Fullness

There is a fullness, a richness to the end of June like no other month.

The field and woods and sky saturated with color. The growing world nearing fruition. The life force maturing all around us, and in us, too.

It seems the culmination of the year, a tumescence before fruit drops to the earth and seeds take flight.

Surely, you feel it, too, my friend.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Poem for Summer

Estival

This is the poem unwritten,
Light like syrup in the clouds
Carrying rain across the valley,
Strangers scattered on the slopes,
Aging as we watch in silence,
All of us, all of us.

In her nightgown, they kissed,
Lipstick, wet flame,
Hands sliding down,
Heat through thin cloth,
Let us say it: Desire!
This is the poem unwritten.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Last Week End in June

It's the last week end in June, and the grass needs cutting.

But it's the last week end in June, and we're going to lie in it, instead.

Besides, we like how we can see where we've been, and especially how it feels between our toes.

Beginning moonrise tonight, we plan to be barefoot until Sunday, at least, when social obligations will take us closer to civilization. We would begin sooner, but we must venture into town for spiced tomato juice, horseradish, pepper, and celery. Organic, of course.

Maybe we'll make a fire after sunset. Nothing like firelight on dear faces.

Stop by if you are of the same mind. If not, call us on Monday. On Monday we plan to listen to recorded messages sometime after we finish mowing.

Party on, Garth.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

A Closer Look

When events in distant arenas leave us disappointed in our own kind, we take solace in a closer look. Nature never fails us.

We carry in our pocket a small lens. Looking slows us.

What we see always astounds in geometry and pattern and color, a poetry of form, be it the pistil of a musk mallow, or the hoary face of a cecropia moth.

We are reminded the universe is infinite in both directions, large and small.

We spend the afternoon in the field. We don't go far, each step rich in discovery.

Come evening, we watch the moon rise out of the woods with the dogs dozing at our feet.

We have become better acquainted with the moment.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Quiet Hour

Moon half full. Fields dusky; the evening star and one other bright one near the moon. It is a cool but pretty still night.

There are light, vaporous clouds overhead; dark, fuscous ones in the north. The trees are turned black. As candles are lit on earth, stars are lit in the heavens. I hear the bullfrog's trump from afar.

At this quiet hour the evening wind is heard to moan in the hollows of your face, mysterious, spirit-like, conversing with you. It can be heard only now.

There is dew only in the low grounds. What were the firefly's light, if it were not for the darkness?

--Thoreau, June 24, 1852

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

After Fenollosa’s Rihaku

Artists in Exile

We expect the boughs to lift

And let the next clean line

Pierce the halflight of our solitude,

The great black trunks

Holding back the night.

Between the savage and the spare,

Let silence rule, let talking end;

The groundhog sleeps beneath the moss,

The cranefly shelters in the dusk,

The damage serves us well.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Poem for the Longest Day

Haunted Solstice


When the day lies long on the half-grown hill
The eyes of the dead come 'round come 'round
When the birds go quiet and the wind goes still
The mouths of the dead come around
A few words unerased in an endless loop
When the smiles of the dead come 'round come 'round
The fields they have run in they run in again
When the legs of the dead come around
The sun in their hair and their breath sweet again
When the scents of the dead come 'round come 'round
Their touch on our arm bids us come bids us come
When the eyes of the dead come around.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Evening Thunder

Evenings near the solstice we can almost feel the earth slowing. A sense of culmination sweetens the air.

Near sunset we hear thunder soft in the distance, and we sit in the rockers on the back porch to wait for rain.

There is a scene from the movie "Witness," filmed in Pennsylvania Amish country, where Harrison Ford watches a thunderstorm come. It was not scripted, merely captured near the end of the day's filming, and seen by the director for its beauty and its mood. It is one of our favorite scenes, wordless, without orchestration, sensual and entirely natural.

The thunder increases, but we know by the direction that the heart of the storm will pass to the north. We wait without fear. The wind rises. The woods moves and sighs. The rain begins.

It is everything we'd hoped for, slanting in from the southwest, falling from a great height in legs across the field. The rain walks.

It turns the air silver and hides the hills. The barrell fills in seconds, water spilling on stones. We, too, overflow with a sense of well-being. Even Old Bob watches with his head on his paws, safe in his box.

At the summer solstice, we know possibility. Anticipation is a form of hope. We know ourselves to be one summer closer to our last. We look forward to the next storm.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Sensation

We needed this.

Away from the computer, away from the telephone, away from the society of man.

Neglect the woods a day or two, and the path to the cabin begins to close, nettles knee-high now and stinging our ankles and shins if we're not careful. Yet that is not pain, only a reminder that we live, sensation in this sensate existence, and rare in the universe.

Buddhist monks sometimes clack their teeth together for the same reminder. Sometimes, to be more in the moment, they flick their ears. Try it. More alert now, are you not?

We enter the woods and its insular quiet, its long shadows, its cooler air and sweeter birdsong. There is a fluidity to this canopied space akin to being under water.

Quieting the mind promotes well-being. We don't need "Consumer Reports on Health" to know that, but there's this: "12 minutes of daily yoga meditation for two months improved general memory, attention, and cognition in middle-aged and older people."

So while you're open to suggestion, do that now. Turn off the computer. Leave the house. Find your quiet place. It won't take long, and the peace you find, if only for a few minutes, will carry you through the day.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Sure Thing

Turns out, our throat was ravaged by a virus and not by yelling. So we went to the ballgame again today, eager to see the player for whom we thought we had strained our vocal chords.

We lost.  Eleven straight. Worse, Pedro struck out three times, twice in key situations. He did hit the ball hard once, into an inning-ending double play.

If he doesn't soon get his first big-league hit, the vendors will have to take down Pedro's shirt. They've already sold thousands of shirts with his name on them. Did I mention he doesn't have a hit yet?

Likewise, the scoreboard programmer will have to stop showing Pedro super imposed on the ghost of Willie Stargell. Willie's an MVP and a seven-time All-Star,  he's won the World Series twice, and he's in the Hall of Fame, while Pedro has yet to... well, you know.

Maybe we didn't know as much as we thought we knew.

We shall apply this lesson to the broader universe.

Being sure of less makes us wiser.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Vote for Pedro

Our throat hurts. With reason. Last night we were yelling for Pedro.

The GM was giving an interview near the dugout before the game. We were paying customers close to the rail and wanted to see Pedro Alvarez, a young and talented beacon of hope in yet another dismal baseball season, still languishing in the minors.

"Pedro!" we'd shout at every lull.

The amplified music would subside.

"Pedro!"

The a cappella anthem would end.

"Pedro!"

You get the idea. The GM's face was noticeably redder before he ducked into the dugout.

We lost again, ninth straight. In the throes of such a streak, we looked around for entertainment: ricocheting foul balls, singing vendors, the moon setting young behind the press box. The parrot did his best to offer alternative amusement (yes, that's a big cell phone) but also failed miserably.

An hour after the game, Pedro was called up. He played today in our absence, went 0-2, committed an error, the team pitched in with five more, and now it's ten straight.

What next, you ask?

Best to focus on the close-at-hand, we reply.

We are gargling with salt water.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Enter Turk, Exit Turk

Turk arrived. But she didn't stay long.

We picked her up at our son's house this morning, coaxing her out of the woods with a shake of her food bowl. We loaded her into the Pet Taxi, and she only meowed once the whole way across the valley. Life ain't easy for a girl named Turk, but this cat is no complainer.

Our grandson, 10, helped us load her into the Subaru.

"Back end in first," he said, exhibiting the skills of a natural leader.

Our granddaughter, almost 7, watched.

"Don't pet her  on the back or she'll bite you," she said.

We understand why, when told Turk would be leaving to spend some time with us, she responded with a fist pump.

So they waved goodbye, Turk gave her one aloof meow, and off we went. Ten minutes later we introduced the cat to her new home -- lovely straw quarters high up in the stable.

Her movements were fluid and quick.

We haven't seen her since.

We think she's nearby, however, lying low, assessing. She'll come around. How could she not with such lovely companions?

We'll keep you posted.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Firekeepers

Being human, we like a level spot, a nice flat place to park ourselves.

That's why we built the pergola, tucked into a leafy corner of the yard above the house, and with a good view of the pond and the field and the woods beyond. With an open roof (just enough to define a space without enclosing it), we can also watch the sky in grids.

Problem was, the bugs like it, too. Notice we said "was." A bowl of fire did the trick.

Hammered copper on a steel stand, it burns evenly and moderately. Watching the flames with dear souls satisfies in us something primal: our tribe in a circle around that element of which our control is as defining as opposing thumbs and language.

Little need be said as we watch the embers, captivated by our own thoughts.

Should we walk away into the night to stand at the edge of the field, our eyes adjust quickly to starlight, and we are treated to an undulating sea of fireflies.

We imagine we feel no differently than our ancestors did 10,000 years ago.

Maybe a little safer.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Help Arriving Soon In Turk

Our shopping list read:

Groceries
Tomato Cages
Mouse Repellant
Miller Lite
Cat

The Humane Society was our last stop.

"Sorry," they said when they heard we wanted a dominant predator to reign over the stable. "Inside only."

We begged their pardon.

"We only give cats to homes that keep them inside," they said, and we felt we were being judged. We left with low self-esteem and no cat.

But we did have repellant.

Recommended by the Mower Man to prevent rodent damage to stored equipment, it smells like Pine-Sol to a power of ten. Literature in the box frightens us. It talks of deadly diseases and wiring gnawed bare. It shows us a house in flames and a loaf of bread with a mouse baked in it. We see a closeup of a rat's teeth and a screaming woman.

We bought two boxes.

Then we called around the mountainside offering cushy quarters among straw bales, all you can eat, and plenty of game to any healthy stray.

Our son called back.

Turk is a big no-nonsense female recently expelled from the house for incontinence. We'll let you know how it works out.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Firewood

A logger delivered firewood to our neighbor this morning. It makes my back hurt just to look at it.

In Upper Turkeyfoot, most of us burn a little firewood in heating season, heating season being September to June. Some of us burn a lot.

Not too many years ago we passed the self-reliant stage where firewood is concerned. We used to fell and drag and cut and split and stack. Then we just cut and split. Then just split.  Now we only stack, and consider it a wise use of dwindling resources. By buying our wood cut to length and split, we have more energy to wrestle with the really important issues like our aesthetic and the condition of American poetry in the 21st Century.

Our neighbor, too, has reached a certain stage of contemplation. And he is wise enough to know he can count on the support of younger men. Come to think of it, he is wiser than me. While I am still stacking, he has advanced to supervision.

Thoreau wrote that firewood warmed him twice, once when he cut it, and once when he burned it. We have decided once is enough.

Cooperation and division of labor are fundamental to warmth.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Independent

We fired up the pickup, threw her into 4WD, and bounced out the lane to the hard road. We wheeled into the local gas station and were happy the brakes worked. We don't use the pickup much, but when we do, we thank God we're a country boy. We filled her up with regular, and felt so red-state we bought a flagon of Diet Pepsi and a big bag of chips.

The local paper in the rack says they've opened up the primary elections in California. They can vote for anybody now, and the top two run against each other in the general. We like the idea because it's a change. We like change, unless it's change we don't like.

We rattle home raising a dust cloud, back the pickup into the stable, and shut her down. It smells a little ripe in the cab, and we really should drop the blower from under the dash and clean out the mouse nest. But maybe later. Just now we feel like going into the house and writing a long, rambling letter to the local editor. First we have to decide what we're mad about.

We'll think of something.

copyright 2010, J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

House Call

Dorian backs the service truck into the driveway and says hello to Blue first.

We had been cutting back a copse of mountain ash in the field among fluttering leaves and chasing sparrows. The dogs, as always, let us know company was arriving. The mower man was here.

We had called and scheduled him weeks ago. This morning we had removed the opened walnuts from the seat, lowered the hood (we keep it up to discourage mouse nests around the engine), driven it out of the stable, and parked it near the road. Darion says none of this was necessary. He knows the combinations to the garages in three states.

He opens the truck, sets up the ramp, and drives the mower into his workshop. He lubes and sharpens and adjusts. He cleans and restores. He holds up a chewed air filter and says, "Rodents."

We learn to keep a few more pounds of air in the front tires for a level cut. We learn to use fuel additive to combat ethanol in the gasoline. And, best of all, we learn the main shop stocks mouse repellant effective even on combines.

We talk pickup trucks and baseball. We have protected our investment, and our yard will not need the baler afterall. We are happy.

Nothing beats a house call.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Whitman in the Dripping Woods

We found it on the bargain table in the basement of the town library. "Leaves of Grass." 1900. The spine dark from hands. The binding loose. The cloth frayed on the edges of the cover boards.

But we liked the way it fell open. We could see the impression each letter made in the paper. And we bought it for a quarter.


We took it to the woods and read it there, and there it has remained for 25 years, propped between creek stones on the cabin desk along with Thoreau and Emerson and Yeats and the King James edition.


It was a new kind of writing in 1855 when first self-published, yet caused no stir. Today it is impossible to imagine American poetry without him.


To us,  every time we open the book again, and feel its heft in our hands, and read in the silence among trees, it is as if the Good Gray Poet were speaking directly to our centers for the first time, and we are thrilled anew with the cadence and lull, the grand sweep of the country, and the vastness of a single soul.


Read for yourself. Click to enlarge.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

The Good Towels

The air dries out, and the sun is warm. There's breeze enough to remind us we're outside. It's one of those rare June days just right for dreaming -- and for hanging laundry.

No motors today, we decide. No overt petroleum consumption. Except to move the car from the garage to the stable for washing. We do that, and we dry the slick surfaces with old towels. Old works best: soft, absorbent, made in the USA.

These were our mother's towels. We remember them as "the good towels," stored in the back of the linen closet, hung only for company. The every-day towels were threadbare but efficient.

It became a source of amusement. Practical in all things, our mother lived by what she said was the "Dutch" (the local term for the Amish) way: Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.

So these "good towels," new in 1958, still serve their purpose. Mom would be proud. Except she would display them in the bathroom and not the stable.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

After Rain

Mist rose from the valley as we drove over the ridge with our bikes on the back.

The rain had stopped, and we knew the trail could be a little soft in spots, but not muddy. The Great Allegheny Passage never disappoints us. Neither do the people we meet. We have a name for that: Trail Magic. www.GAPtrail.com

The Casselman River through these mountains cuts the deepest gorge in the state.  The river keeps us company as we ride. Mountain laurel blooms amid the bigger and darker leaves of wild rhododendron (which will bloom in July).

Along the way and in the small towns we pass through, we meet people from all over the world. When they ask where we're from, and we tell them just over the next ridge, we can see the envy in their eyes.

"Lucky," they'll say. We'll say, "We know."

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

No Man's Land

They had a room for men. It was narrow and dark, off to the side of the main dress shop.

A buck's head hung on one wall. It's hooves, too, were mounted, pointing up over the leather couch as if for coathooks.

Stacked oak casks formed another wall.

The TV was massive and off.

Women and wedding dresses filled the rest of the store. I felt lost in a cave of silk and taffeta.

"Aren't you excited?" the salesgirl said by way of greeting, and the search began.

I tried to be small. I studied pictures above the counter. The dresses were mostly voluminous. Having served their purpose, some would make excellent sofa covers.

A half dozen weddings were in the planning around me. From behind the next rack I heard, "Let's try it with the cups out."

I headed for the room of shadows and hides.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights  reserved

Dad at Gettysburg, 1933

 Will Hall, those who remember him have told us, was something of a colorful character.

Independent, proud, and fiercely patriotic, he was born during the Civil War in which his father fought. Will's middle name, afterall, was Grant. He is our great grandfather,

We have inherited a picture of him saluting next to a cannon on the battlefield at Gettysburg. The picture is small and damaged. No one remembers much about it -- so much is lost in the passing of generations.

But we have plied our PhotoShop skills, and learned a little from the partial plaque. We know it's Gettysburg, because the handwriting of a great aunt says so. And this week, thanks to the help of a licensed battlefield guide, we found the spot where he stood.

We did the same. We photographed. We rendered the result in black-and-while, blurred it a little, and attached it to an e-mail to our own son. Below we wrote, "Dad at Gettysburg, 2010."

We hope it's the second in a series of images of independent and proud Pennsylvanians saluting on Culp's Hill, and that 77 years need not pass before the  next one.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved

Winning a Bonus

What a gorgeous night for a ballgame.

Everybody said so. Even before the game, passing under Willie Stargell's frightening stance on the way to the riverwalk.

Even with a 75-minute drive out of the mountains. Even with a 100-minute drive home. Even with a major road closed and another at a clog factor of 10. Even then.

It didn't hurt that a hometown boy put us ahead with a homerun late in the game.

In the middle of what is sure to be the 18th losing season in a row, we find other pleasures in the game. We noticed for the first time tonight, for example, all nine Pirates wore their pants short.

That's something, right? The proof is below. You can click on it and see.

It didn't hurt that we beat the Cubs again. We like the Cubs; their fans are long-suffering, and we relate.

And we think their theme song, "Go, Cubs, Go" is infectious and the best in baseball. We like to hear their fans stand and sing it at Wrigley, in the daylight, on TV. But not against us. Still, this is baseball. It's sometimes okay to admire the opposition.

We thought of such things on the drive home in the dark. We pulled into our garage and walked through the wet grass under the constellations.

Lightning bugs floated around us. Bullfrogs crooned in bass, peepers in soprano.  Yes, a gorgeous night. We like this song better.

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved