Tiny Pecans

Three weeks I left you lying there
On the ground alone
Thought I’d wait for larger fare
Fat pecans that had grown

But I began to have some doubt
On the wisdom of the wait
Because of summer’s lengthy draught
Four weeks might be too late

There might not be that fatter fare
A-waitin to fall down
Could be the small stuff ‘s all that’s there
Already on the ground

So I bent down and picked you up
Two buckets in one day
Tiny shells to fill my cup,
I’m grateful anyway.

Black-eyed Beauties

The heat of mid-July
Becomes a hot and heavy anvil to carry
Starting from eight-thirty to seven o’clock,
A distance in time reaching all the way to the county seat

And the almost-rain after noon, taunting us,
Swearing on its heart something that will never happen,
With the sun finally peeking out again
And the clouds riding away, laughing.

One hundred days of dry blue sky
and forty-nine of almost-rain
and the corn is short and yellow
and everything else, just about, dead

Except for the black-eyed peas,
Bushing with bright green leaf,
Hearty, reaching down and mining
The water from the very bottom of the earth

Grasping in dirty fists the moisture
Wherever it can be found, molecule by precious molecule
Until long double pods thrust into the fetid air,
Each pair a two-fingered V for victory

I pick them now in the heat of mid-July,
buckets of leathery pods full of green peas ready for boiling,
And the brown pods, dry and crisp as a potato chip,
Good for storing.

I feel for ripeness and then pick each pod,
Knowing we might well freeze this winter
But we surely won’t starve,
Feasting on these peas, these black-eyed beauties.

Conversation with my Dad, #1

I was cleaning out the smokehouse, one of our outbuildings at the farm, which has been used until now as a deep repository for things unexplored. Amidst old rusting unidentifiable tools and parts, and an extensive collection of my own newer tools, I found the brace-and-bit that belonged to my dad. This is a tool for drilling holes, with a wooden top-handle that you lean on, and a wooden mid-handle that you swing around in a circle to make the drill bit go around. I want to pause now, because I have deep images of my Dad using this tool to drill big holes in wood, calmly, surely, with the steady confidence of someone very familiar with wood and wood tools. And, the splintering sound of wood giving way before the bit. (pause). OK. This tool has my dad’s finger oils, and sweat, embedded in it. The wood shines from his natural oils. I can barely hold it, because it hums with his essence and his being. For all I know, he was looking down on me as I regarded what must have been one of his favorite tools. I held it for a while, in the midst of sorting many tools and objects from the smokehouse, wondering, in the logic of sorting, what should I do with it? Should I save it with my own tools? Like, with the planer and the few other manual, non-power tools that merit keeping in the ‘current’ box? Or put it with the substantial collection of rusting barely-identifiable tools from the ‘30s, to be hung up for decoration? I just stood there for a while, holding this tool, which was eerily like holding my Dad’s hand, having this conversation in my mind. Like, OK, this ‘thing’ explains a good part of him, but not all of him. Does it explain his drug addiction, for instance? Does it explain how he could do AA for years, off alcohol but on hydrocodone? Does it explain how he could transform other people’s lives in a totally meaningful way (in AA), while doped on painkillers? His essential discomfort as an organism satisfied only by drugs? Does it explain my illogical love for him? The only answer was no. I put it in the rusting-display pile. But now, writing this, I think I will rescue it. Somehow, it does explain him.

Men Working

My life has entered a strange path, centering around some workers we hired to expand the upstairs of the farmhouse and put on a new roof, a year ago. We got some bids for the roof, were unhappy, were riding around, and finally spotted a pickup truck with an ad on the door – general roofing and contracting. We jotted down the number and called it that afternoon. James, the fellow that came out, took one look at the house and the roof, and said: “Cedar shakes with at least four roofs on top of it – right?”. Yup. Linda and I took a look at each other. Sold! So ensued an relationship with James and his crew that lasted all summer and on into September, as they slaved on our old farmhouse and we watched as James’s situation deteriorated financially. James paid in cigarettes as well as money, and the crew lived totally hand to mouth on meager cash budgets; and had problems making child support payments, to say the least. At one point, two weeks in, we realized they stayed longer and worked harder if we fed them a good breakfast around 10:00. Duhh! Somewhat later I was filling James’s gas tank just so he could run around and pick up crew the next day. And finally, I ‘lent’ James $2700 to prevent repossession of his truck. James died at age 50 a year later – did I mention they each had some kind of health issue and (of course) no health insurance?
Anyway, the resulting job was beautiful – absolutely lovely roof, incredible job on the upstairs, and a new (surprise!) front porch roof made from boards scavenged from the attic. Doug, the carpenter with the crew, was a creative genius who easily transformed our (often changing) thoughts about the upstairs into a pleasing reality.
Finally they finished and left; but this summer Doug and Linda were facebooking and we decided to have him start on the Garage, which was in danger of collapsing. Thus began phase two of Farm Renovations. Doug decided to just flip the paneling boards of the garage, which saved us $800 – money that I was happy to give to him as wages instead. I worked alongside Doug and watched as he read the lean of the building and gradually corrected it, corner by slanting corner. We had Doug work on many other things this summer, culminating in a massive list of preparations for Linda’s brother’s wedding this October, all at $12 an hour. Our lesson having been learned from the summer before, we tried to feed him well and kept his gas tank full. Frankly, this man was an answer to a lingering prayer – so many things here falling down! So many of those fixed! So, my retirement took on a different flavor – instead of killing myself working on awful projects, I’m managing renovations at a reasonable rate of cash outflow. And, I’ve acquired some insight into our working neighbors of Newton County – financially these are truly desperate folks, but they carry that amazingly well. I’m glad we could keep a few of them (barely) afloat, with the work to do around here.