To Prologize

The external world of my youth, as I know it, was comprised mostly of small towns. A distillation of characters, places and experiences compressed into a catchment oft described as “within walking distance” from each other. Custom with observance played a large part in such places, celebrations and formal recollections marked calendars throughout each year. Holidays coupled with the change of seasons emerged as the reason for being in light of a routine existence. Such events ferment a mythology bubbling from base to cap of our memories, creating a product of equal parts sweet and bitter.  One honeyed time began the day after Thanksgiving in my little inner world as seen through the eyes of a photograph.

(found black and white photograph, unknown origin) 

“Trans-ice-formation”

A narrow road passes 

By the dark shed 

Walled by bush and tree 

Brittle faded yellow, green 

And gray. 

Frames of mountains 

Show first snows 

Disappearing into the valley. 

Close by the peaks 

From roofs break through 

Barren branch of birch, 

Alder and maple. 

A consistent quiet 

Save the old crows 

Preening fluffed feathers 

While young ones trace 

Small white flakes 

Against the sky. 

Through caw and whistle 

A rumble of dust and diesel 

Cuts the cold day air. 

Once dark red 

Now aged with pallor, 

As the rose’s last petal, 

Show’s her face 

Pumper Number Three. 

The truck occupied by two, 

Fireman Tall and Fireman Small, 

Rolls to the place 

Once graced by blankets, 

Baskets of wicker and 

Shirtless children. 

Long past the summer measures 

Now marked for cold pursuits 

To create 

An ice rink. 

The field surrounded 

By board and post 

Waits for Fireman Tall 

Thick and round 

Chewing his cold cigar 

Unfurling a white hose. 

Fireman Small balances 

A giant wrench upon 

His narrow shoulder 

Resembling a mechanic 

Marching off to battle, 

His foe the hydrant. 

Couplings attached 

Nozzle propped high 

Fireman Tall raises a hand 

In unison with the cigar 

Fireman Small pulls hard 

The wrench lurches. 

Water erupts 

Trapped forward as 

Dammed dancers bursting 

To arc and fall upon the ground. 

Fireman Tall stands hands to hip 

Carefully assessing the geometry 

Of distance and time. 

Fireman Small bends 

His thin angles 

Upon the truck bumper 

Staring through small 

Metal diamond shaped holes. 

Each settles in. 

They wait. 

Above old crows look on 

Preening fluffed feathers 

While young ones trace the 

Spray against the sky.

Sheet of Perfection

Small towns of northern bearings sometimes found time to flood a low field, adding boundaries of wood panels to define the lines and curves of the rink. The process required patience over several days, applying thin layers of water to freeze, build up then wait and repeat. Patience and timing were deemed necessary in attaining an even sheen free of cracks and deformities, it was a pursuit for the perfect sheet of ice.

Finally the day arrived pulling occupants of brick, wood and stone away from their place of work or habitation. With anticipation they teemed along a narrow path past rows of tree and shrub still clinging to pale brittle leaves. In the far distance white caps streaked high ridges, evidence of a recent snow soon to cover the valley. Dignitaries embellished the informal excitement huddling round a large metal drum filled with burning wood. Grandmothers shared fresh baked bread combined with their larder endeavors. Shiny urns of coffee and cider flowed near an elderly farmer entertaining the gathers with his mouth harp. Children chased dogs and dogs chased children.

As a casual observer one could become lost in the energy and movement of the event, yet with little effort one could see the greatest focus was on the rink. Arms of all lengths hung over the wooden boards examining the giant curved rectangle with a critical eye. First skaters sat crowded upon long benches, at their feet a path of ice leading to the gate draped with cedar branches bound by red ribbon. Legs shift back and forth, hands cupped against cheeks, tiny streams of steam pass from mouths over heavy caps and scarves.

With few words the dignitaries wave their arms lifting the green and red drape. Young and old flow down the frozen path, through the gap and then the long anticipated meeting … between metal and ice. Gloves and mittens clap while dogs bark. The old farmer smiles displaying what is left of his teeth. Edges create designs below while young crows trace the patterns in the sky above. For a moment there is a vision of perfection before the sun lowers and snow begins to fall.

Chaotic Grace

(the first moments when learning to skate)

Collect the coat

Cover the head

Circle the scarf

Cinch the laces

Clean the blades

Clatter to the edge

Clasp the other

Creep and tilt

Collapse

CAN’T

Compassion’s hand

Cotton-like voice

Corrals hope

Compels to try

Chaotic grace.

(First Skate - water color, gouache and ink on paper)