. Daddy’s foot almost went through him.
“Stop kicking it!” Momma hissed. “We have to find a bridge to throw it off.”
“I’m whippin’ the l’il bastard’s ass one more time!” Daddy insisted, “L’il sumbitch thinks he can steal my lunch bread and get away with it. I’ll show ‘im!”
Jerry scrunched his eyes shut. His nose and cheeks were numb with cold, his face wedged in the corner, icy walls indifferent to his plight. Daddy had stuck him there hours ago, daring him to move, daring him to breathe. Daddy dared Jerry to even think. Jerry, lying little bastard that he was, promised after each punch and slap from Daddy’s hand that he would never steal the family’s bread again. He would not move, he would not breathe, he would not think.
Jerry wiggled his nose, cringed inside, hoped no one noticed; he moved. His ribs hurt where Daddy kicked him when he fell down when Daddy hit him. They hurt so he breathed in shallow little gasps of breath, cringed inside, hoped no one noticed; he breathed. Yes, he was a lying little bastard. He stood in the corners of this house, naked half the time and cold, imagined a plethora of scenarios of death, his own death at Daddy and Momma’s hands. The bridge was long and tall. Through a hole in the blanket, Jerry saw its steel girders high above stabbing through clouds, wrapped in sunlight. They tossed him over the rail, Momma and Daddy, and walked arm-in-arm away. Lying little bastard that he was, he wasn’t dead. His broken body tumbled through the air, stones, muddy water rushing, weeds. He scrunched his eyes shut, cringed inside, hoped no one noticed; he thought.
~Zedidiah & the kitten~
~visiting me in the camper~
~a new creature & my youngest son~
~once they’re adults~there are events~
~just like this~silent & simple, poignant~
~that jet us back to their childhoods~
~a smile for what is~
~a tear for what isn’t~
~wonderful melancholy~
~for what was~
~family~
~the circle intact~
~Violent thunder & hail~
~camper shaking & leaking~
~in half a dozen places~
~dog scared out of her wits, wrapped around my feet~
~instantaneous gutter river freeze~
~better get used to it, my California friends~
~Colorado springtime singing to my blood~
~watching his adult children~
~standing in the shadow~
~of his used to be~
~the man is far away~
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