Appalachian Writers

2011-09-30T01:22:00.000-04:00

SPOKEN: I never will forget one time when I was on a little visit down home in Ebenezer, Kentucky. I was a-talkin’ to an old man that had known me ever since the day I was born, and an old friend of the family. He says, “Son, you don’t know how lucky you are to have a nice job like you’ve got and don’t have to dig out a livin’ from under these old hills and hollers like me and your pappy used to.” When I asked him why he never had left and tried some other kind of work, he says, “Nawsir, you just won’t do that. If ever you get this old coal dust in your blood, you’re just gonna be a plain old coal miner as long as you live.” He went on to say, “It’s a habit [CHUCKLE] sorta like chewin’ tobaccer.”

Come and listen you fellows, so young and so fine,
And seek not your fortune in the dark, dreary mines.
It will form as a habit and seep in your soul,
ill the stream of your blood is as black as the coal.

It’s dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,
The danger is double and pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It’s dark as a dungeon way down in the mine.
It’s a-many a man I have seen in my day,
Who lived just to labor his whole life away.
Like a fiend with his dope and a drunkard his wine,
A man will have lust for the lure of the mines.

I hope when I’m gone and the ages shall roll,
My body will blacken and turn into coal.
Then I’ll look from the door of my heavenly home,
And pity the miner a-diggin’ my bones.

The midnight, the morning, or the middle of day,
Is the same to the miner who labors away.
There the demons of death often come by surprise,
The fall of the slate and you’re buried alive.

It’s dark as a dungeon and damp as the dew,
The danger is double and pleasures are few,
Where the rain never falls and the sun never shines
It’s dark as a dungeon way down in the mine.

By Merle Travis: singer, songwriter and fellow Kentuckian.

Coal. It’s what runs the economy for a large portion of eastern Kentucky. It’s what has shaped the personality of the people there. The men who take it from the earth are a special breed, and women now, work right along side them.

Coal mining and miners are a part of my heritege. I remember growing up listening to the tales of the bawdy coal camps that lined the valleys of eastern Kentucky. Tales of the great accidents, fist fights, gun fights, dog fights, gambling, whiskey and whores. I heard tales that would make the hairs stand up on the back of your neck or make your ribs hurt laughing. No better example of a people rising above adversity exists in humanity. These gentle people, primarily of Scotch-Irish descent, have risen to the occasion over and over again.

A close knit community that shuns outsiders to a large degree, but then look what the outsiders have done to them over and over again; taking advantage of their trusting nature. Big city lawyers and business men have come to the mountains, swindled the coal and timber rights from the hands of the people there, destroyed their homes with their rape of the land and made virtual slaves of the inhabitants. There is not much choice but to work in coal or timber or leave the mountains to find work.

I never could understand the desire to lay flat of your back in a coal boring machine and look down between your feet as the the huge augers twisted the coal from its place in the earth. Some mines are five miles or more back under the mountain before you get to the place the coal is being dug now. If something happens down there, you are just kinda on your own, ya know? Poison gases, floods or a cave in. One minute you’re here, the next they may not even be able to get to your body. And don’t forget the Black Lung…every miner that stays down there will eventually get it from the coal dust.

I don’t think a lot of people realize how much coal plays a part in their lives. Coal is what is producing the electricity that is running your computer as you read this. Or its importance in the manufacture of steel and other such commodities. Gotta have it.

So, here’s to all the miners and their families, that most special breed of people. America depends on you and we appreciate your efforts.

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

I guess

2011-01-24T19:44:00.002-05:00

I guess my buddy Mike thought I wasn't here no more...but I am. I adapt, improvise and overcome. But sometimes it takes some sorting out, ya know, I mean...you know. Hope you read my last post man, it's some of my best work I think...don't even rhyme. lmao

A Fire in Autumn

2011-01-24T19:37:00.003-05:00

As breath turned to steam in early morning air
Leaves began to dress in shades of yellow, red and orange
Fog rose from the warm earth round distant purple hills
And squirrels practiced acrobatics from oak and hickory

The child’s mind was full of wonder and the romance of beauty
He counted the zigzag stairs in the writing spider’s lair
He marveled at the graceful form of its delicate occupant
Such fine long legs extended from a yellow and black tuxedo

The old man had come to cut wood and he built a small fire
He sat near it now sharpening his instruments; the axe and the saw
His only remarks to the boy were on the swift change in climate
“It’ll be getting colder soon; another month or two, there’ll be snow”

The boy imagined soft powdery flakes drifting big as pennies
He thought of the cardinal perched among the crush of velvet white
Like a splotch of blood on the breast of a spotless dove; he saw it clear
The old man passed the child a sharpened hatchet to trim the limbs

The smaller twigs and branches went into the fire
The boy felt the grand weight of this tool of destruction
He was every pioneer and savage Indian; Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone
He had read about them in books; the old man only read his Bible

It was the same morning for these two; it was toil and adventure
It was the excitement of being trusted with something new
It was the burden of labor that had grown old and mundane with time
It was the warmth and beauty of nature and it was the coming cold

The boy pondered on the meanings of work and play
He had seen athletes exert tremendous energy in sport for enjoyment
He had seen broken men peel blisters from calloused hands
The latter seemed prisoners of circumstance forced of need

But if it were not mere exertion which determined the essence of an act
Then it must be that the meaning had value in itself separate from the labor
His young mind struggled to understand and comprehend the difference
Sport, he determined, served no purpose other than enjoyment

So why did men dread their labor so; which produced an evident benefit?
Why did they not whoop and holler their enjoyment in expectation?
He glanced through the shifting kaleidoscope of colors as he hacked
He gathered the smaller branches into sheaves and tossed them on the fire

Pretty Little Gal

2011-01-24T19:28:00.000-05:00

Pretty Little Gal

Just a little something for the season...

2011-01-07T18:27:00.000-05:00

Blue Cold

Cold…
Blue cold.
It owns everything it touches.
The strongest tree, the weakest man,
Shivers in its clutches.
The icy breath of frozen winds,
Turn your head around.
Frozen fingers grip your soul,
That screams without a sound.

Cold…
Blue cold.
Rushing rivers wide and deep,
Lay silent and still,
In frozen sleep.
Hidden currents slowly creep,
With secret dreams,
That they must keep.

Cold…
Blue cold.
Oh, how my fractured spirit aches,
For peaceful sleep,
For numbness sake.
But sleep right now is death for certain.
Best stay awake,
And feel the hurtin’.

Cold…
Blue cold.
The things that most make you feel your life,
Are the ones that can take it from you.

* * * * *

The temperature finally got down into the single digits here last night, I guess winter has arrived at last. To bolster my spirits and make things seem not so bad, I thought back to a time that I was the coldest that I have ever been in my life.

Early January 1990 found me in the Republic of Korea on a field training exercise. We stayed in the field for approximately 45 days. The average daytime temperature was around 10F and at night it got cold. Don’t forget the wind that was our constant companion. All and all, with the wind chill factored in, it stayed well below zero for almost the whole period. I started shivering about 2 hours out the first day and never stopped until after we had been back in garrison for a day or two. Recalling that experience prompted the poem above.

Sitting in this warm house, wearing warm clothes and eating hot chow makes this little cold snap now seem bearable in light of some of the places I have been cold before. As I reflect back on the trials I have faced, I think of the ones our troops in the field are facing at this very moment. I wish them my heartfelt best and a speedy, safe trip home.

Copyright © 2006 WML. All Rights Reserved

Catching Wood Bees

2010-12-31T09:19:00.002-05:00

by Raymond Neely

One wood bee,
two wood bees,
three,
around the porch bulb on the mountain shack,
Mountain Charlie's fingers are black with work.
Wood bees are yellow hornets berserk.
One finger to the bulb,
a hairy face and eyes to the light,
but from Mountain Charlie wood bees don't flight.
One wood bee,
two wood bees,
three.
Mountain Charlie's fingers is the wood bee tree.

What Makes It Taste Better

2010-10-08T10:26:00.008-04:00

For Consideration: What Makes It Taste Better, by David Wayne Hampton (Maul & Froe Press 2010)

Hello, folks! I know it has been a while since I posted anything. I hope you will permit me to share with you this announcement of my first collection of poetry, entitled What Makes It Taste Better. This has been a labor of love, to be sure. It has been with great pleasure over the years to post my poetry on this blog, and if you liked what you read I hope you would take the opportunity, or take a chance, at picking yourself up a copy. But as LeVar Burton said on the PBS show Reading Rainbow, "you don't have to take my word for it." Here's a few reviews:

"Clever parodying, curious and playful lines make What Makes It Taste Better verge on the educational and insightful, yet with humor, not pedanticism. Here I found out that the mullet haircut is also called the 'Carolina Waterfall' and that blackbirds and boogers have more than a little in common. The poems’ humor saves them, in that tongue-in cheek way that disarms any resistance to their charms. David Hampton’s clever word-play with classical and modern themes reminds me of the work of the legendary Louise McNeill. This book made me laugh and cringe, sometimes in the same instant."------ Ron Houchin, author of Museum Crows

"In this wryly observant first collection, David Hampton gives us an insider's view of life in these post-millennium Appalachians. What makes it taste better? Humor which manages to be all at once ironic and compassionate. A sense of history, and of one's own place in it. Precision of language and the joy of its tang on your tongue." -------- Pauletta Hansel, author of Divining and First Person

Thank you for your support!

Mountain Magic: Spellbinding Tales of Appalachia, Woodland Press

2010-09-02T06:24:00.001-04:00

I would like to invite any who loves Appalachia and tales of the region to beg, borrow, steal, or purchase a copy of the upcoming anthology, Mountain Magic: Spellbinding Tales of Appalachia, edited by Brian J. Hatcher with the work of thirteen authors.

From the just launched website:

The power of magic is the power of story. Both use illusion to illustrate the truth. Both create worlds with a few magical words. And both have transformation power that can change a person forever.

The Appalachian Mountains are full of stories. And magic.

In Mountain Magic: Spellbinding Tales of Appalachia, editor Brian J. Hatcher collects stories and poems from around the world. Thirteen authors share awe-inspiring, beautiful, frightening, and sometimes deadly, magical visions. Stories about disturbing sleight of hand, earthy fantasy, and ghostly illusion. The kind of magic found only in Appalachia.

The curtain is drawn. The show begins. Time to experience Mountain Magic: Spellbinding Tales of Appalachia.

Now, watch very closely...

Copyright 2010 Woodland Press --- Website design by Deena Warner Design LLC
Cover art: "Tranquility" Copyright 2007-2010 Jeremiah D. Morelli. Used with permission.

Link:

The power of magic is the power of story. Both use illusion to illustrate the truth. Both create worlds with a few magical words. And both have transformation power that can change a person forever.

The Appalachian Mountains are full of stories. And magic.

In Mountain Magic: Spellbinding Tales of Appalachia, editor Brian J. Hatcher collects stories and poems from around the world. Thirteen authors share awe-inspiring, beautiful, frightening, and sometimes deadly, magical visions. Stories about disturbing sleight of hand, earthy fantasy, and ghostly illusion. The kind of magic found only in Appalachia.

The curtain is drawn. The show begins. Time to experience Mountain Magic: Spellbinding Tales of Appalachia.

Now, watch very closely...

Copyright 2010 Woodland Press --- Website design by Deena Warner Design LLC
Cover art: "Tranquility" Copyright 2007-2010 Jeremiah D. Morelli. Used with permission.

Overnight Guest

2010-07-30T17:59:00.003-04:00

The Devil came at dusk again
And spent another night
I smile and nod his way
Silently sitting, always grinning
Across the quiet room
In the big stuffed chair

Sleepless night awaits us both
A good host, I offer tea

He never says a word, you know
Watching me watch the moon
Reflected on pond's mirror
Through screened window
As it makes its querulous trip
From east shore to west
Together we wait for daylight
In good company both

We are old friends, he and I
A good host, I offer cakes

In darkest part of night
Cool mist dulls moon's reflection
As hoarse crickets sleep
And I ponder his purpose
Knowing his foul business
I sit privileged by his visit
To sip special blends of misery here
He cannot find at home

Gathering cloak he stands to leave
A good host, I offer to go with him

He shakes his head, still grinning
And steps through door at dawn
With promise to visit soon again
When he needs a good night out

Death

2010-06-15T00:22:00.002-04:00

Dearly departed sleeps straight through it
Even though it's as important as birth
And guaranteed to last much longer
Than the trivial time spent living
How sad, they'll never even know they died

In a Mother's Eyes: Memorial Day 2010

2010-05-25T09:11:00.002-04:00

To all the spirits we have lost over the centuries past and to those who will fall today and tomorrow, Thanks.

A simple, little acrostic...

2010-04-15T16:29:00.004-04:00

Resurrection

Reborn from bondage
Emptiness my captor
She rescues me
Under her wings I fly
Release so sweet
Repatriation realized
Escheated to her throne
Chains so tightly bound
To her heart's beat
It pulses with my
Own blood and soul
Never to be alone again

Across the Salty Pond...

2010-03-02T13:03:00.000-05:00

It started with that last message you sent. You closed it with, "Have a good afternoon. I'm off to nosh!"

We sometimes exchanged little notes with one another in the course of critiquing each others work, so to get this note from you was nothing out of the ordinary. At least it had not been until today.

"Ok then," I thought. I didn't give it much thought at the time as I had other things pressing me for attention. But about the umpteenth round I made in the field, it began to bug me a bit.

"Nosh!....nosh?....what the hell is that?" I wondered. I tried to dismiss it and get my mind on other matters but it just kept popping back up. Before I knew it, I was not paying the best of attention to what I was doing and had rows of furrows turned as crooked as a dog's leg. All because of this 'nosh' business.

Well, I gathered my wits and set about straightening things out, the whole time struggling to keep my mind on plowing and off noshing, whatever that was. I succeeded and had things skippy again and kept on plowing....nosh.....nosh? "Damn it! Just look what a mess! Again, too!" I found myself cursing under my breath as the rows were once again anything but parallel.

Correcting it for the second time, I noticed a light ringing in my ears and knew that this whole thing had my blood pressure pushing the mercury up. I also became aware that I was out of smokes due to the nervous chain-smoking over this 'nosh' thing!

Nosh. What kind of activity could it be that requires a nickname anyway? Maybe it's like jogging or jazzercise, a fitness thing. A nap might be a possibility, but that just didn't sound right somehow. It had a sound on the shady side of things to me. "Let's go down to Paddy's and toss back a couple of pints and get noshed." Or maybe it was in reference to a game of chance played only by high-rolling gamblers, "Tough game, this Nosh, all or nothing every hand, but today is my day, I just feel it!"

Perhaps it is something sultry, sensuous and lewdly sexual...Oooooh! I mean 'N' is close to 'S' in the alphabet so it would be no far stretch for it to be a cousin of some kind to 'snog'! "Oh yes, Pricilla, you should have seen us going at it, snogging and noshing one another like wild animals back in the rear of Paddy's Pub. I was howling, I must say! You know how much I have been in need of a good, hard noshing and well, you know first hand about Willie's skill!"

Enough! I stopped the tractor in the middle of the field and almost trotted back to the house. I had to know! Nearly tearing the door off the hinges I flew inside, snatching a pack of smokes off the fridge as I passed. Straight to the computer and with shaking hands I began my search. "dictionary,English,slang -- enter". I picked one of the resources and clicked the mouse on it and waited impatiently for the site to open on this dinosaur computer of mine. There, I found it. I stared at the screen in disbelief. This can't be right. "nosh -- to eat," it said ..... I looked above and below it for some alternate meanings. Nothing.

Imagine my embarrassment for being such a mullet-head. I did notice, however, I was a bit hungry now that you mentioned it. The thought crossed my mind that this woman did this on purpose and was surely lying there in bed secretly laughing at my dilemma. No....that would be a bit of a stretch, but you never can be sure of the corruption that goes through a mind under the influence of estrogen. Dangerous thing, that!

I never in my wildest dreams thought I would end up an English tutor to a British student, but here was the task laid clearly before me. "Oh well, so be it," I thought, as I headed to the kitchen to nosh a bit.

Copyright © 2007 wml

One of Our Own Has Suffered a Great Loss

2010-02-10T01:01:00.001-05:00

Hey all,

I just visited Granny Sue's blog and discovered, sadly, that she has lost a son. I would ask anyone who visits here and has enjoyed her posts, to stop by and leave her a few words of encouragement at this most difficult of times.

http://grannysu.blogspot.com/2010/02/jon.html

Bowling

2010-01-03T05:30:00.003-05:00

From one hilltop to the next,
in a gimpse, an instant,
I viewed the vision of elegance,
the stepping form of a girl or woman,
wearing a yellow sundress,
the grace of a dance move,
lunging on one leg,
an arm extended behind her,
her fingers in the heavy black ball
which swings its downward arch,
disturbing the tops of the late summer
grass, bristled and golden,
her ankles down amid the
stems, heads, and petals of
black-eyed Susies,
to the full final end of her movement,
pens thundering from the hollow.
The soft breeze on the flowing golden field,
on and around the hard sphere,
causing her sundress to flit,
bowling through the mountains
and through my mind.

by Raymond Neely

Changing Linen...

2010-01-02T21:23:00.002-05:00

I changed the linen
On our bed today
Been well over a year
Since her head rested
Beside me on her pillow
Lost in sleep there
Safe in a lover's dream
Of a tomorrow
That never came

I never slept the bed
Nor changed the sheets
Between her visits
Only putting on clean
Right before her arrival
The old held her scent
And my memories
Until her return and
New dreams could be made

Many lonely days spent
Lying on comforter there
Holding her pillow
To my breast and
Breathing in a trace
Of her essence
Smiling at the sound
Of her laughter
Ringing in my head

Was all I had
To get me through
As I waited for her
To fill my world anew
With easy smiles and
Tender kisses that warmed
Cool sheets again
With our love

It's over…
Done…
All gone…

She's not coming back
And my heart is broken

Her pillow holds
Only the smell
Of stale emptiness
As I shake it
From its case
And it falls
To the mattress
In silence
And dust

Pulling back the covers
I'm accosted by
Coiled dreams that
Lunge at me
Shove me to my knees
Bound over my shoulder
And escape through
The frozen pane of glass
Behind me.

A new emptiness
Fills the room
Displacing the air
My lungs burn for and
Need for living
It sucks the breath
From my body
Leaving me weak
And defeated

Three strands of
Of long, blond hair
Lie there separated
From her and me by
Passage of time and distance
The only proof
Her physical being
Ever laid there
Soft and warm beside me

It's over…
Done…
All gone…

She's not coming back
And my spirit is broken

On her monument shelf
In bookcase at end of couch
Small envelope holds
These precious strands
Beside a small ball of rags
Tied with her hands
And a little stuffed rabbit
With floppy ears, pink nose
And coal black eyes

Together we sit
In growing darkness
At end of the day
Glowing in soft firelight
Squinting in the dusk
Towards the road
Searching for a hint
Of her small red car
Turning up the drive

It's a comfort
To have them there
Within arm's reach
As night closes in
My hopes fade again
Neither black eyes nor blue
Find what they are seeking
Long night heralds in and waits
For what tomorrow brings

Winter is at top-dead-center
Coldest part of the year
Yet it cannot match
My heart's chill
For it's frozen solid
Blood as thick and dark
As axel grease
Craving warmth of Spring
And her hand in mine

It's over…
Done…
All gone…

She's not coming back
And my world is broken

As new day dawns
And Spring approaches
All I have are dreams
Of a better day ahead
When we walk together again
In new fields of happiness
My resolution grows strong
There is only one answer
To solve this quandry

This must be over…
Done…
All gone…

If she's not coming back
Then I will go to her

And till hard scars
I left on her heart
Until they are soft and warm
Plant new seeds of love there
And nurture them
With tender care
Through the growing season
For a bountiful harvest of happiness
To last us a lifetime together

Epiphany

2009-12-27T23:50:00.003-05:00

I unzipped my skin
Let it fall and
Crumple at my feet
Like dirty coveralls
My soul bare
I stand before you
Your eyes avert
Your head turns
Before you walk away

I shiver alone
Cold shadows of dusk
Hide my nakedness
From all but me
And I know now
They were right
There's nothing here
To love
Nothing here at all…

A Soldier's Wife...

2009-11-11T11:11:00.006-05:00

It's a hard life being a soldier. But for many, the guys and gals deployed are just half the story. It doesn't seem right that military spouses not be recognized for their sacrifice as well; it is only right and fitting to do so.

It takes a special breed of person to be the spouse of an active duty soldier (male or female). Babies get sick, cars break down and the yard still needs mowing whether "Joe" or "Molly" is home or not. The burden of two falls on one and that is a huge load for anyone to carry.

But they do so, and without bitching, whining and crying. It is their mission in the defense of our way of life, and for that, we are grateful. Their duty is no less important than a troop in the field. They are part of our overall readiness team as a nation.

Soldier's Wife Tribute @ Yahoo! Video

If you know a military family near you, especially one with a loved one deployed somewhere, stop and do something nice for them today.

Just to let them know that you know. It may make all the difference in the world to simply be remembered for a few moments.

Please Remember Me...

2009-11-10T23:11:00.001-05:00

... We will.

Dinner With The Devil

2009-11-07T19:17:00.004-05:00

Darkness bites a quarter chunk
Out of Harvest Moon
Whittling pink, pale flesh
Down to size
Down to size
Down to size

Streams of moonbeams
Dribble down his chin

As I feel
My penance start
My darkness follows suit
Down deep inside
Down deep inside
Down deep inside

Streams of heartbeats
Dribble down his chin

The Moon's eyes
Old and tired
Reflect my own
They cannot lie
They cannot lie
They cannot lie

Streams of regret
Dribble down his chin

A starving darkness
Consumes us both
We wonder who'll be
First to die
First to die
First to die

Only stars know who won
But they'll never tell

Copyright © 2009 WML

Appalachian Apparitions...

2009-10-25T18:02:00.000-04:00

I stumbled across this today and it sure takes me back. I've been thinking a lot about my mountains lately. It seems that when the fall of the year rolls around and the woods are on fire, I get a yearning to go home.

These is where I come from, this is my heritage, these are my people. I didn't know this old feller, but I know thousands just like him.

A friend directed me to this photographer; Shelby Lee Adams, who has dedicated a good deal of his life capturing the true essence of mountain culture. Memories run over me like rushing water when I look at his work. My mind flashes pictures from the past in front of me of faces I knew long since gone but still alive in his subjects. I think you'll them, too.

Fall In!

2009-09-17T23:51:00.008-04:00

I just happened to look at the calendar a few minutes ago and realized today was an anniversary of sorts for me. Thirty-six years ago today, I was spending my first night as a US soldier at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

Not much of it really stands out in my memory anymore. We were policed up at the Columbia airport and shuttled to the reception station in a pale green military van.

Once there, we were each given a brown paper bag with two ham sandwiches, a bag of chips, several cookies, an apple in it and some juice to drink. We drew linen and were taken to a big dorm-like bay sleeping area, given about 10 minutes to get squared away and then the lights were out.

I remember lying there amid the soft buzz of everyone talking; too excited to go to sleep just yet. The room grew strangely quiet as off in the distance over loud speakers Taps began to play.

Somehow, it was at that moment that I first actually realized where I was and why. That bugle call's somber duel nature brought on the realization that not only was it used to put soldiers to rest at night, it was also used to usher them into eternal rest.

I don't think I was the only one to have those thoughts as the bay stayed quiet after it was done playing. Our country was still at war in Vietnam and the serious nature of the oath we swore that morning took on a whole new meaning.

It was in those few brief moments of time, initiated by a simple song, that I laid my boyhood aside and became a man.

Cry Havoc! And Let Go the Dogs of War...

2009-09-11T09:35:00.004-04:00

9/11/2001 (Revisited w/video added)

Lest we never forget...

I remember that morning like it was yesterday. I will always remember the intimate details of it; the sights, the sounds, the smells. It was the day that the world changed forever.

I was married at the time and had stepped down to our pond to try and catch a mess of fish for supper. I had several nice ones in a bucket when I heard her call to me that breakfast was almost ready. I pulled out for the house with my pole and bucket in hand, stopping to sit in a chair on the porch to remove my wet boots. The windows were open and the radio was on and I half-listened, half-ignored the announcer talking about a plane crash in New York. I remember thinking that it was only a matter of time before something like this was going to happen. Sooner or later some pilot was going to screw up and hit one of the massive buildings jutting up out of the ground across America...the numbers were just with it.

I went inside and turned on the television and they had a live feed of the events going on. It was just about then that the second plane hit. And my heart broke. God help us all. My eyes clouded with rage, pain, fear, sorrow and a thousand other things all at once as a tear ran down my cheek. In that instant, through all my years of training in the military, I instinctively knew that we were at war. My wife asked me what was wrong and I couldn't find my voice, or my stomach, to tell her what I already knew. I just stared at the screen in silence and disbelief.

As I tried unsuccessfully to choke down the meal she had prepared, I watched in horror as first one and then the other tower crashed to the ground. And I prayed out loud where I sat. I prayed for those in and around the towers, but more than that I prayed for my friends that I knew would soon be placed in harms way once again. Their faces and names raced through my mind; I bet he re-enlisted, he's not retired yet, either...

I got up from the table, walked out the door and pulled my wet boots back on. I picked up the bucket of fish by the steps and walked past the flag flying at the front gate towards the pond. I remember thinking as I turned those fish loose that there had been enough killing for one day. I turned the bucket upside-down, took a seat on it and thought about all that had just happened and was going to happen. It was probably one of the saddest, most helpless feeling times in my life.

I often find myself on the US Army website, reading the names of those who have died in southwest Asia. And yes, I recognize some of them by name and all of them by trade. They were my brothers and sisters and always will be. And I love them all. I would urge each and every one of you to go there for a visit and pay your respects. They are the last barrier between you and the next attack. They gave 'that last full measure of devotion' for you and me.

I think I might take my pole and a bucket down to the pond this morning and try to catch a mess for my friends. I know that they would like that, taking comfort in the fact that they are not forgotten. God love 'em.

Alan Jackson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Labor Day

2009-09-04T12:01:00.004-04:00

When George Pullman invented sleeping cars for the railroad back in the 1850’s he build a name for himself, but he also he built an entire town.

If you happened to live in Pullman, Illinois in the 1880’s chances are real good you worked for George Pullman. And if you worked for George Pullman, you probably lived in a George Pullman row house. And you probably went to a Pullman Church and did your shopping locally at a Pullman market.

All was cozy for a little while, but eventually the recession hit and he laid off a large percentage of his workforce. He reduced the wages of the remaining employees. I thought automated deductions from pay was perhaps something new to our era, but he was doing it way back in the 1880’s. If you worked for him, your rent was taken out of your check before you saw it. With the high rent and low pay this didn’t sit so well and his employees began walking out.

When Pullman workers joined the American Railroad Union and began striking and boycotting, President Grover Cleveland called the strike a crime. He deployed the Army to break the dispute. When the strike was officially declared over, the employees promised not to unionize again and this remained true until the great depression.

"The day for which the toilers in past centuries looked forward, when their rights and their wrongs would be discussed...that the workers of our day may not only lay down their tools of labor for a holiday, but upon which they may touch shoulders in marching phalanx and feel the stronger for it." ~ Samuel Gompers, head of the American Federation of Labor 1898

First jewel in the Triple Crown

2009-08-17T23:32:00.001-04:00

Whatever it was

which snatched her up

barred high horses and hay,

she rolled from the mount smiling that day

watching the wild ones run away.

Home for the Harvest

2009-08-16T11:49:00.007-04:00

We are in the middle of Dog Days here and it's hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk. But it won't last long. It signals the beginning of the harvest for farmers here in Kentucky and across the Midwest.

Millions of pounds of burley tobacco will be cut over the next month and hung in barns to cure to a deep red color before stripping and baling it for market in Oct-Nov. Even if you don't use tobacco, the musky, earthy smell of cured tobacco in a barn leaves a taste in your nostrils and gets in your blood. It forms as a habit and calls you back to it every autumn.

Spring calves are pulled off their mothers and weaned, wormed and given their final round of shots. They are put on feed to bulk them out before going to market in 2-3 months. Seed stock bulls and heifers are cut from the herd and put on special feeds to bulk them up as breeders in the Spring.

Final cuttings of alfalfa and grass hays are harvested and stored away for winter. I have one field in Sudan-Sorghum hybrid grass to cut yet and then sew it back to wheat for Spring hay.

Thousands of acres of corn are being chopped as silage and put in silos for winter feed (especially on dairy farms as it is a high energy feed to produce more milk in winter). The remainder of the corn will be harvested as grain in Sep-Oct followed by the soybean harvest in Oct-Nov. Wheat was harvested back in July (if it was raised for grain, May if for hay).

But it's not all hard work to pay the bills; some of it is fun stuff as well in the Fall.

Right now is the last harvest of light, clear sweet summer honey before the asters bloom (and the bees begin to make a dark, strong tasting honey from the necter). Sorghum cane is cut and run through mills and winter stores of molasses are made. You can buy either of these commercially, but it's just not the same quality when mass produced for commerce as it is when made by hand locally.

Apples are getting ripe all over and their harvest has begun. Apple pies, cobblers, jellies and butters will soon be the order of the day around these parts. (Not to mention the distilling of a bit of good ol' hard cider for those who like a sip of such by the fireplace in winter.)

Pawpaws, also known as "Appalachian bananas," are also in season right now. They grow wild and many folks make preserves and such from them. Persimmons will follow in Oct and are ready after the first hard frost (if you try them before then, they are so sour your pucker will almost make your lips bleed.)

Gardens are winding down and the last thrust of sweet corn, green beans, tomatoes and the like are being harvested and canned or frozen for winter. Pumpkins and other squashes are also ready for the harvest now through first frost. I usually can or freeze all I want and bust the rest on the ground for the cattle; they love them and it's a very high energy food that increases their gains of fat against the pending winter.

I will turn a fallow plot to put out some turnips this week, I suppose, as they can be harvested after the frost. Maybe set out a few cabbages, too, for good measure. Potatoes and sweet potatoes will be dug, dried and stored away for use this winter.

Sep-Dec is the social season as well in our farming community. The other nine months people are too busy with their own work to waste much time yakking and yammering around. You will see groups of men, women and children all gathered to trade work, news and stories with their neighbors throughout the harvest. Moving like roving bands from one farm to the next until the harvest is done across the community.

It is where the fabric of our heritage is quilted together and passed on to the next generation. It is where a strong work ethic is etched into the character of our youth. It is also where lifelong friendships are forged (sometimes leading to marriage somewhere down the road)

Technologies and techniques in farming are exchanged. Barters are often made as a form of local currency; lumber will be traded for livestock or feed, hunting dogs will be traded for a good rifle, a rare pocketknife may be traded against some other heirloom or five gallons of sorghum or honey. More than one new business venture has been born over a stripping room table in a tobacco barn.

By the first of December, things are slowing down a good bit. Loose ends and chores are tied up and finished in preparation for the end of the year. People get together around stoves in little country stores, around fires in hunting camps and around dinner tables in warm houses.

Men move to the den to talk of men's things, sip something and smoke while women drift off to discuss whatever it is women discuss (probably conspiracies to make men behave better, but I can't swear to it).

There are many in modern society that would see this as archaic, maybe sexist, but we don't. We are simple enough to understand that men and women are just different; it's a natural law. You can't break natural laws, only break yourself against them. Even in a complicated society, the social needs of men and women, while equal in life, are as different as their genders.

Children find something to amuse themselves; just glad for a playmate that doesn't have fleas. The olders boys and girls sneak of in search of mistletoe to park under (or so I've heard).

It's also a time of great reflection and recollection of those who have gone on before us. It is where children sit around on the floor and listen wide-eyed at tales of the way things were "back when I was growing up" or "back in Grandpa's day." Morals and traditions are taught. They learn about their ancestors they never met and of history to pass it along to their children when the time comes. We don't raise children here, we raise men and women.

Collectively, we take a break from about mid-December until the first week of the New Year. It is a time for friends and family.

The cycle then starts over: there are plans to be made, seed to order, new regulations and training to learn, and equipment to service before planting time in April-May. Calves begin dropping in Feb-Mar and that must be monitored for signs of calf-pulling or other forms of distress. Cattle are caught up and worked in preparation for release back on pasture and the breeding season. And on and on it goes, but soon (sooner every year that passes it seems), it will be August again and Christmas right around the corner.

There is plenty to be said for the urban life, with it's opportunities and convenience, I suppose. But for me, none of that could ever replace the sense of belonging I have right here.

Dog Days...

Death of the Marienettes

2009-08-03T12:16:00.003-04:00

Yesterday left on a train
Ragged old suitcase
Clutched in its hand
Packed with faded hopes
And tattered dreams
To retire as memories

Pin-point predictions
Of history are made
By those not there to live it
Tales built on agendas of fear
The new playwright needs
To move the puppet's limbs

Freedom bought with men's blood
Is quickly wiped away
As the sponge of tyranny
Sops up the remaining drops
Of lives, liberties and happiness
Before eyes glazed with hopium

Tomorrow's coming later today
And with it, a New Order
One that brings New History
Of salvation from Old Ways
As euphoria pales, sobriety appears
Too late to kick the habit

Marienettes cover the ground
Writhing in agony, cold turkey
The Pusher cuts the strings
He smiles at his handiwork
As he polishes his Spanish
And brushes up on French

Copyright © 2009 WML

Twenty Years Ago Today: Do You Remember Where You Were?

2009-06-16T13:25:00.015-04:00

I do. I know exactly where I was, what I was doing and why I was doing it. Someone else is doing the same thing today while on their watch. The only real difference between then and now is that the current fool's daddy (Kim Il Sung) was in charge while he (Kim Jung Il) was cavorting around the world drinking, whoring, gambling and getting fatter with his countrymen's money while they starved to death in the countryside.

Soon it will be going on with his ne're-do-well drunk of a son in charge. Other than that, it's probably about the same. Seems the nuts in North Korea don't fall far from the tree. Some people just need killing and these jokers are at the top of my list.

Twenty years ago today, I was serving on the DMZ in the Republic of Korea with the renowned 2nd Infantry (Indianhead) Division's 5th Battalion, 20th Infantry Regiment (Mech). I was one of three squad leaders (E-6) in a Rifle Platoon. I was in charge of 10-11 soldiers under my 24/7/365 supervision.

There were 6 companies (best I can recall)in the Battalion (headquarters company, 4 line companies, 1 weapons company - TOW gunners). We had 3 rifle platoons (and 1 support platoon)to the line company. Each platoon was comprised of 3 squads of roughly 10-12 men each. Each squad was comprised of a squad leader, 2 fire teams (Alpha & Bravo Teams), 1 KATUSA (Korean soldier) and a medic.

We were housed in a tent city called Warrior Base for the duration of our rotation through the DMZ mission. I lived in a GP-Medium tent with my squad and our Platoon Leader (2nd LT); possibly one of the best young officers I ever served with (West Point 1988, I believe). He was a good soldier. All of my men were good soldiers, too.

We were locked-in on Warrior Base and could not go anywhere. (About 90 days) If you were lucky, you got 1 24-hour pass to go back to Camp Casey overnight during your stay on the DMZ. The only other times you left there was to run daytime recon patrols/nighttime ambushes inside the DMZ, stand guard on one of two Guard Posts inside the DMZ or on a PT run to the bridge on the Imjim river and back; in flack jackets and rifles (locked and loaded just in case of attack). In a nutshell, you were there.

Our living accommodations were Spartan, to say the least. Each man had a cot with blankets or poncho liners for covers. It stood draped underneath a mesquito net so you were not sucked dry of blood during the night. Your extra pair of jungle boots, running shoes and shower shoes were on-line under the cot for inspection. All of your personal gear was stored at the end of your cot in a foot locker. Dirty laundry hung in a cotton OD green bag there as well.

The walls of the tent were rolled and tied up leaving a 4-foot wall of mesh netting between us and the outside world. This was done because it was the only air conditioning we had. June in Korea is one of the hottest, most humid, miserable places I ever served. I prefer the desert; at least it's arid there.

One of the guys had brought a small 10-inch TV with him from the rear and it was our entertainment center (one Armed Forces Network channel was all it got). There were 2 30-watt lights on either end of the 6"x6" beam holding up the center of the tent.

We had a small cinder-block building for the company latrine/shower/wash room. The mess hall was a GP-Large tent that the whole company rotated through 3 times a day for chow. There was a little shopette-type PX there (about the size of an RV) to get essentials like razors, stamps, cigarettes and 2-beers-a-day. There was a Katusa Snack Bar run by the only woman on post (a 65+ y/o woman so ugly only a mother could love it).

So, you may wonder what the average day for a soldier was like on the DMZ back then. You can read all about it here: I Don't Think We're In Kansas Anymore, Toto...

This is not an official holiday like Memorial Day or Veterans Day. North Korea has been in the news a lot lately and my time over there in the ROK has been on my mind. To those who served there, EVERY day is a day of remembrance. Just know this: no matter the day or hour you read this little piece, somebody is out there far away on your behalf, doing all the things nobody else will do. Just so you don't have to worry about it.

Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

2009-06-02T17:54:00.009-04:00

On a Sunday mornin' sidewalk,
Wishin', Lord that I was stoned.
`Cause there's nothin' like a Sunday,
To make a body feel alone.

And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound.
Of a sleepin' city sidewalk,
And Sunday mornin' comin' down.

Kris Kristofferson

Probably one of my favorite songs of all time. I understand it. I have felt it. I have lived it. I know the loneliness in every line. It's not a song about lost love or anything, but rather that of being totally isolated, in a place where you don't really belong or fit in.

I have lived in and around some of the bigger cities of the world, but never really felt at home there. Always felt like a guest; an outsider. People running around doing this and that, cars and buses roaring by, honking horns, sirens, jackhammers. I felt like I was caught up in a flooded stream, being swept along, pushed and battered, sometimes going under. By Saturday night my heart would be pounding and the blood ringing in my ears. I waited all week long for Sunday mornings, my personal, private island in this river of confusion. Only when the streets were sleeping, was it quiet enough to find the things I was familiar with.

I love Sunday mornings. Might be my favorite time of the week. Not overly religious -- no plans for church or anything. I just claim Sunday mornings for "me time".

I try to get up extra early on Sunday morning. Seems most other people prefer to sleep in, which makes it all the better for my private time. I can do whatever I want. No phone calls, no company, no distractions.

I like to take a cup of coffee and sit on the porch before daylight. Sit there and listen to the early morning sounds, feel the coolness of the night, smell the damp grass.

I like to watch the sky slowly get lighter in the east and wake up the birds. I like to watch the sun come up and not just be aware that somehow, it's daylight now. There is always a small breeze as the solar winds begin to do their thing. Kind of like Mother Nature's alarm clock. The sounds of night creatures are slowly replaced by those who work the day shift. There is something almost sacred in the moment night becomes day.

I like to watch the cattle slowly stand, stretch and begin picking at the grass at their feet; some 'ol cow bawlin' for her calf to come suck his breakfast.

I like to feel the day start to warm in the sunshine, the dew on the grass and tobacco leaves slowly disappearing in the sun and breeze.

I take a few extra moments to spend some time with my dog, pat his head and tell him how good he's been all week. I think he waits for Sundays, too.

Might take a walk through the wet grass down to the pond and watch the ducks at work there and see if any big fish jump.

I like a big breakfast on Sundays. Biscuits and gravy, fried eggs, sausage or bacon, fried apples, tomatoes, cantaloupe, fried potatoes and grits. And if I can eat another bite, the remaining cat-head biscuits will disappear with some honey and butter. I don't seem to get this very often as the main ingredient is missing, a good woman to fix it. But I think that will work itself out of its own accord and in its own time.

All good things must come to an end, as they say, and Sunday mornings are no different. Sooner or later that phone’s gonna ring or I'll see somebody comin' up the drive makin' the dust fly. I'll realize that my little escape from the day to day goings-on has ended. But it’s ok, that stuff is important, too.

It will be another seven days ‘til next Sunday morning and Lord only knows what the week ahead holds. But no one will ever know what a grand time I had this morning. It'll just be me and God's little secret.

Kris Kristofferson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Dusk on the Pond

2009-05-26T10:05:00.006-04:00

Sun slides below distant hills
Casting long shadows that birth
Silhouettes of living things
Captured silent memories
Of grays and blacks

Two white rings
Circle long, dark necks
Proclaiming matrimony to outsiders
And ten small feet
Paddling between them

Feathered breasts slice
Inverted images
Like a craftsman’s tool
Shattered shards of looking-glass
Ripple to the shore

Darkness prevails
As Mother flips the switch
Moonbeams and fireflies
Light sheet music
As frogs blare a tattoo

Copyright © 2009 Mike Lawson. All Rights Reserved

Men Are Dying to Have This Read...

2009-05-03T08:30:00.000-04:00

Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but yup, we are all dying here. You have been headed towards your last breath since the time you took your first. Ever thought about what you would tell a loved one, if you had the chance, in the event of your death?

Most of the obvious things we do in life are more than apparant to those closest to us. But what about all the little things that you added to the relationship, the little ‘nuts and bolts’ kind of contributions you made, to ensure that it was successful? Are others even aware that you were doing these little things, behind the scenes, to make their stay here on Earth easier or more pleasant? Things that really show the deepness of feelings that you had for this person, that their interests were always high on your list? Have you really ever thought of all the little things that your significant other brings to your relationship? Do you show the appreciation towards them that they deserve?

I wrote this as a hypothetical letter from a dead spouse. Hope you give it a read and some thought.

—–

My Dearest Angel,

If you are reading this, it is because things are not working out exactly the way we planned it. Sorry I had to leave, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. I hope that it has not been unbearably hard on you and that you are fairing as well as could be expected.

I trust that my brother is helping you through this as I had asked him to do in the event of something like this happening. He is a good, fair and honest man. You would do well to heed his counsel. He will see to it that the letter of my wishes are carried out, with your approval of course.

You are fully aware of our property and financial issues, as we shared in everything there. All the papers and documents are where we put them and all is in order. I would just recommend that you continue our policy of invest wisely and spend carefully. I am sure you will and you will be fine in this regard.

There are, however, some things that will need tending to from time to time and I am not sure whether you are aware of them or not. They are just little things I did around, behind the scenes mostly, but important enough to bear mentioning here. I am sure I will leave some out, but I will try to give you the best list I can. Here it is:

Put a pack of yeast in the toilet and flush it two times a year. Keeps bacteria healthy in the septic tank. I do it on my birthday in April and yours in November, roughly six months apart.

The lugs on my truck tires are an odd size and the socket to change them is in the glove box. A breaker bar for it is under the passenger’s seat. I hope you keep my ol’ truck, burns a little oil but she’s been a good one.

I always walk the water out of the garden hoses before I put them up in the Fall so they don’t freeze and burst. Sure save you a lot of extra work around the place.

I try to keep water in the birdbath in the summer, oddly enough, for the cats to get a drink. Damn ducks get in their water bowl and just muddy it up, so I put it there.

Let the first and last cutting of the yard grow to seed before you cut it. I know you always hated this but it re-seeds the yards on its own that way. That’s why I did it. You know we always had a beautiful lawn, too.

Worm the cats, dogs and cows on our birthdays. Give the dogs their shots then too.

Make sure the fruit trees get water, by rain or hose, at least every ten days. Even in the winter. That is when they store their energy for the next season.

I try to put ground up egg shells, banana peels and some iron around all your roses in the fall of the year, that’s what gives you those big blooms and deep colors you love.

Watch for the little asters to bloom in the early Fall, that is when to harvest the honey from the beehives. If you wait any longer, the bees start to make that strong, dark honey. You always like the light, clear honey. Tony will take care of this for you, or you know where the bee suit is. If you decide to keep them, better re-queen in the Fall, make sure they make it through the winter.

Lime. Can’t put too much lime on cantaloupes. You loved those ones we grew each year and that is the secret to the rich sweetness they always had.

If you have problems starting the old tractor, or she loses power and cuts out, bleed the fuel system of air bubbles. It’s in the manuals in the bookcase how to do it. Tried ever since I had her to find that leak and never could.

I guess I could go on and on, but I just need to let you go and get to it. You can learn these and the rest of the things I did on your own as circumstance dictates. You have always been a very capable and innovative woman and I have spent our time together loving you for it. Which brings me to my closing.

The most joyful and special moments of my life were spent doing the one thing that was the easiest to do; that being loving you. Wherever I am now, I am doing it still. I hope you find the time to slip away from things, now and again, to sit with me awhile down by the pond. Let the breeze there carry my voice of memories to you and bring a smile to your lips. Know that you were loved. When you look up on the hill and see a group of deer slowly emerging from the wood line at dusk, hear me whisper to you, “Look”! Know that you are loved. When a soft puff of summer air comes through the window and moves your hair a bit as you lay resting, it is only me kissing your brow goodnight. Know that you will always be loved.

Forever Yours,Your loving Husband

—–

I would suggest that we all keep in mind that we are only one breath away from needing this letter and conduct ourselves accordingly.

Kris Kristofferson More CMT Music More CMT Music Videos

Retiring the Debt...

2009-03-22T17:52:00.000-04:00

Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust.
Small bits of clay so fragile in arrangement,
That they briefly capture and hold breaths of life,
As they walk among other spirits in this physical world.
But the mighty and meek all share one thing in common,
On this journey we make to a grave destination.
The cost of life is life itself and the debt will be paid in full.
When the dun is levied and satisfaction demanded,
Breaths will be counted like coins, and as the coffers fill,
One by one, the debt will be retired.

Only the memory remains to remind us,
That our note will soon be due;
That the owner of the field is coming for his rent.
His reaper’s ears are deaf as stones,
As they scythe the field before them.
Pleas for mercy are never heard over screaming blades.
The debt is owed and due on call, and so they labor on.
The stubble of days and years pass under their feet,
As they cut their path across the headed crop.
Breaths are harvested and the bundles tied and laid upon the ground.
The tally is squared and one by one, the debt will be retired.

Today your debt was paid in full, tonight you sleep forever.
At dusk today I will give you back, to the earth that lent you to me.
Beneath the wild rose on the hill out back,
Where you laid and watched the cattle graze.
A place you would remember seems a fitting place to rest.
Your life was hard but your spirit never faltered,
With crippled frame you bravely faced all obstacles before you.
You lived life full right to the end, with a heart few have.
A good friend, a faithful friend, a best friend, a loner like myself it seems,
I would walk past a thousand men to spend my time with you.
I’ll see you in my dreams at night and when my debts retire.

Poem

2009-03-04T13:43:00.001-05:00

Bee Swarm

The air was quiet in the back porch sun,
save for what I though was a breeze
drifting down from the treetops where I sat.
So soft at first, I didn’t notice that
the whisper was not whistling branches,
not the rasp of twig on limb,
but a droning buzz drawing closer.
Something zipped past my ear,
catching my lazy eyes in the direction
of an approaching swarm of honey bees.
I bolted from the concrete steps,
spun and wove around like a drunken boxer,
swatting the air hastily as if stung.

This roiling fist of wings, enveloping,
swirled instead around a center,
an atomic nucleus, as the queen
herded her hive to a larger nest.
Around the eaves of my house they clung,
rolled in the air like cloud vapors, rose
faster than I could run around to
the front yard to watch them continue,
down the driveway, across the road,
neighbors wondering what I was chasing.
Barefoot and panting for breath, I watched
the glistening coil disappear into the woods.
I longed to sprout cellophane wings,
to follow her secret pheromone trail
where a hollow tree or rock crevice
waited for her and her horde.

Band of Brothers

2009-01-30T21:07:00.003-05:00

(Written just before my son --#3-- left for Iraq in 2007. He's home now, so I can post this poem. Superstitious? Maybe)

Brothers do not speak of worry and fear.
They talk about work to be done,
a physical answer to an unspoken question.
Fix the barn roof, build the fence, repair the toilet.
Solid talismans they wield in the face of uncertainty;
daily prayers for men who know
only one way to control the unexpected deployment
of one of them, the band of brothers.

Work:
To-do lists.
Discuss ladders, nails and plumbing.
Do not speak what cannot be spoken:
that he is not here;
that we do not know when he might return;
that we do not know where he is.
What we can control is here.

There is work to be done.
They mark off the to-do list
that, when completed (nothing left to chance)
will guarantee their brother’s safe return.
Intently, bearing tools of construction
they ward off the possibility that war might destroy
their band of brothers.

Slow Nights...

2009-01-24T23:28:00.004-05:00

He tried to clear the fog out of his head long enough to figure out what had just happened. This was all wrong somehow. Why was he lying here in this muddy gravel as the soft rain fell on his face? Each drop that touched his face caused him to wince in pain.

He wondered for an instant where those sirens were headed that kept getting louder and louder. It never occurred to him that they were coming for him.

What did occur to him was each gasping breath that brought shots of agonizing pain through his chest accompanied by a wheezing sound. And what was that in his throat that kept choking him?

He raised his trembling hand to his mouth and wiped it clean. He was more confused than ever when he looked at the blood-soaked fingers he held before his eyes.

Had he been in an accident? Who were all of these strangers gathered around him here? Why wouldn’t his legs work so he could get up out of this muck?

No... something was definitely not right here, he thought. Not right at all.

* * * * *

This had been a bad day for Dave Mahoney, in fact, it was the worse day he had ever had. It started out well enough and almost ended the same way, until he made a series of mistakes that brought him to his present position in the gravel and the rain.

The first mistake he made was coming into a strange place and starting trouble. He was a big fish in a little pond over around Weaver’s Run and he just assumed that everyone far and wide knew of him and his reputation. They didn’t. Or if they did, he found out, some simply didn’t care.

The second mistake he made was picking the wrong man as the source of tonight’s entertainment.

* * * * *

Will Hanson was a regular here at this little roadside tavern. He had known the owner most of his life and had gone to school with his kids. After twenty years away in the Army, Will still found things here at the Elbow Room much like they had always been; mostly a hang-out for locals that all knew one another. Not to say it wasn’t friendly enough to strangers as long as they minded their manners and acted like they had a little sense.

The rain had kept most of the regulars at home tonight and this was a fairly quiet evening. Paul tended bar as his two sons, Eric and Stevie, stocked cases of beer in the walk-in cooler at the end of the bar. Ol’ Red Man sat at the end of the bar by the door and read the race results as he tried to pick tomorrows selection of losers to bet on. Back in the corner Tim Johnson and some woman Will didn’t know were drinking a few beers and laughing as Tim applied his best efforts to get in her britches.

Will was sitting on one of the tall metal stools at the middle of the bar facing Chief on the next stool over. Chief had his back to the door, leaving Will to roughly face it. They both had frosted mugs of draft on the bar beside them as they talked quietly. Will had just set his half-full mug back down when the front door flew open and slammed against the wall behind its hinges. In the doorway stood a man none of them knew. He looked around the room with a troubling sneer on his face. He stepped inside and slammed the door closed hard enough to make the jalousie panels of glass in the door rattle.

Dave walked straight away to the far end of the bar, right behind Will and demanded a mug of beer from Paul. He dropped some change into the jukebox and reached around behind it turning it up enough to make conversation difficult for everyone in the place. He backed up until he bumped into Will’s stool, almost upsetting it. Will looked into Chief’s eyes and could see a smile start there. Will looked over his shoulder in a cautioning way and never said a word.

Dave picked up his beer, chugged it down and slammed the heavy vessel down on the bar and demanded another. He walked to the dartboard that hung beside the jukebox and pulled the feathered projectiles from the cork there. Once again he backed up almost knocking Will from his stool.

Will slowly turned to face the bar on his stool and laced his fingers through the handle of the mug, clutching it like a glass. Will raised the drink to his mouth and drank the remaining contents down.

Dave stood there and faced Will about arm’s length from him the whole time. He waited impatiently for Will to say something to get things started. That was how Dave liked to do things. He needed to feel in control of the situation.

But Will never was much of a talker.

About the instant Will’s mug touched the bar, his left hand shot out and grabbed a handful of chest hairs and shirt about Dave’s top button. As Will snatched Dave towards him and pivoted to face him, Will’s right hand swung the mug cupped in his fist to meet Dave’s forehead right over his left eye. The sound of skull meeting beer mug made a sickening thud as the glass shattered. Dave’s head snapped back hard and he began to crumple. Will was not going to let him simply pass out. No, Will wanted this stranger to get his money’s worth for his trouble.

The white light of pain flashed again in Dave’s head as Will’s knee crushed his groin. Dave thought how badly he needed to puke, if only the hand that held him up would just let him sink to the floor. Another blow took Dave just below the breastbone and stole every molecule of breath from him. He thought he couldn’t feel any more pain until Will’s hand grasped hold of his crotch and lifted him off of the ground. Still a hold of his shirt, Will threw him hard to the slick concrete floor.

Stevie and Eric vaulted the bar and grabbed Will just as he swung the long legs of a barstool at Dave’s ribs for the second time.

“Will! Stop! You’re gonna kill him,” Eric yelled.

“He needs killin’,” is all Will said.

The two boys and Paul and Chief half-wrestled Will back to his righted stool. Dave lay on the floor and made noises like a crippled rabbit.

“Give me a beer, Paul,” Will said.

“You ok now? Sumbitch ought to know better than to come in here like that.” Paul said.

“I’m fine. I reckon he knows it now.”

“Put his beer on my tab, Paul,” Chief spoke up.

Stevie and Eric helped Dave to his feet and started toward the door. Red Man stood up and opened the door as they shoved the intruder through it and helped him to his car.

After about ten minutes Paul said, “He’s still sitting there. He ain’t left yet.”

Will already knew this because he had never heard the car start outside or seen the lights come on in the parking lot. Will’s life in the military had taught him a long time ago: stay alert, stay alive. He eased into the restroom and raised his pants leg enough to get to the .380 Browning he had hidden in the top of his boot. He tucked the small pistol into the waistband of his Levi’s, making sure it was hidden by the jacket he wore. Better safe than sorry, he thought.

Will had just taken his perch on the stool again when he heard the car door slam outside and his hand moved instinctively near the grip of the pistol behind his belt. The handle to the front door turned slowly and was pushed open. Dave stood in the doorway with a pistol in his hand.

He had not even raised the gun up half way before the second round from Will’s pistol struck him, tearing pieces of his lung and spine out two large holes in the back of his coat. He dropped his pistol and reached out of reflex to the entry wounds in his chest as the third round pierced his hand behind the knuckle of his middle finger. As this round left his back, his legs took one step backwards each and crumbled under him. He fell in a heap at the bottom of the single step at the door.

* * * * *

The sirens were close now and then they stopped. He heard the gravel crunch as the crowd parted to let the EMS workers and deputy through. Dave’s eyes were open but he couldn’t see anything. The sounds and voices seemed to be coming to him from the far end of a big pipe and getting farther and farther away. The last thing he heard was the voice of the young deputy as he spoke into his radio.

“Dispatch, this is Charlie 17. Ahhhh, cancel that STAT flight to this location. EMS is on the scene and have requested that the Coroner be started this way, over.”

After that, he heard nothing at all.

Copyright © 2007 WML

For a Frozen Winter Morning

2009-01-17T07:32:00.002-05:00

First Light...

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

Standing in the kitchen in the early morning darkness,
I look through dew-wet windows over the sink,
And take my first look at the day before me.
The moon is resting on the western horizon,
Waiting for the first signs of the sun,
So she can lay down and rest for a bit.
She’s gotta work again tonight you know.
And these winter nights are long and cold.
She lights the land with a light so pale,
That there really are no colors.
Only shades of grays and blacks.

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

I smell the breath of coffee now and pour myself a cup.
A scalding sip, like a blistering kiss, makes my eyes fly open.
I cross the room and take a seat, opposite the window,
Pulling a blanket around me, I listen to the silence.
The faint tick of the clock, a rooster in the distance,
The rhythmic sound of a cat’s breath,
As it sleeps on the back of the couch behind me.
The reflection of fire from my cigarette,
Glows back at me from my image in the window.
A ghostly image of loneliness,
In shades of grays and blacks.

This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

The morning light is slipping in, as images get clearer.
Fence posts, once invisible, begin to appear one by one,
As they reach for the road in the distance.
The sleeping humps of resting beef, slowly find their feet,
As little mouths fill themselves beneath their mother’s bellies.
The blanket of frost across their backs looks gray,
From its mirror on the sleeping pond.
Fields, farms and hills slowly come into view,
As the sun paints the countryside with her brush of new colors.
A palette of pale greens, browns and whites,
Pushes out shades of grays and blacks.

Finally it is done, the moon has been relieved and gone to bed.
The sun takes her post and begins her watch.
Under her warm gaze, I do what must be done.
I shake the blanket from my shoulders and rise.
This is the first morning of the rest of my life,
And I’m sure wishing you were here…

Copyright © 2007WML

A Regret At Death

2008-12-23T12:07:00.004-05:00

He stands alone in time his health
has fallen to despair

His mind a swirl alone of fright
of death who wonders near.

His thoughts are turned to fonder days
with voices him around

But in this lonely state of now
the silence, it abounds.

He fears of death, its cold embrace
will make its fated rounds

Upon his weak and fragile form
with little warning sound.

He wishes he had sought a way
to seek to make amends

To those he hurt and pushed aside
when time, it had no end.

He feels the pain within his chest
but knowing death is near

He follows it o' saddened thoughts
of all the wasted years.

© Steve Sites
http://stephensites.wordpress.com/

Who Is There? (A Christmas Poem)

2008-12-23T11:52:00.006-05:00

Who is there, at Christmas time
whose action follow words

Who is there, at Christmas time
as children fight the hurt?

Who is there, at Christmas time
to fill a stomach's ache

Who is there, at Christmas time
a difference there to make?

Who is there, at Christmas time
to tip the beggars cup

Who is there at Christmas time
to lift the sullen up?

Who is there at Christmas time
to visit sick and aged

Who is there at Christmas time
to help time wile away?

Who is there at Christmas time
that stop and give a thought

Who is there at Christmas time
hear cries that break a heart?

© Steve Sites
http://stephensites.wordpress.com/

“Merry Christmas, My Friend”

2008-12-23T08:38:00.004-05:00

by LCpl James M Schmidt, USMC, 1986

Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,

In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone.

I had come down the chimney, with presents to give

and to see just who in this home did live.

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,

no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.

No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.

On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kind,

a sobering thought soon came to my mind.

For this house was different, unlike any I'd seen.

This was the home of a U.S. Marine.

I'd heard stories about them, I had to see more,

so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.

And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,

Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.

He seemed so gentle, his face so serene,

Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine.

Was this the hero, of whom I’d just read?

Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan.

I soon understood, this was more than a man.

For I realized the families that I saw that night,

owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.

Soon around the Nation, the children would play,

And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.

They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,

because of Marines like this one lying here.

I couldn’t help wonder how many lay alone,

on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.

Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye.

I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.

He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,

"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice

I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more.

My life is my God, my country, my Corps."

With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep,

I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.

I watched him for hours, so silent and still.

I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill.

So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,

and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.

Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,

with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.

And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,

and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.

I didn't want to leave him so quiet in the night,

this guardian of honor so willing to fight.

But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,

said "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas Day, all secure."

One look at my watch and I knew he was right,

Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.

Note: Many have claimed ownership of this piece but there is only one true author. It is the policy of this site to give attribution to whom it is due. Read and learn more about this piece at:

http://www.snopes.com/holidays/christmas/soldier.asp

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Note to President-elect Obama

2008-12-19T15:30:00.003-05:00

Bring us

understanding of the past

Bring us

hope for the present

Bring us

belief in the future

Bring us

peace for always

Bring us

together at last

Maybe Not...

2008-12-19T03:54:00.004-05:00

"Yea, thou I walk
Through the Valley
Of the Shadow of Death...
I will fear no Evil.
For I am the Evilest
Son of a Bitch
In the Valley"

The indigo-black letters boldly stated,
Above the smiling skull for a signature.
The deep tan on the cold arm growing paler
Made the letters almost stand-out on the skin.

The Private gently picked up the dangling arm
And laid it across the belly of the corpse.
He looked into the lifeless eyes of the young man one last time,
And pulled the bag's plastic zipper all the way closed.

"Maybe Not," he whispered.

Copyright © 2007 WML

Poem

2008-12-17T19:52:00.001-05:00

A Picture’s Worth

Before becoming a lineman
over forty years ago
for Appalachian Power,
he went house-to-house
reading meters, which he hated.
The coveted job was in climbing poles.
Way out in the country drudgery
on a bend along the New River,
my grandfather came across
a house that once had electricity,
an old homestead abandoned.
The door was left ajar, so he called
into the dark front room
for an answer, any reply.
As he stepped in with hesitancy,
all he found was emptiness
and cigar boxes of old photos,
heaped over and spilling,
spread out in the floor,
nameless faces staring back at him
from the forsaken dust,
weathered and tired, but still smiling
with white eyes and scarecrow poses.
He dropped his clipboard,
grew sickened at the sight of
these intimate, orphaned memories,
the scattered pictures of forgotten people.

Grandpa swore he never wanted
to be like the ones in those photos,
his family left behind for some stranger
to find scattered to the elements,
curiously shuffled and nosed through,
intimacy forced through mildewed teeth.
He would rather his pictures be burned,
and their secret ashes scattered,
than left out to slowly shrivel
like so many bleached bones in the sun.

Ninety years of captured moments
sag open on the kitchen table
in shoeboxes stacked haphazardly.
My grandfather and I pore over photos.
Through my bewildered hands
pass faces I don’t find familiar,
have never seen in their youth
when the world seemed black and white.
Some photos frustrate him greatly
because he can’t quite trace
the tenuous connection
between memories and moments,
and there is no one else who can.
Sifting through the scalloped edges,
waiting for an answer, any reply,
we hold an informal séance
in the yellow lamplight,
for his memories to spark
a blue flame of interest in me.
We try to resurrect diligently
those whom the world has forgotten,
as time sifts them to unmarked graves.

Leaving Houston...

2008-11-03T16:11:00.006-05:00

I had occasion to make a cross-country trip several years ago. Transferring flights in Texas, I made these observations.

Hunkering down I pass under low ceilings
Turning sideways down the narrow aisle.
I wait as the woman in front of me rams and jams
Her last carry-on bag into the overhead compartment.
Moving on, I find my seat, halfway back on the port side.
"Ask for a window and they give you a wing,"
I chuckle to myself as I place my jacket overhead.

Taking my seat and buckling the belt
Cool air hisses through the vent above me;
A bit stale and smelling slightly of disinfectant.
The cabin is quiet yet noisy at the same time
Each sound amplified in the silence.
Electric motors whir from the bulkheads and floor
On again, off again from their secret places.
Muffled voices, almost whispers, can be heard:
Speaking to cell phones or the seat next to them.
The occasional cough or baby’s squeal breaks the silence.
The aircraft rocks now and then, to and fro
Thrown baggage moving the giant avian beast.

A change of pressure in my ears tells me the cabin is sealed
I open my mouth to find relief and look out the window.
"What a strange place for a hearse," I think,
Sitting there on the tarmac with its back door open.
A shiny, gray casket is slid onto a wheeled bier
The handlers slow and deliberate in their movements.
It dawns on me that someone is making a last trip home
As they slowly move under the belly of the aircraft.
A final thud and the last compartment is closed.

Closed…. the word is ringing in my head now.

Closed…. many chapters in many lives have just closed.

My mind wanders in curiosity for a moment or two
At my brothers and sisters here with me today.
How many of them are leaving home for the first time?
Who, like the one in the cargo hold,
Is going home for good?
Some are just passing through, I guess.
Births, deaths, graduations and failures
Marriages, divorces, running to something or from it
New jobs, lost jobs, new loves, lost loves
Or just knocking about seeing new country.
All gathered briefly in this microcosm of humanity
In a common place with a common goal:
Simply to leave here and get there.

We begin to move away from the terminal
Headed for the runway and the sky.
I half listen to the spiel of the flight attendant
As she tells us all the things we will never need to know.
The sudden thrust of the engines hurls us down the runway
One final bump, as the wheels leave the ground, and we are airborne.
Cities, towns and countryside pass far below us.
As we ascend to cruising altitude,I descend into sleep.
My thoughts return to her as I drift away.

The sudden jolt of the wheels touching down
Startle me out of my slumber as I struggle to quickly place myself.
The roar of reversed engines slows the aircraft down.
We leave the runway and taxi toward the terminal.
Coming to a stop at the gate, people begin to shuffle about
Gathering their belongings for departure.
A hearse is backed into place on the tarmac
Its cargo somberly loaded before it drives away.
"Last one on, first one off," I grin to myself
Looking at the crowded aisle before me.
"Maybe being dead ain’t so bad."

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

NOTE: This piece won an award as "Most Original" in a contest over on Writer's Cafe. It beat out 236 other pieces, so I guess that's something. lol

I Wonder...

2008-10-31T20:17:00.002-04:00

Fastening the chain back on the gate,
My frozen hands pick up the cedar post
And cradle it across the shoulder of my coat.
Crowding close they follow me down the path,
Past piles of hay and feed bunks,
Thirst, not hunger, their master now.

The clouds above me are empty,
Their frozen tears cried out to the West,
Covering the earth with soft blankets of silence.
And I wonder…
I wonder where she is tonight.
What her name might be.

As the last warmth of day disappears,
Beneath shades of orange and red and gray,
I am brought back to my present place,
The wind turning my head to hide my face from it.
Frosty-white nostrils in front of black faces,
Wait for my work to be done.

The ice cracks and pops as I plunge
The post through its armor,
Allowing the water beneath to bleed out.
And I wonder…
I wonder where she is tonight.
What her face might be.

My task complete, I turn for the house.
The path up the hill seems steeper today,
Than it was the day before.
Each day seems longer now,
But quicker in its passing.
My winter closes in on me…and I am tired.

The house is chilled and dark:
Unattended in my absence.
I shiver in my solitude.
And I wonder…
I wonder where she is tonight.
What her warmth might be.

Banked ashes of cooling coals, I bring to life again.
With flickering fingers of hungry heat,
The meal I feed is consumed in haste,
With snapping teeth and crackling lips.
Heat escapes the cast-iron walls,
That house this fiery-feast.

The ticking clock, like a kettle drum,
Hammers at the silence in the room.
The meal I take is cold and plain.
And I wonder…
I wonder where she is tonight.
And what her heart might be.

The sheets are cold against my skin,
As I search for the heat in the blankets.
The pale, clear mist of frozen moonlight,
Casts soft shadows about the room,
As it seeps in through the window.
It will stand guard there all night long,
Giving safe harbor to my dreams.

Sleep, like death, brings forth new life,
As dreams are born again
In the deafening silence around me now.
And I wonder…
I wonder at her tender touch,
So soft and warm beside me.

Copyright © 2007 WML

Ohio River

2008-09-18T16:19:00.005-04:00

Diamonds

spread as if strewn

by a rich hand sparkling

the sapphire above liquid

fire lined with emeralds

below in melted

silver river cats

seek their prey

A Single Leaf Speaks

2008-09-17T15:43:00.000-04:00

The maple tree branches float on gentle breezes
as a single leaf flaps so anxious, it speaks
"See how big I've grown? and so green?"
starting as a whisper it creates something bigger,
Stronger, maybe something mighty
in the rustle of leaves
in the hum of the breeze
Something poetic stirs and spreads

DANCE little Maple Leaf, dance
"Come see, come see" says the leaf crying, trying
to catch a tear drop on the tip of it's tongue
as sunny skies rain mysterious
Happy Tears glisten lovely, so brazen
Oh, to be a leaf
on the maple tree that grows
in the front yard of a poet

She Talks With Me

2008-09-16T04:03:00.007-04:00

In the morning hours
When no one else will have me

She talks with me in dead of night
When no one else knows I'm alive

Her voice comes across wires
Loud and crystal clear
Calling me to her
Knowing I can't come

Not that I won't but can't
But that won't last forever...

Some day soon
We will sit on the porch
Each hand holding the other
And watch the sun go down

Target Practice

2008-09-15T06:07:00.003-04:00

My brother, in case I never mentioned it, is one of best shots in the land. No brag,just fact. He is. If you ever have doubt, we'll be glad to steal errr take your money against the bet.

Our first cousin thought to take the challenge. He was reared back about this .22 rifle he had. It was this that and the other, he said. They put a patch, (1" x 1" cloth patch from a black powder rifle) on a fence post about 30 feet away. Don shot first. He cut the patch in three corners. Pretty good.

Don reared back and gave the rifle to my brother. "Beat that," he said. Dick took aim and fired off three quick shots; the first hitting dead center of the patch.

"That don't mean nothin', you just held off for those other two shots!"

"Ed, take your knife and go out there and see."

Ed walked out already knowing the answer. One...two...three bullets behind the center of the patch. No arguments here, the proof was out. It wasn't the rifle, it was the marksman.

It's a big let down to be beat with your own gun and even worse to be beat in front of people that will tell about it. But Don did and we were those people, so their you have it

And now you know rest of story about "Scatter Gun Don"

War Heroes

2008-09-15T04:44:00.007-04:00

I have known them. I have lived among them. I have walked in their footsteps and learned from them. And they are not always who you think they are; they are the quiet men and women who did the deeds you couldn't.

I have a lot of heroes in my life. They will probably never know it. But they stand in a higher place than I will ever achieve. They are men and women I aspired to be like yet never met the challenge. I did my best, though.

It never really mattered; party affiliation Democrat or Republican. When you sat in a mud slick trench in frozen indifference with bombs dropping on you for weeks on end, pounding you until your ears bled. What did it matter except to survive? Pinned in a trench in France, frozen water and dead comrades all around him, my uncle lay, for a week or more. Ed didn't quit. He prayed a lot but held fast. He was removed from battle by those that relieved him, but he didn't quit. His feet are ruined now from the cold they endured and he is deaf from the pounding artillery. He gave all he was asked from his country and I honor him with gratitude. He is my hero.

His bother, Reid, gave his share as well. I don't know much about his battles but I am sure he met them well. He is my hero simply through his generosity of spirit. He was a good fellow and I miss him.

Their brother Court fought the quiet war of national security in Texas and Colorado. He served just as hard as the ones on the front lines to defend our interests. I love him in a special way because he always had time for me. He would wait for me when climbing the steep hills and always give me the first shot at a squirrel. I will always miss him. He was my buddy.

My uncle Dick, who jumped in with the 101st on D-day, how can you top that? He was part of the first airborne assault in history. He was there! As part of the spearhead, he saw much of the bloodiest fighting. An artist before the war, I think he was deeply affected by it. I know he was, because I saw the sadness in his face. His candid stories took away all illusions of glory I had about battle. He told it like it was. He put it in its place. It was all about killing. "One day, we disabled a tank. Three men jumped out and we called for them to stop. They ran and we killed all three." War is never about glory, it is only about killing. He froze in the trenches at the Battle of the Bulge when General McAffee uttered, "Nuts" to the Germans. He held fast. I think of him daily and his influence on my manhood. He is my reality check.

And then, there is the man I knew best but never knew at all; my father. He was a hard one to figure out. As I age, I understand him more and hear the quiet lessons he taught. He was hard; on me and my mother both. But he was hard on himself as well I think. The Army made him that way. I heard tales from him that are too strange to be lies and could only be told by someone there. I remember hearing him up in the middle of the night in the 60's with nightmares from the Korean War. I remember when Kennedy was shot and my father was in Korea at the time and he was gonna make sure it was all ok. I trusted in him to make it all alright. And he did. Him and all 200,000 other soldiers, but I only knew my dad was gonna make it happen. I was safe, you see?

And then there is Grace. She made the shells that protected her brothers, and later my brother. She worked in the Army Depot across the river in Indiana. It was a most dangerous job, but she did it just the same for her country. Fear didn't matter when her brothers were on the line. She climbed trees with me and tended to me when my mother couldn't. She can never replace my mom but she runs a close second. I will always count her as a hero in my life.

Ray Long and Andrew Combs, those fellas are heroes in their own right. Immaculate outdoorsmen and hunters extraordinaire, I was honored by their presence in my younger life. They are fellows to know for sure. They both served their country for 20 years each, fought in Vietnam, and lived in Alaska. They have been there and done it. I am proud to know them both.

I guess my biggest hero of all is my big brother. He is the MAN. I don't know him that well, but I love the stories about him. He is a legend to me. I can never meet that, but that's ok, because he's my brother. I'm a good rifle shot, but he is the best. I was an adequate soldier, but he was better. I recall the day he went to Vietnam. It was Christmas time and my father was taking pictures. I couldn't stop crying for fear my brother would be hurt over there. My dad was mad but what the hell. It was my brother. When he learns to write, I guess I'm done. Oh well, it's ok, he's my brother.

Warriors come and warriors go. I stand a paltry witness to those who walked before me, but I try to catch up.

Grit Eatin', Scum Suckers...

2008-09-08T23:52:00.003-04:00

Well folks, I had to do something tonight I hated to do but see no recourse to it. I had to put our comments on "moderate" mode do to the appearance of a grit eatin', scum suckin', pencil-neck spammer. They're a dime a dozen and I'm lookin' for the guy supplying the dimes.

We pretty much have an open door policy here for people who seriously want a nice forum to post their work. I won't see it degraded by the likes of that. So, for at least the time being, I have comments set to moderation until we kill off the roaches that are trying to infest us. I will do my best to get legitimate comments posted as soon as.

Sorry for the inconvenience but it's all I know to do to keep us safe from the scumbags of the world.

Sandstone Falls Morning

2008-08-13T21:54:00.004-04:00

Red berries gleam in silver

metal. A bucket

with orange rusty handle stands

alone by the old slave
wall that follows the narrow twisting
road that leads to Sandstone Falls.

Beside the river, the road,
the wall, the bucket
she stoops, gray hair shining
with sweat as she searches

for berries whose thorns

rip her flannel shirt and skin

as she fills her bucket

to the brim.

“Best be watchful of snakes,” I say.
“Snakes?”

She answers, smiling.
“That’s what this hoe is for.”

Poem

2008-07-29T09:08:00.005-04:00

Hunter, Hunted, and Mountain Biker

On the back of Pinnacle Mountain,
down roads where you rarely see
people traveling about,
rocks rise out of the gravel and dirt
like bony spines of ancient dinosaurs,
and trees are hunched and gnarled,
limbs twisted by winter winds,
now brushy and dark green
with oak leaves and acorns.

Skidding around a corner,
a dark figure on all fours
catches my eye
and locks my brakes.
Ten yards ahead,
in a sunlit patch of road,
dark bristly fur,
too big to be a dog,
the brown nose gives away
the bear cub’s identity.

But mine must have been confusing
to him, maybe never having seen
a boy on a bike,
round wheels instead of legs
on a steel-framed skeleton carcass.
What are wheels to a creature
who can climb rocky crags
and steep ridges
I wouldn’t attempt to clamor up?

----- Instinct identified me well enough,
----- and with a low moan, the cub
----- runs back into the dark green shadows.
----- I didn’t stick around to meet his mother.

The next week I met its poacher
in a red and faded pick up truck
creeping up the same road, slowly.
A gray, long-eared hound dog,
skin and bones, wearing a body collar,
was bolted by a leash to the hood.
Standing with a purpose, it leaned forward
like a rock climber, pulling on her lead rope,
a surfer on a Chevrolet wave,
sniffing the air, first one way,
and then the next.

The man looked just as confused
as the bear the previous day
to see a boy on a bike,
coming down the mountain,
out here where his thoughts
had possessed the solitary wilderness.
As we passed each other
on the narrow, rutted road,
he lifted his hand.
I nodded my head and smiled,
caught a glint of corn liquor
in his red and faded eyes.

----- We momentarily shared the silence,
----- save for the whirring and creaking
----- of his 4-wheel drive,
----- and then we were masters
----- of our surroundings once again.

Remembering Grandmammy

2008-07-15T11:18:00.001-04:00

We had no air conditioning in the black Oldsmobile that carried our family across three states to visit the matriarch of a very large family. It was summer and my father’s neck above his polyester red sport shirt was sunburned darker than the shirt itself. My mother and I sat in the back seat, sucking ice cubes in a futile effort to stay cool. Warm wind, scented with exhaust and the sometime sweet smell of ripe corn, wafted in the windows and beat our hair back against our heads with force.

Somewhere along the way I lost track of where we were but I never forgot where we were going. We were headed to Ohio to visit kinfolk, my mother’s aunt and cousins and her grandmother. Because my own late grandfather, a man who departed life long before I drew breath, left his Appalachian home for the city, my mother did not know her own grandmother well. She had not seen her since the summer before her father’s death when he loaded his family into an old Model A to go home. He intended to stay there and die with his own folks but his wife, city born and bred, had other notions.

He returned to the city to die and was buried there, in a crowded cemetery beneath tall cedars. His mother never saw him again nor did most of his siblings. Only his sister, Mae Bell, had come for the funeral. It was to Aunt Mae’s home that we were going, to visit her and to see my elusive great-grandmother.

Mae and her husband had been among the great exodus of southern folk who went north to find factory work after World War II. They settled in mid Ohio and as soon as they could, they bought a small patch of ground. The house sat in the center of a tiny grass patch surrounded by corn. The fields came right up almost to the house.

Aunt Mae greeted us all with hugs and kisses, ushering us into her very small but immaculate home with pleasure. There was no doubt that we were kin, connected by blood and bound by love. My great-grandmother was asleep in one of the tiny bedrooms. When her daughter prepared to wake her, she took me along.

Because of my small height I was at eye-level with the sleeping woman, who lay on a very low bed, more of a cot than actual bed. Her skin was the shade of old parchment paper and lined.

Sarah Neely opened her eyes and looked into mine. Any notion that she was not alive vanished as her black eyes met my blue ones. Her eyes were filled with vitality and burned with a life force that could not be denied. The woman within the aged shell was very alive. She sat up; a hand going to her white hair that was in disarray. As Aunt Mae explained in soft tones why she had awakened her, my great-grandmother said in a voice like slow, sweet honey,

"Oh, I must look like a haint, just like an old haint."

She and I connected in the moment that our eyes met. She knew that I belonged to her, that I was blood of her blood, bone of her bone. She did not quite recognize my mother, suave and fashionable in a summer dress as the tow headed little girl who had once chased chickens on the farm. Each time that Aunt Mae told her who we were, Grandmammy would say in her thin voice,

"I had me a boy went out to St. Joe and died there, name of Pat."

Each time my aunt would speak with patient, gentle tones and tell her that this was Pat's daughter and grandbaby. All that Grandmammy would glean from this was that I was her grandbaby, which I was from her. Her gnarled worn hands caressed my smooth, still baby like skin with joy. She gave me her love without question and with an open heart.

I never saw my Grandmammy again. She died a few years later after living a long life of valor. She was laid to rest without a stone to mark the place because no one had any money for such but remembered by those whose lives that she touched.

Wife of Elijah and daughter of a man named Mink, my Grandmammy remains in my memory and burns like a coal oil lamp against the night. The love she gave is timeless and the memory of a woman who lived in a time so different than my own is something I treasure in my heart.

Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy

leeannwriter@att.net

1515 Greenwood Boulevard

Neosho MO 64850

Stolen Heritage

2008-07-11T10:37:00.001-04:00

Mountains destroyed
Hills laid low
Torn open to its heart.
Heart of the mountain
Ancient root of life
Precious black coal
Ripped from the depths
Broken and crushed
Moved, trucked and taken
From the hills of home
To power plants, factories
And homes distant
From our mountains.
The rubble, discard and ruins
Thrown down
Tumbled to the valley
Crushing and filling the hollers
With no thought
Of the beauty below
Or of ancestral homes.
Much less the sacred graves
Of those who ventured
As wayfarers
In a new land.
Appalachian pilgrims,
Pioneers forgotten.
Buried alongside
The primrose, sassafras
Honeysuckle, magnolia and sourwood.
All as if they were flowers
Forgotten at the grave
Cast off and buried
In the rubble
Of questionable progress.
Cry, Oh Appalachia
Weep oh hills and hollers.
Mourn what we have lost
Gnash your teeth
That we have allowed
Strangers
To buy,
To steal our heritage
For the sake
Of coal.

The Life and Times of a Freelancer

2008-07-11T02:24:00.002-04:00

Many people think because you work from home and/or online, you aren't busy at all. They have no guilt about stealing your time from you even though it appears they have plenty of their own for free. I say let them put on their running shoes and keep up with me for a day. I will have their tongues hanging out like a shoe brush.

While working from home surely has it's benefits, it's not unusual for me to put in 60-80 hours a week working on one project or another. (The commute is great though, considering the price of gas: down the hall; past the coffee pot; through the living room; to my office with a view overlooking my small farm.)

I manage three separate writing operations (content articles, copy writing and institutional writing), as a contracted online freelancer, for a company out of California. I do all hiring/firing of other freelancers, make assignments, monitor work flow and manage editors/writers on these different teams. I play a major role in public relations and customer service, too.

I run two blogs for this company and am involved with the planning and development of their business as well.

I travel all over cyberspace as a representative of this company and leave comments on blogs/forums in several company personnas (even one female). These comments point back through links to company sites; thus driving traffic to them. (I knew all those voices in my head would come in handy someday, lol.) Sort of a cyber ambassador of goodwill for the company I represent, I guess you could say.

I spend a fair amount of time researching and training myself in new skills I can use in my profession. Currently, I am learning to use Camtasia, PhotoShop and several other software programs to produce videos for in-house training, promotions via YouTube, iFrame, etc, and to sell as a service from my freelance operation.

And for fun:

I am always building on my own fledgling company and planning its growth as well. It is a general writing services company for articles, copy, resumes, grant applications and videos in support of advertising efforts of other business both online and off. I intend to drive business to it with an affiliate program I am developing. It will put a sales force all around the globe for me.

My business will not compete with the one I work for, in fact, they will compliment each other by filling a niche the other needs. I would never bite a hand that has fed me; out of respect, loyalty and honor.

I have begun working on a second business plan for an online stockyard for Kentucky. It would allow livestock producers and buyers to meet in one central location in cyberspace instead of the hundreds of small points of sales across the state. Producers would, in effect, rent database space from me to showcase their stock for a nominal fee. I will capitalize on my background in agriculture to make this happen. If it goes over in KY, I may attempt it in other states or even nationally.

I am currently building forum and blog sites that will act in support of these two businesses and help drive traffic to them. I have an article directory that I run and will be building another just for ag articles soon to supply me with fresh content to post on these forums and blogs.

I have stopped farming here for the moment but still have it to maintain. I keep bees for a hobby some years but they require a good bit of attention, too, time to time, as do my other pets.

To get out of the house, I work some for a friend who runs a large farm doing odd jobs: working cattle, tending tobacco and row crops, building barns or fences, chopping silage, etc - just for a break from here. I take classes in ag at the county extension office, when offered, to stay current in the field and hold several state and national certifications in ag. I do these things for entertainment where other men watch football, drink beer and chase women up and down the road (although I have been known to do the last two on occasion). It all just depends on your mindset, I suppose.

And then, I write. The odd poem or short story here and there when the mood strikes me or work on my novel when I can. I have articles published all over the Web, too. I usually enter competitions and submit things for publication as well. When I am not writing, I read. I believe a writer should read at least 2/3's more than they write. It serves to encourage you as a writer when you read the rubbish and humble you when you read the really good.

Somewhere in there, I eat something or sleep.

But here's the thing: for the first 40 years of my life, I did what others wanted. For the next forty, I intend to do what I want for me. Sounds fair enough and I am the only one I have to please in the end. My happiness and contentment lies in my own hands and no one else's. It is the one part of me no one can take unless I allow them to have it.

Some people have commented that I am borderline genius and I just laugh when I remind them there is a thin line between genius and madness and I tend to lean more toward the latter. My record in the Book of Life will stand in testament to that. Genius is the gift of intelligence at birth while knowledge is earned through the blood, sweat and tears of living a life. People who call others genius most often use their own ignorance for a measuring stick. It's only an indication of how poorly they have expended their time and effort to earn the knowledge that brings about parity.

See? I told you others don't mind stealing your time, lol.

I Went to the Barn This Morning

2008-07-06T13:59:00.003-04:00

I wrote this to add to MS Stover's piece. Her story inspired me this way. I hope she will join us here as a constant contributor.

The calf was lively
Begging to suck
They always do you know
When taken from their mothers

It was not his choice
It was theirs
They had their reasons
And I took the burden

An infant that weighs eighty pounds
Is no less the infant
And a fragile being
At best

I nursed it from birth
Covered his navel in iodine
Gave him a name
And tended to him
But there's just something
About the absence of a mother

I went to feed at noon

I had been raking hay all morning
Thinking of the winter ahead
And the other animals to feed
Maybe I should have checked sooner

The calf lay wheezing on it's side
It's eyes already milky with death
My heart sank at the sight

I set down my bottle of milk
And bucket of feed
I placed it's head in my lap
And cuddled it's neck and talked softly
As it passed.

My eyes were wet
As I left the barn
But I wiped them dry
On my shirt sleeve
Before I went into the house
For supper

She is the One

2008-07-05T23:11:00.000-04:00

Heart ripped out as a child
Taken and hurt without cause
Nothing could justify it
Silent screams in the night
She was the Lamb
Quiet cries fell far away
On the ears of the lion

He rose and began his hunt
He walked and prowled
In a lifelong search
Following the scent of this mourning
And then he found her
Laying quiet but shaking

Crushed, broken and defenseless
The damaged image of a woman
The lion was old and scarred
Taking his time he devoured her
One lick at a time
Ensuring this was his last meal

Chores

2008-06-24T21:12:00.002-04:00

“There ain’t a whole lot can be done for a blind calf. ‘Specially not this one,” he sighed, a great deep sigh. His butt rested on the edge of the seat as he leaned his shoulders back onto the straight wooden rungs of the kitchen chair. He dropped his chin and slid his hat down over his face, pausing there with the smell of sweat thick in his thoughts. He sighed again, sitting forward to half-toss his used-to-be-white hat at the top corner of the chair next to him, kicking at the chair leg. It scraped away from the table, enough room to get his muddy boots off.
The woman at the stove didn’t answer; he didn’t expect an answer, didn’t really want one. She lifted the lid off the small silver pot on the front burner, steam escaping with a clean, green smell. She poked the contents with a fork and set the lid back in place. Another minute, maybe; just right with the biscuits in the oven.
“He’s got himself a twin brother and his mama won’t claim ‘im, won’t let him anywhere near.” He shook his head, grunting softly as he pulled one boot off, using his socked toe to push at the other, loosening off the heel, calloused hands on knees. It came loose and he reached down to right them, pairing them up with his hand stuck down in the high leather tops, moving them under the table. The heels made a sharp flat slap on the old linoleum, dried mud falling off in chunks.
The woman sat a flower-rimmed plate of still-sizzling fried chicken on the table. He stood and walked to the sink, rolling up his sleeves. He lifted the faucet handle and without checking the temperature, stuck both big hands right under the stream of water. He grabbed up the cracked yellow cake and set to working up a lather, scrubbing at the lines of dirt on his wrists, running his fingers together soapily. He picked at a couple of the cracked fingernails, dark earth showing in crescent moons at their tips. He dropped the bar back onto the sink’s soap ridges and rinsed.
“I got two choices and I don’t like either one,” he shut the water off, dripping on the floor as he turned, pulling at the dishtowel -white with light green stripes and a thin fringe on both ends- that hung from the silverware drawer, “I can shoot him or I can bottle feed him.” He stuck the corner of the towel back in the drawer and walked back to his chair to sit in front of supper.
The woman leaned over the table, filling a plate with chicken and fluffy white biscuits and poke greens and baby peas. She set the plate in front of him and busied herself arranging his meal: butter and gravy placed close to his tall cold glass of milk, salt and pepper and more hot biscuits covered over with a sackcloth towel close at hand. He waited until she sat.
“I sure as hell don’t need a big ol’ slobbering blind baby to take care of,” he said, watching her watching him as he began to eat.

-MK Stover

Independence Day 1976

2008-06-20T02:36:00.003-04:00

I have a client from the UK and we exchange emails back and forth revolving around business affairs. Time to time, we include little anecdotes of things going on, on both sides of the big pond.

Recently, he told me of a day he spent in London and how it had drained him and he would get with me the next day to discuss our business. I told him fine and responded with this little tale of a day I spent in London many years ago.

-----

My first trip through London was back in the mid 70's as a young soldier on furlough from Germany. My buddy Jake and me were on a 30-day backpack jaunt across central Europe at the time. We found ourselves in a seedy little pub there and as is often the case with young soldiers, were a bit in our cups. It happened to be the 4th of July. Without thinking much about what I was saying (another common flaw in the character of young soldiers), I asked the barkeeper,

"So, what do you guys do around here to celebrate the 4th?"

Things got oddly quiet in the place as I awaited his reply.

The next thing I knew, I was reeling backwards as Jake dragged me to the door by my collar mumbling apologies to the crowd (some of whom who had taken to their feet and all of whom were rough looking customers) as we went. We hit the street and I followed his lead for a block or so in silence as we made our getaway. He snatched me by the arm and shoved me into a deserted doorway and spat out in a loud whisper,

"What the hell were you thinking back there? Asking about the 4th of July. It's a safe bet they don't celebrate that holiday much here in England, you idiot!"

Jake was a big red-headed farm boy from Minnesota who had about 3" on my 6' 3" frame and had me out weighed by 35-40 pounds. It just seemed my destiny to get a beating that day from somebody. Thinking fast I told him,

"Ahhhh, I see now why they were all out of sorts. That really just never occurred to me as I was asking it. Sorry, dude, I'll try to do better tomorrow."

I followed this with my best sheepish grin and a slurred wink.

It was good fortune for me I guess that Jake's nature was to cool off as quick as he angered and he broke out laughing at the whole thing. We started walking down the street again and I asked him,

"You got any money still? I saw another pub just up the street when we passed by earlier and it had lots more women in it than that other one anyway. Whatta ya, say? You up for it?"

And the rest is another story for another day. lol

(Disclaimer: No American soldiers or citizens of the Crown were injured during the events leading up to this tale.)

No Regret

2008-06-03T12:30:00.001-04:00

No Regret

When life gets easier
and the corners of my mind
stop spinning from frustration,
I will shine like city lights
off in the distance
of a desert night.

----- I will laugh with my head back
----- so my white teeth show
----- the color in my cheeks.

When life is less bitter
and the hobgoblins of little minds
fade into the background static,
I will ring like wedding bells
on a pristine afternoon
with a tone clear and warm.

----- Everyone is holding hands
----- and the air is swirling
----- with apple blossoms and honey bees.

When everything is going right
and the black clouds of despair
are brushed away like dusty cobwebs,

----- will you run with me
----- down highway 64
----- to the county line, and beyond,
----- peel the past from our foreheads,
----- let the wind catch our innocence,
----- and listen to the steel belts play
----- a back-beat rhythm
----- to a traveling tune?

When it is all over,
and the pain no longer covers
my eyes with a jaded veil,

----- I will cast my bitterness
----- into the fiery furnace
----- and ride the sooty smoke
----- like a drunken Phoenix
----- into the topaz-blue sky.
---------- And as I look down
---------- at my pallid reflection
---------- will I say, without doubt
---------- that I had a good life?

For Memorial Day

2008-05-25T11:34:00.000-04:00

I will not decorate my door in Red, White nor Blue
This is not the image I wish to portray to you
But rather in browns, grays and colors of gloom
Of Falling, Crashing, Death and Doom

Tears
that spill
and flood to the ground
Blood
that splatters
without a sound

W i t h o u t a s o u n d

Our troops are out there and until they return
I’ll use colors of Sand, Dirt, Mud and Blood

It’s the least I can do to express my concern
For a nation that has yet to learn

I bow my head, show my respect
It's the colors of this nation that I reject
The Lost, the Missing, the Dead
It's for you I bow my head
To Comrades that fought and carried the burden
I wear the colors of Soldiers, of that I am certain

At Her Poetry Reading

2008-05-10T16:52:00.003-04:00

There are no rights and wrongs,

only different verses to different songs

that we call life.

No confusion in the moral dilemma,

just thoughts and feelings that stew and simmer

into meaning.

Do you want to know the meaning of life?

It is the meaning you give to your toil and strife

while learning the many rural routes to heaven.

I believe in you

and in this life, those people are few,

who share, who care, who dare

to make a difference for the better,

so when you read this letter,

remember me up there on your reading stool,

and how I whispered, that girl's no fool,

her heart is pure

and knows the cure

is more than just an oval pill,

a simple thrill,

a space to fill

in time.

Don't be afraid to shine,

its after all, what you do best,

you'll pass this test

and at the end you'll find,

a heart of gold,

a hand to hold,

something strong to mould

into a thing divine

and if that hand or heart be lacking

and you need a friend,

here I am,

take mine.

Lady Birch

2008-05-08T11:26:00.003-04:00

(Written for my dear friend Lady Birch)

Douglas Fir's heavy shoulders sag
As Scottie Pine dances madly
under the stormy sky

Sessile Oak stands tall and strong
and hardly moves at all

Poor Lily Magnolia,
bruised reddish purple, she blushes naked
as late winterly winds argue overhead

Yet none is worse than Willow, she weeps
and waves all through the night

But through the storm and in beauty
Lady Birch branches out
and touches all.

Todd, NC

2008-05-02T15:17:00.002-04:00

Elkland, once a boom town of Watauga County,
where the railroad from Abingdon ended
to drop off passengers and load timber.
The giant engines spun on a turntable
to head back the other way.

Hotels, stores, banks, and taxi service
sprung up like mushrooms in a narrow valley,
shared by the South Fork of the New River.
Loggers and saw mills made their truck ready
to be hauled back the other way.

With the forests stripped of their hardwoods,
the Virginia-Carolina came less frequently
until, nothing to haul and no one to bring,
like locusts they swarmed to other prospects,
to make their living in other ways.

The railroad gone, the tracks were taken up,
its steel sold cheaply to the Japanese,
just like New York’s Sixth Avenue El,
scrap metal turned to weapons of warfare
used against our own Pacific Fleet
to send our boys to a watery grave.

In Passing

2008-04-14T14:45:00.003-04:00

Red-tailed hawks cry out from a high in a pine,
shaking loose a minor blizzard below.
Spin-trails of four-wheelers traced in new snow
look like new-age crop circles
or the landing places of intergalactic craft
that lost their way in the storm.

A man feeds hay to winter-furred Belgian horses,
his breath and theirs rising like locomotive steam;
the wagon and harness stand ready nearby.
A fishing boat cuts through snow at Elk Fork dam,
blowing tiny drifts against dead trees in the lake,
white snow on dark water.

I drive slowly, recording
each scene like a photo
to be developed later,
perhaps into a story, or
perhaps remembered only
in passing.

Susanna Holstein

Uncle Hop

2008-04-14T09:27:00.004-04:00

The house burnt to the ground and melted the blue carpet to the concrete steps.
Grandma’s crooked willow stands in the back yard, big with all the years since childhood. The yard seems smaller even without the house to fill it up. The well is fenced around and heavy wooden planks crisscross its gaping mouth. The cherry tree is gone and all the yard flowers have been crowded out by scrubby field growth.
The barn still stands, the red roof faded to pink. I tear through blackberry brambles that tug at my clothes and the bare skin of my arms to reach the faded door. I grab hold of the thick wooden handle, smooth with years of sweat, and lift the weight off the broken hinge. The door scrapes open enough to squeeze through into the darkness. The hay and leather smell is strong. The floor is rotted through and the dust I’ve stirred up floats in a slice of sunlight.
The years slip out through the spider webs and I see Queenie with her puppies, myself as a child.
This is where I saw Uncle Hop after he died.

-MK Stover

Oasis

2008-04-08T13:10:00.003-04:00

Black asphalt bends the summer sun into puddles and lakes

The temperature is a hundred and one in the shade

A roadrunner dines on his meal of rattlesnake

As I top the crest and the mirage begins to fade

No water on the highway and in the forecast, no rain

Cacti dot the hills and rocks of this empty arid land

Vultures march the lonely tracks, vacant of any train

Telegraph poles lean rotting crusted and carved by sand

A few miles outside of Victoria and I had been driving hours

The desert loosed its grip on the habitat of men

I saw a ten acre field filled with yellow flowers

And in the sweetness of the sight, your face appeared just then

A man can thirst for more than water when he begins to roam

The heart and soul can become a desert beneath the sickly blue

But here, this yellow field of flowers has carried me back home

To the oasis of my hopes and dreams, the smiling face of you

A Message From Author Silas House

2008-03-28T05:09:00.004-04:00

We thought your members/readers might want to know about a couple of great opportunities for writers. If you could pass this on we'd sure appreciate it. We're especially excited about the Ritchie Fellowship, in which your members are sure to be interested.

1. The Third Annual Mountain Heritage Literary Festival Writing Awards

2. The Jean Ritchie Fellowship in Appalachian Writing-a $1,500 award for a deserving Appalachian writer

1. The Mountain Heritage Literary Festival at Lincoln Memorial University announces its third annual writing competition. Visit our website at www.lmunet.edu/mhlf

The Jesse Stuart Prize for Young Adult Fiction will be judged by Anne Shelby http://www.anneshelby.com/ , beloved author of
The Adventures of Molly Whuppie. Entries for this prize are limited to no more than 2,000 words and may not be entered simultaneously in the Still contest.

The James Still Prize for Short Story will be judged by Chris Holbrook http://www.moreheadstate.edu/eflp/index.aspx?id=6752 , author of the modern classic Hell and Ohio. Entries for this prize should be no more than 4,000 words and there is no restriction on subject matter.

The George Scarbrough Prize for Poetry will be judged by Lyrae Van Clief Stefanon http://www.upress.pitt.edu/BookDetails.aspx?bookId=35423 , Academy of American Poets award-winning author of Black Swan. There are no restrictions on subject matter or length for this prize and an entry is considered one set of up to three poems. If the winners so choose, the top three prize poems will be published in The Emancipator literary journal.

The Emma Bell Miles Prize for Essay will be judged by Karen McElmurray http://al.gcsu.edu/ksmcelmurray.htm , award winning author of Surrendered Child and Strange Birds in the Tree of Heaven This prize is restricted to essays that address Appalachian life, literature, religion, folklore, culture, and/or values. Entries for this prize should be no more than 4,000 words.

Submitted entries must be unpublished. Photocopies are accepted. Submit two copies with a title page that includes your name, address, telephone number, email address, the title of the piece and the name of the contest to which you are submitting. Make sure that your name does not appear anywhere besides the title page to insure blind judging. Judging for this contest is completely blind and will go through a series of readers before getting to the final judge, who will pick the top three entries in each category. Contest entry fees cannot be refunded and no entries will be returned. Prizes will be awarded at the Mountain Heritage Literary Festival at LMU on June 14, 2008. Those winners not present will be mailed their prizes. Deadline for postmark is May 20, 2008. Any entry that is not postmarked will not be opened and failure to follow the above guidelines will result in disqualification.

Please enclose an $8 fee per entry (make check payable to LMU) and send your submission to Mountain Heritage Literary Festival Writing Contest, Kresge Hall, Lincoln Memorial University, 6965 Cumberland Gap Parkway, Harrogate, TN 37752. Please send email inquiries about the contest to Denton Loving at denton.loving@lmunet.edu but please make sure your answer cannot be found above.

2. THE JEAN RITCHIE FELLOWSHIP IN APPALACHIAN WRITING

Through literature, a region tells stories to its citizens and the world. The Jean Ritchie Fellowship seeks to support, encourage and honor writers from the Southern Appalachians.

The fellowship is the first of its kind for the region's writers, and is committed to Appalachian voices.

Jean Ritchie of Viper, Kentucky, and Port Washington, New York, is a musician, author of prose and poetry, social activist, teacher, historian and folk music collector. The fellowship strives to support artists who, like Ritchie, create works of beauty and social relevance, while honoring traditional heritage and forging a new path.

Find out more about Jean Ritchie at http://www.jeanritchie.com/.

Award amount: $1,500

Fellowship Guidelines:

Poetry: Submit no more than ten pages.
Prose (Fiction and Nonfiction): Submit no more than twenty pages.

All work samples must be double-side printed and page numbered. Previously published material will not be accepted. No collaborative work samples or joint applications, please. Include a very brief, one page cover letter. To ensure an anonymous reading process, please do not put your name on any application materials excepting the cover letter.

For all genres, include a statement of purpose-no more than two pages-summarizing:

1. What Appalachia means to you (for example: identity, culture, sense of place, values, economics, environment).

2. What does writing mean in your life?

3. Your current writing project.

4. How would you utilize the fellowship funding?

Applicants must be 18 years of age or older.

If awarded a fellowship, you will not be eligible to apply for another five years.

http://www.lmunet.edu/mhlf/map.html Please consult the map http://www.lmunet.edu/mhlf/map.html http://www.lmunet.edu/mhlf/map.html to determine if the county and state in which you live, or are originally from, is eligible as defined by the fellowship requirements. Indicate your county and state in the cover letter.

Fee: Five dollars per submission. You may apply in more than one genre. For each genre in which you apply, there is an additional five dollar reading fee.

Check or money order made out to LMU, Jean Ritchie Fellowship. No cash.

Submissions will be accepted from February 1 - April 1, 2008.

Postmarked deadlines are firm. Early, late, ineligible, and incomplete applications will be rejected. Manuscripts will not be returned but will be recycled.

Fellowship winner will be announced at the Mountain Heritage Literary Festival, June 14, 2008, and posted on this website by June 17.

Please do not seek information on the status of your application before the announcement date listed above.

Please mail your submission to: The Jean Ritchie Fellowship c/o Silas House Lincoln Memorial University P.O. Box 2005 Harrogate, Tennessee 37752 If you have questions, email:
denton.loving@lmunet.edu or 423.869.6432

Kentucky Hills

2008-03-19T15:10:00.003-04:00

As Spring gets ready to greet us and Winter draws to a close, I am reminded of the harsh Summer of 2007 and the lingering effects of the worst Kentucky drought since the 1930's. Predictions for normal weather and rainfall for 2008 remain hopeful.

*****
The hills of Kentucky are blazing
under an unforgiving glare
as drought settles in
and takes a hold of this land
while crops wither
and pastures choke

Parched lips frown
as the sun smolders down
Tired backs slump
already spent,
and slowly turn away

Stale air lingers
as hope dwindles
and turns into despair
leaving hearts to sink
and heads to bow
in common prayer

The Hills of Kentucky are Blazing
while both man and beast
slowly starve

*****

Peoria, Texas, March 22, 1891

2008-03-13T15:34:00.002-04:00

After some delay I am finally
getting around to writing you.
Them seeds and beans come through
all right. I am very thankful.
People are later planting this spring.
We had a big snow the first of March,
but prospects are still good for
at least a tolerable early crop.

I would like to see you out here
this fall, or later in the summer
when I can feed you on melons
from the patch I’m going to plant
behind the new school house.
You promised to come soon and
it is about time you was deciding,
but I fear that promises is all I have.

Tell your brother John I said
for him to come out here to east Texas
where he can farm right for a change
instead of plowing on rocky hillsides,
where he can get land so level and rich
it will make his eyes water to look.
A man can make an honest living out here,
can get all the work and land he wants.

Write me a long letter about home.
Give me all the news from Sevier County.
Tell your family I think of them often,
but don’t hug your sisters too hard
for they sometimes giggle and break wind.
Right now I’m sure you are all in bed asleep
under the same moon that’s full as a dinner plate.
I hope you are sleeping peaceful.

You asked about my health this winter.
After I got accustomed to the weather
which is about as cold as any in Tennessee,
I manage to eat well enough, though I miss
your cooking, your biscuits, and your smile.
I still am the tallest man in town,
and have not lost weight since last we met.
Board and washing is included in my wages,
but not a woman’s care.

I lifted your letter out of the office on the 20th.
Let me hear from you soon so I can plan.
If you want to come ahead I will assist you.
The country’s health and wages are all right.
We will have our own pastor and
a nice new church at the end of town.
My land will be six miles west of Hillsboro,
and two miles south of Peoria
when the deed comes through.
But a man can only wait for so long.
I promised your dear Maw I would
take care of you should you come.
Bring me all the news of home yourself.

Yours,
J.B. Sherfly

The Painting Pen

2008-02-27T12:29:00.004-05:00

The Painting Pen: A Poem by Fabian G. Franklin

Dry yellow grasses rustle stiffly in the field
shifting nervous in late October wind
The sky; a shade lighter maybe than baby blue
whispers tunes of what will be and what has been
A chipmunk scurries with cheeks full of seeds
to an underground burrow in a tall clump of weeds
He saves what he can for winter days ahead
when snow falls and frosted grass is hoary overhead
Crow caws, mockingbird flits from tree to tree
Squirrel in his climb twitches his tail violently
He chitter chatters angrily the invasion of his privacy
Approaching calico cat slinks stealthily below
Squirrel knows, like mouse and rat, she is his mortal foe
Three does came yesterday leaping the vines and brush
They come to eat the apples fallen from my tree
Their tawny velvet bellies swollen thick and plush
raced by; black marble eyes staring wild at me
With charcoal and pastels I came to paint the field
Autumns colors were burning the sumac and maple
Just beyond the two-lane blacktop, power lines;
signs this place was encroached upon by my kind
I wish I could remove them if I were only able
Grasshopper flits on raspy wings, perches on a stalk
A lone tall weed still offering a hint of green
Above against the blue I see a circling red-tail hawk
Rabbit comes from the forest, bunny brown and soft
Stepping tentatively into the field until
The spiraling dark shadow scares him off
Now, I lay aside my pastels for my pen;
my charcoals for my poetry, and begin to paint again

2008-02-13T11:43:00.002-05:00

77th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition

For 77 years, the Annual Writer’s Digest Competition has rewarded writers just like you for their finest work. We continue the tradition by giving away more than $30,000 in cash and prizes!

Win a trip to New York City !

GRAND PRIZE: $3,000 cash and a trip to New York City to meet with editors or agents. Writer's Digest will fly you and a guest to The Big Apple, where you'll spend three days and two nights in the publishing capital of the world. While you're there, a Writer's Digest editor will escort you to meet and share your work with four editors or agents! Plus, you'll receive a free Diamond Publishing Package from Outskirts Press.

Entry Deadline: Thursday, May 15, 2008.

For entrants paying with a credit card, we will accept manuscripts submitted online. Manuscripts in the script categories must be submitted via regular mail.

Compete and Win in 10 Categories!

Inspirational Writing (Spiritual/Religious)
Memoirs/Personal Essay
Magazine Feature Article
Genre Short Story (Mystery, Romance, etc.)
Mainstream/Literary Short Story
Rhyming Poetry
Non-rhyming Poetry
Stage Play (* submission by mail only)
Television/Movie Script (* submission by mail only)
Children's/Young Adult Fiction

Entry Fee: Poems are $10 for the first entry; $5 for each additional poem submitted in the same online session. All other entries are $15 for the first manuscript; $10 for each additional manuscript submitted in the same online session.

Add $2 per manuscript to all entries postmarked after Thursday, May 15, 2008. Entries postmarked after Monday, June 02, 2008, will not be accepted.

Prizes

Grand Prize: $3,000 cash and a trip to New York City to meet with editors and agents.

You'll spend three days and two nights in NYC and a Writer's Digest editor will escort you to meet with four editors or agents of your choice! (Includes airfare within the U.S., meals, transportation and related expenses.)

First Place: The First Place Winner in each category receives $1,000 cash, a manuscript critique and marketing advice from a Writer's Digest editor or advisory board member, and $100 worth of Writer's Digest Books.

Second Place: The Second Place Winner in each category receives $500 cash, plus $100 worth of Writer's Digest Books.

Third Place: The Third Place Winner in each category receives $250 cash, plus $100 worth of Writer's Digest Books.

Fourth Place: The Fourth Place Winner in each category receives $100 cash.

Fifth Place: The Fifth-Place Winner in each category receives $50 cash.

Sixth through Tenth Place: The Sixth- through Tenth-Place winners in each category receive $25 cash.

First through Tenth Place Winners also receive a copy of the 2009 Writer’s Market Deluxe Edition and a one-year subscription (new or renewal) to Writer’s Digest Magazine.

11th through 100th Place: All other winners receive distinctive certificates honoring their accomplishment.

PLUS—Especially for Writer's Digest subscribers: Writer's Digest subscribers who enter the competition and provide a valid subscription number are eligible to win a special prize package featuring a one-year subscription renewal to Writer's Digest, the 2009 Writer's Market Deluxe Edition, and $100 worth of free Writer's Digest Books. You have five chances to win.

For entrants paying with a credit card, we will accept manuscripts submitted online. Manuscripts in the script categories must be submitted via regular mail.

Entry Deadline: Thursday, May 15, 2008

Late Entry Deadline: Monday, June 02, 2008 (Add $2 to Entry Fee(s) )

Competition Rules

The Categories:

You may enter as many manuscripts as you like in each of the following categories:

Memoirs/Personal Essay, Magazine Feature Article and Children's/Young Adult Fiction: 2,000 words maximum.

Mainstream/Literary Short Story and Genre Short Story: 4,000 words maximum.
Inspirational Writing: 2,500 words maximum.

Rhyming Poem and Non-rhyming Poem: 32 lines maximum.

Stage Play Script or Television/Movie Script: Send the first 15 pages in standard script format, plus a one-page synopsis. Complete scripts are not eligible. Scripts—original or written for any series in production on or after January 1, 2008—are eligible; adaptations will not be accepted.

Remember, scripts can not be submitted online. If you would like to enter a script, use this printable form and send the script via regular mail.

Preparing Your Entry:

If you are submitting your entry via regular mail, the entry must be accompanied by an Entry Form, and the required entry fee (credit card information, check or money order made payable to Writer's Digest). If you are entering more than one manuscript, you may mail all entries in the same envelope and write one check for the total entry fee; however, each manuscript must have its category indicated in the upper left-hand corner.

Your entry must be original, in English, unpublished* and unproduced, not accepted by any other publisher or producer at the time of submission. Writer's Digest retains one-time publication rights to the Grand Prize and First Place winning entries in each category to be published in a Writer's Digest publication.

* Entries in the Magazine Feature Article category may be previously published.

If you are submitting your entry via regular mail, the entry must be typed on one side of 8-1/2 x 11 or A4 white paper. Scripts and poems may be either double-or single-spaced; all other manuscripts must be double-spaced. Online entries may lose double-spacing. This WILL NOT result in disqualification. Your name, address, phone number and competition category must appear in the upper left-hand corner of the first page—otherwise your entry is disqualified.

BE SURE OF YOUR WORD COUNT! Entries exceeding the word or page limits will be disqualified. Type the exact word count (counting every single word, except the title and contact information) at the top of the manuscript.
Mailed entries must be stapled

Judging and Notification

Every entry will be read by the judges. Judges' decisions are final. Judges reserve the right to re-categorize entries.

Entries must be postmarked by Monday, June 02, 2008. We cannot return submitted manuscripts so keep a copy for your records. To receive notification of the receipt of your manuscript, send a self-addressed stamped postcard along with your entry. Please note that it may take up to 30 days after the deadline for all entries to be opened and sent to the judges.

The Grand Prize Winner and a guest must agree to travel (flying from the same city) during March, April or May 2009. The editors or agents who meet with the Grand Prize Winner are under no obligation to read, buy or represent the Grand Prize Winner's work. For more information of the free Diamond Publishing package from Outskirts Press, visit http://www.outskirtspress.com/diamondpublishing.php.

The following are not permitted to enter the contest: employees of F+W Publications, Inc., and their immediate family members; Writer's Digest contributing editors and correspondents as listed on our masthead; Writer's Online Workshops instructors; and Grand Prize Winners from the previous three years.

Top Award Winners will be notified by mail before October 20, 2008. The top 10 winners in each category will be listed in the December 2008 issue of Writer's Digest. All 1,001 winners will be listed in the 77th Annual Writer's Digest Competition Collection (published by Outskirts Press) and at www.writersdigest.com after the December issue is published. Prizes/awards certificates will be mailed by November 6, 2008.

Questions?

For questions, contact Writer's Digest Competitions at (513) 531-2690 ext. 1328 or email writing-competition@fwpubs.com.

Entry Form

To submit your entry online, visit our secure online entry form.

To enter via regular mail, use the printable form, and send it with your manuscript and entry fee to:

77th Annual Writer's Digest Writing Competition
700 E. State Street
Iola, WI 54990

2008-02-11T13:45:00.000-05:00

The 16th Annual Writer's Digest International Self Published Book Awards

Win $3,000 in cash
Gain national exposure for your book
Catch the attention of prospective editors and publishers

Writer's Digest is searching for the best self-published books of the past few years. Whether you're a professional writer, part-time freelancer, or a self-starting student, here's your chance to enter the only competition exclusively for self-published books.

THE CATEGORIES:

Mainstream/Literary Fiction

Genre Fiction

Nonfiction

Inspirational (Spiritual, New Age)

Life Stories (Biographies, Autobiographies, Family Histories, Memoirs)

Children's Picture books

Middle-Grade/Young Adult books

Reference Books (Directories, Encyclopedias, Guide Books)

Poetry

ENTRY DEADLINE: May 1, 2008

ENTER NOW!

A Little Acrostic

2008-01-26T10:42:00.000-05:00

Who will suffer these little ones?
Alone at this tender age
Robbed of unknown futures.

Because men could not
Abide one another in tolerance?
Because adults chose actions
Infantile in nature?
Egos raged as
Shots rang out.

--------------------------------------------

Strong idiologies
Erase reason and logic
Initiating carnage.
Bledout bodies
Already rotting in the sun
Belong to someone’s father.

Remember this legacy
As it predicts the future
When men learn nothing from history.

Copyright © 2007 WML

Poem

2008-01-16T14:23:00.000-05:00

Durazno Dulce

It's January,
and I'm eating a ripe peach.
The cool flesh quenches me
like a South Carolina breeze
off the distant mountain ridges.
I can almost taste the sweet clover
growing between the orchard rows
when I close my eyes and chew slowly.

It's funny,
that this fuzzy, half-eaten fruit
is from the country of Chile
and not from Greer, or Cooley Springs.
Though I've been down Highway 25,
long before it turned four-lane,
I can't quite picture the towering Andes
or feel the wind from their snow-capped peaks.

Behind the Ring...

2008-01-10T00:06:00.000-05:00

Smells of pungent manure and sweet alfalfa mingle this morning,
Aged by a gentle whiff of charcoal and hickory smoke now and then.
The overcast skies have opened a little,
Letting the sun show her pale face a bit,
Warming man and beast alike on this cool March morning.
Final drags on cigarettes are carried away on frosty breaths,
Swirling, then disappearing, over the backs of the penned animals.
Folded arms resting on the cold steel rail of the cattle panel,
Chin perched on gloved hands; I take in this moment of peace.
As I watch calves suck the last of their breakfast,
I know this is the calm before the storm.
As I wait, I listen…

I hear the crushing of straw as cattle shift their stance,
Taking another bite of hay or licking a calf.
Behind me I hear the hurried crunch of gravel,
As booted feet shuffle past, headed for the sale barn.
The quiet din from inside the building gets louder,
Then slowly grows vague again as the door opens then closes,
Allowing passage for someone in or out.
The voices from small groups gathered around are a soft buzz,
Broken by occasional bursts of laughter as some tale is told.
Impatient animals rattle metal gates and chains,
As a final test of their confinement.
A bellowing bull or a bawling calf,
Drowns out the song of the mockingbird,
Which has taken the stage in a nearby redbud tree.
As I listen, I watch…

Cowhands sit, stand or mill around the places they will work today.
Older men and young ones too, all colors, shapes and sizes,
All equal in the job at hand, all ready to do their duty.
Confident men with quick eyes, legs and wits,
A Godsend, in that moment of truth, should an animal go wild.
Fathers and mothers walk the pens, talking quietly amongst themselves,
Pointing here and commenting there as they move along their way.
The eager ears and curious eyes of sons and daughters close behind,
Clinging on every word of the lessons being offered up today.
An old man with a garden hose wets the ally between the panels,
Filling the air with the smell of a new plowed field after a rain.
It won’t help much and it won’t last long, but it will settle the dust a bit.
As I watch, I think…

Nervous sellers greet anxious buyers with smiles and handshakes;
Much of their livelihood is at stake here today.
The sellers have the past year of their lives on the block,
And the buyers gamble their futures.
It is what they do, it is who they are, these Herdsmen,
Raising cattle as a vocation of total commitment.
The stewardship of these massive, fragile beasts,
It is a way of life to those born to it.
Bulls breed, cows calve, calves grow and are sold,
And the endless cycle is repeated again and again.
The blood, sweat and tears of years past and yet to come,
Sweeten the pot to be played for here today.
The ante is up and the cards are dealt,
Let this hand begin…

“All right, girls! Is everybody ready?” shouts the yard boss.
Startled cowhands jump to their feet and face the old man.
Grinning through his gray stubble he yells, ”Then bring `em on!”
Coats are pulled off and flung across fences, as the first gate opens.
Daydreams shatter against the wall of reality as cattle sticks are found.
Shouts and whistles fill the air!
The first group of cattle runs past me in the ally.
The cowhand pushing them turns back for the next bunch.
I close the gate behind him with a metallic clank.
The cattle are driven up into the working chute.
Sliding gates close behind them.
I open my gate again, just in time for the next group to pass.
Over and over again the cattle are driven past me.
Over and over again I catch them in front of me with the cut-off gate.
The pace is furious and the pulse is rapid,
I wipe sweat from my brow, keeping it from my eyes.
Soon the chute is full, as are the pens formed from cut-off gates.

Taking a moment to catch our breath, we rest and wait.
But there being no rest for the wicked, as they say,
The ring door opens and the first cattle up disappear through it.
“Keep `em movin’, girls.” shouts the yard boss, over the song of the auctioneer,
“That auctioneer charges by the hour, and he can’t work if it ain’t in the ring.”
The pace has slowed some, but remains steady as we advance one group at a time.
Cows with calves are sold, bred heifers, bred cows, open heifers and cows.
All are moved through, sold and returned to their pens.
“All right, ladies,” hollers the yard boss, “Now you earn your keep.”
We all know what he means, time for the bulls.
“Work `em easy now, don’t need anybody gettin’ hurt.”
“Just remember the boss man’s policy, if you get killed, you’re fired!” he chuckles.
The laugh that leaves my mouth is replaced by the taste of brass,
As the first bull moves down the ally towards me.

I face the fence, avoiding eye contact with the big animal.
As he lumbers past me, I can feel the ground move,
And feel the heat coming from his body.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a passing glance from him,
As he seems to almost float by, sniffing the air as he goes.
He knows who owns this ally today and it isn’t me.
Straight up in the chute he goes without a hitch.
What a magnificent, majestic creature!
One by one, the other bulls are moved forward,
Filling the chute and the catch-pens at last.
The ring door opens and the sale resumes.
One by one the massive beasts are moved forward.
One by one they enter the chute and then the ring.
Several of the younger bulls balk at the chute, trying to turn back,
But relent and go on at the behest of cattle sticks and twisted tails.
As the last bull enters the chute, I climb the gate out of the ally.

I pull my bandana from my pocket,
And wipe the sweat and dust from my face.
I light a cigarette and take a deep drag on it,
Just now realizing how warm the day has become.
Picking up my coat and cattle stick from the fence,
I turn to walk to the sale building.
As I enter through the passage door,
The last bull enters the sale ring.
“Hell,” I grin to myself,
“I wanted to see at least one of `em sell.”

Copyright © WML 2007

We Were Bitten by Spiders!

2007-12-18T13:22:00.000-05:00

Hello all.

Just to let you know what happened. For some reason or the other, the Google spiders seemed to think this was a spam site and locked us up for a bit. I requested a review and we have been set free again. Sorry for the inconvenience if anyone tried to post or comment. I think we are on the move again now.

Mike

Poem

2007-12-05T16:15:00.000-05:00

Cold

Starts with the wind,
distantly
howling and scraping
blindly
through skeleton trees,
rolling
down the mountain,
gaining momentum,
darkly
drawing the night closer,
slaps
against our clapboard house,
squeezing
creaks and moans,
twists
frame and rafters,
foundation footings.

A sudden silence,
quietly
slides like mercury
under doors,
window panes,
along hushed floors,
climbs
my footboard,
slips
under the corners,
quilted covers,
curling
around my toes,
settling
among bare-boned ankles,
siphons
what little warmth
can cling to me.

Tears of Blood

2007-11-25T09:55:00.000-05:00

As far back as she could remember, Sara Beth Mullins had heard stories about this town. Staring out the window at the busy street five stories below, her mind could still smell the vanilla Cavendish pipe tobacco and feel the soft whiskers of her Papaw’s beard tickling her neck as he spoke of adventures in that place called Louisville. She had never been farther than Somerset at that time, the county seat of Pulaski County, and his tales sounded as exciting and mysterious to her as any foreign land could offer up.

Sara Beth had sat there in quiet reverence listening to the words of the man she was sure held hero status anywhere his boots touched the ground. He told of the great Bourbon Stockyards where hundreds, maybe thousands, of animals were sold to market every week. He even took his cattle and hogs there several times a year to be sold. He said they just brought better money there than they did in Lexington, but she always suspected he just went mostly for the adventure of it.

He told of buildings so tall you had to hold your hat on your head when you looked to the top to keep it from hitting the ground behind you. He would chuckle as he told of people jumping in fright down on the river levy when the big paddle wheeler would blow her whistle announcing her departure. And he spoke softly of the beautiful ladies in fancy gowns and big hats down on Fourth Street at night, under the marquee lights of the theaters there.

"But none as pretty as your Mamaw though," he whispered loud enough for all to hear.

That always brought a blush across Mamaw’s cheeks and bent her lips into a smile. He spoke down this street and up that one, always keeping young Sara Beth right along with him as he wondered at the people, places and things he saw. He would take her there with him in a carriage of gilded words pulled by a team of whispered visions.

That seemed a lifetime ago, she thought, and the reality of it struck her hard. It could very well be a lifetime ago, given her reason for being here today. Sixteen years could hardly be considered a lifetime, but then again she guessed it could if it was all you were given.

Scanning the skyline and streets around her perch, nothing seemed at all like she imagined it would be. The buildings were brown and dirty and dingy looking under the gray and yellow overcast skies. Somehow the scenery fit her mood rather well, she thought. Turning away from the window, Sara Beth crossed the room and took a seat behind the little coffee table opposite her parents. She opened the pamphlet she had been clutching in her hand and began to read.

"The James Graham Brown Cancer Center was established in 1977 by a group of local citizens who…"

A chill made her shiver as the loud metallic clank of the door echoed through the silence of the room.

"Mullins…. Sara Beth Mullins?" the nurse queried through a bright smile…

* * * * *

The only sound in the room was the quiet creak of the chair beside her, as her mother’s weight shifted from tense rigidity to settle in limpness. Sara Beth could not break the stare she held with the doctor’s eyes. His confident face could not hide that instant of helpless loneliness she saw at the edges of a sad gray there. As the extra beats of her heart dissolved in her chest and slid down her insides to lay cold and numb in the bottom of her belly, she felt sorry for the man. How terrible this must all be for him as well, she thought.

"Acute lymphocytic leukemia," he had said. "ALL for short."

As lead investigator in her case, Dr. Wesley Kincaid had identified her assailant; he even knew his nickname. With the perpetrator now in custody, Dr. Kincaid vowed to prosecute to the fullest extent of his knowledge. He laid out all evidence before Sara Beth and her parents and went over his strategy for the trial ahead of them. His candor was appreciated if reluctantly accepted. But he also knew that the perpetrator would walk away from the Court of Medicine in the Hall of Science two out of five times, return to the scene of his crime and finish the job he had started. He told them this as well.

Sara Beth only half listened as the doctor laid out her treatment plan. The specific mechanics of it all was not something she was sure she wanted to know about anyway. Suffice it to be enough to know that the road ahead of her would be long and hard traveled. Maybe her lack of attention was a self-defense mechanism allowing her to slowly accept the knowledge that a vile and hideous monster had invaded her body. Or maybe it was a display of her real inner strength; her ability to put others in front of herself, even at the most trying of times.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the doctor. How could he do this day in and day out, sometimes hour after hour and maintain his sanity? Go from one patient to the next and tell them that there is a good chance they are going to die and there is not really much we can do to help. Sara Beth couldn’t even begin to fathom the weight of a burden like that. She was startled out of her thoughts the second time that she heard her name.

"Sara Beth, do you have any questions … Sara Beth?" the doctor asked.

"No," was all she said.

"OK then," he said. "I’ll have the nurse schedule your treatments and we’ll get started."

They all stood to leave, the doctor shaking hands with Mr. Mullins and patting the hand of Mrs. Mullins as he held it for a long moment across the desk. Sara Beth walked to where Dr. Kincaid was standing. As he turned to face her, she stepped forward and extended her arms around him in a hug as she closed her eyes and pressed her cheek against his breast. This hug was not for her; it was for him. And there they stood. His hand gently patting her back as his shiny wet eyes found their match across the room in those of her father. For a flicker of an instant, Sara Beth caught the smell of vanilla Cavendish for the second time that day. And she smiled.

The Other Side of Oz...

2007-11-12T11:18:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine and me were talking the other day and he was relating a story about a surreal situation he had found himself in. When he finished his tale, he asked me if I had ever found myself in that situation. I told him this:

Yeah, I have been in some strange places, all right. I remember one night some time ago, lying in an ambush in the American sector of the DMZ in Korea.

We had set up around the Pagoda there, upon the birm that surrounded it. It was the monsoon season and it was pouring rain like a cow pissin' on a flat rock. Even in that heat, at 3 in the morning, we were soaked to the bone and chilled. I had just laid back down in my position after checking my men out, making sure they were awake and ok. I had a clacker in each hand to the two Claymore mines set out to cover the kill zone of our ambush. There had been several recent attempts at infiltrating North Korean Special Forces Teams through our sector and we were quite vigilant.

Even over the drumming of the rain, you could clearly hear the blasting loud speakers of the North Koreans along their fence line some several hundred meters away. My team leader was on one side of me and my KATUSA (Korean Augmentation to the US Army) was on the other, laid out prone like me, our bellies in the mud and wet grass. I was raised up on my forearms watching for any possible movement of the enemy in my kill zone. I leaned over and asked Sergeant Kim, the KATUSA, "Just what the hell are they singing about in that opera crap anyway?"

"Come to the North, we live in paradise over here. Leave your poverty and burdens there and come and join the good times to be had over here. Our fearless leader, Kim Il Sung, will prevail in all of our struggles and insure peace and tranquility to all in the North," Kim said.

Or some old bullshit just about like that. I was lying there thinking about what he had told me and my mind went back to my time on Guard Post Collier.

GP Collier was a man-made mound of earth that rose up out of the rice paddies in the middle of the American sector of the DMZ. Chain-link covered trenches lined the perimeter of the compound and contained a number of fighting positions that we would occupy every day at dawn and dusk for 'Stand-to'. These are the times of the day when attacks were most expected. Fields of fire had been cleared for several hundred meters beyond the chain-link/concertina wire fence that surrounded us. Just inside the fence, and out of reach of Sappers, was a ring of Claymore mines around the perimeter. Outside of the compound were several strategically located LP’s (listening post) that were manned 24/7. We were housed in an underground bunker and had our own platoon-size mess hall there for hot chow. Best chow I had while I was in the Army; chow the only highlight of our day. There was a TV/VCR in the mess hall. How many times have YOU seen Animal House? Or read the same Louis L’Amour book over and over? Home Sweet Home for the month we were there.

A few weeks before this ambush at the Pagoda, my team had pulled guard post duty up there and we provided 24/7 surveillance for the Battalion and the whole 2nd Infantry Division. There was another guard post too, GP Ouellette, that was the twin to ours and several klicks (kilometers) away. We had a tower in the center of the GP that housed radios to the other GP, Company Commander, Battalion HQ, Division HQ and Divarty/CAS (Division Artillery/Close Air Support). Also in the tower was a pair of very powerful ship-to-shore binoculars, like the navy uses, to assist us in our observations.

We could see a big, modern-looking city across the border to the north. Lots of buildings and high-rises. At the edge of the city, on our side, you could see a giant statue of Kim Il Sung and a large North Korean Flag the size of several football fields. But something was just not right. It was hard to put a finger on it until you watched it for a while. But we figured it out and what they were doing there. This was the place we called Propaganda City.

I had the post in the tower many mornings just before Stand-to was called and spent a lot of time looking through those big binos towards the north. Every morning, about an hour before daylight, you could see big convoys of buses entering the city and dropping off hundreds of passengers at various places. Then the buses would exit the city and life began to come alive in Propaganda City. You could see people walking and riding bicycles, driving little plywood cars and trucks around town. Going in buildings and out of them. Just generally giving the impression that it was a thriving metropolis and business was good. But something was just not right, you know? Kind of a gut feeling you get.

I was in the tower several evenings after Stand-to was over and looked to the north again through the big ship-to-shores. The convoy of buses that had dropped the inhabitants off that morning would come back after dark, load up all the people they had brought that morning and take them back out of the city to their little villages in the countryside. Only a skeleton crew was left in place to turn lights off and on throughout the night and drive around town in the little fake cars to lend to the illusion that this was an actual going concern. I gotta tell you, I stood there amazed at the lengths these people were going to, to perpetrate such a visible fraud on the rest of the world. I actually felt kind of insulted that they thought so little of our intelligence to even try something that asinine. The whole routine was repeated every morning, day in, day out.

Several klicks to the rear of the city were two separate ridgelines of mountains, separated in the middle by a large gap between them. We were told that on the other side of these mountains sat 10 North Korean Divisions of Armor and Infantry poised to invade the south at a moment’s notice. A ribbon of concrete appeared on the horizon from between these two ridges and ran south to the edge of the North Korean fence. It was a super-highway, maybe 24 lanes wide, that these divisions would take to the DMZ when they came to overrun us. Yup, you heard me right, overrun us. Our mission was simple. Call higher, inform them that the balloon had gone up, and kill as many as we could before we died in place. We knew that 10 Divisions was about 400-500 thousand soldiers and we had maybe 4-5 thousand soldiers north of the Imjim River on the DMZ. We could rest assured that the only bridge over the river would be gone within seconds of an invasion, as would be our HQ and Divarty, just south of the river. We were to hold in place, disrupt and destroy as best we could until we were killed or captured. The former preferable to the latter. Simple, like I said. But simple almost never means easy in war.

My mind came back to where I was, lying there in the rain, when I felt something on my hands there in front of me. I looked down at my fists balled around the clackers and froze in terror. There, stretched across the backs of both my hands, was the dark, olive drab form of a Mamushi, an ultra-deadly viper common to Korea. It was about a foot or so away from my face as it slowly inched across my hands. I was sure it could feel and hear my heart pounding in my throat as my breath remained frozen in my lungs. I am fairly sure you could have cut titanium washers out of my asshole at that moment. It slowly moved off my hands and onto the hands of my Team Leader there beside me. I could not warn him until it was off of me and then it was too late. He opted for a response completely opposite of mine. He came up off the ground like a piece of spring steel as he fell backwards down the birm we were on. The snake sailed through the air to Purdition, I suppose, at the end of his flailing arms. He rolled down the birm, found his feet like a cougar and proceeded to jump up and down screaming!

“Fuck this shit! I don’t need this fuckin’ shit! Fuck this shit.”

I jumped up and hit the bottom of the birm at a dead run. I covered his mouth with my hands and began to tell him in loud whispers that it was ok, he was ok He gradually calmed down as I held him and called out to the rest of the men that it was ok. I surely didn’t need any more panic than we already had. Tears rain down my soaked cheeks as I tried to regain my composure from laughing so hard. When he had calmed down enough for me to take my hands off his mouth, I looked at him and said,

“Poor ol’ snake. He didn’t stand a chance. I bet you broke his neck.”

Well, now he was laughing too. I looked at my watch and it was time to go anyway, so we packed it in and headed out to our pick-up point. This was just another day in the life of…

And I felt quite at home there in the surreal world that surrounded us. I spent 372 days there and don't regret a minute of it. You know, being an infantry soldier is a hard life, but it does have its rewarding moments. It’s hard to have a good time in some of the places you find yourself in, but we always did our best. Those were the finest bunch of men I ever knew and I was their leader. When I left there I received an Army Commendation medal and a tattoo with our team motto on it. The men bought it for me and they each got one too. Now that medal was all well and good, but that tattoo has no price. It is one of my most prized possessions.

Maybe someday I’ll tell you all about my point man and the Bengal tiger, if you want to hear it.

Copyright © 2006 Mike Lawson

Veteran of Many Wars

2007-11-11T15:27:00.000-05:00

Veteran of Many Wars

He rests—
Son of a coal miner
aVietnam vet
self-taught brick mason
with no diploma to record
his hard-won schooling

Quiet now he rests
in front of the fireplace
he built with his own hands
wrapped in the warmth
of fire and family
peace has found this old Marine
and brought him safely home

To All My Brothers of the Blue Cord and Crossed Rifles

2007-11-11T01:45:00.001-05:00

I dedicate this poem to all my brothers at arms, living and dead, who have served and fought in the brotherhood of the crossed rifles and the blue cord of the Infantry. It somehow seems appropriate to give them honor on the eve of this Veteran's Day. I don’t know who wrote this, but I can just about bet he was a Grunt (See Note). I post this with my mind on my comrades around the globe. Those who patrol those dangerous places while we sleep, hold that piece of ground they stand on, steadfast, against an enemy that would take our freedom from us. Freedom ain’t free and it comes at a great cost. God bless those that are willing to make these sacrifices for us. I salute you.

“I Am The Infantry”

I am the Infantry–
Queen of Battle!
For two centuries I have kept our Nation safe,
Purchasing freedom with my blood.
To tyrants,
I am the day of reckoning;
to the oppressed,
the hope for the future.
Where the fighting is thick,
there am I…
I am the Infantry!
FOLLOW ME!

I was there from the beginning,
meeting the enemy face to face,
will to will.
My bleeding feet stained the snow at Valley Forge;
my frozen hands pulled Washington across the Delaware.
At Yorktown,
the sunlight glinted from the sword
and I begrimed…
Saw a Nation born.
Hardship…And glory
I have known.
At New Orleans,
I fought beyond the hostile hour,
showed the fury of my long rifle…
and came of age.
I am the Infantry!
FOLLOW ME!

Westward I pushed with wagon trains…
moved an empire across the plains…
extended freedom’s borders
and tamed the wild frontier.
I am the Infantry!
FOLLOW ME!

I was with Scott at Vera Cruz…
Hunted the guerilla in the mountain passes…
and scaled the high plateau.
The fighting was done
when I ended my march
many miles
from the old Alamo.
From Bull Run to Appomattox,
I fought and bled.
Both Blue and Gray
were my colors then.
Two masters I served
and united them strong…
proved that this nation
could right a wrong…
and long endure.
I am the Infantry!
FOLLOW ME!

I led the charge up San Juan Hill…
scaled the walls of old Tientsin…
and stalked the Moro
in the steaming jungle still…
always the vanguard,
I am the Infantry!

At Chateau-Thierry,
first over the top,
then I stood like a rock on the Marne.
It was I who cracked the Hindenburg Line…
in the Argonne,
I broke the Kaiser’s spine…
and didn’t come back ’till it was “over,
over there.”
I am the Infantry!
FOLLOW ME!

A generation older at Bataan,
I briefly bowed,
but then I vowed to return.
Assaulted the African shore…
learned my lesson the hard way
in the desert sands…
pressed my buttons into the beach at Anzio…
and bounced into Rome
with determination and resolve.
I am the Infantry!

The English channel,
stout beach defenses
and the hedgerows
could not hold me…
I broke out at St. Lo,
unbent the Bulge…
vaulted the Rhine…
and swarmed the Heartland.
Hitler’s dream
and the Third Reich were dead.

In the Pacific,
from island to island…
hit the beaches
and chopped through
swamp and jungle…
I set the Rising Sun.
I am the Infantry!

In Korea,
I gathered my strenght
around Pusan…
swept across the frozen Han…
outflanked the Reds at Inchon…
and marched to the Yalu.
FOLLOW ME!

In Vietnam,
while others turned aside,
I fought the longest fight,
from the Central Highlands
to the South China Sea
I patrolled the jungle,
the paddies and the sky
in the bitter test
that belongs to the Infantry.
FOLLOW ME!

Around the world,
I stand…
ever forward.
Over Lebanon’s sands,
my rifle steady aimed…
and calm returned.
At Berlin’s gates,
I scorned the Wall of Shame.
I spanned the Caribbean
in freedom’s cause,
answered humanity’s call.
I trod the streets of Santo Domingo
to protect the innocent.
In Grenada,
I jumped at Salinas,
and proclaimed freedom for all.
My arms set a Panamanian dictator to flight
and once more raised democracy’s flag.
In the Persian Gulf,
I drew the line in the desert,
called the tyrant’s bluff
and restored right
and freedom in 100 hours.
Duty called,
I answered.
I am the Infantry!
FOLLOW ME!

My bayonet…
on the wings of power…
keeps the peace worldwide.
And despots,
falsely garbed in freedom’s mantle,
falter…hide.
My ally in the paddies and the forest..
I teach,
I aid,
I lead.
FOLLOW ME!

Where brave men fight…
there fight I.
In freedom’s cause…
I live,
I die.
From Concord Bridge to Heartbreak Ridge,
from the Arctic to the Mekong,
to the Caribbean…
the Queen of Battle!
Always ready…
then,
now,
and forever.

I am the Infantry!
FOLLOW ME!

I dream of the day when armies will no longer be needed. What a waste of the best the world has to offer. No one wins a war, the whole world suffers because of it.

“When the power of Love, overcomes the love of Power, then and only then will we have Peace.”

Anonymous

NOTE: Since first posting this last November, I have found out the lineage of the poem:

“I am the Infantry” was written in 1955 by LTC Stephen H. White, a former editor of Infantry Magazine. The epic poem is an adaptation of a similar poem titled
“I am the Guard”, the original manuscript, of which, was discovered by LTC White in the archives of the Information Section of the National Guard Bureau in Washington. Unfortunately the author of the original is unknown.

The infantry version was first published in the July 1956 issue of Infantry Magazine. It was later revised to it’s present form by LTC White, assisted by Col. Francis X Bradley and SP4 Howard Webber. After revision of the text, the art work surrounding the poem was added by SP4 Joseph Giordano. In July 1959, the new version along with it’s illustrative border was published on the back cover of the July-September issue of Infantry Magazine.

Mike

Winner: Appalachian Writer's Forum October Poetry Challenge

2007-11-09T20:45:00.000-05:00

A Dissenting Voice From The Cemetery Above Grover's Corners
by wk kortas

If you believe all the twaddle you’ve read,
Then I suppose you deserve all you get
(Spend your life here, and you’re better off dead.)

Bovine fools can be easily misled;
You’ll contentedly graze without regret
If you believe all the twaddle you’ve read.

Yes, gloss over harsh truths best left unsaid;
Hushed abortions, lies, promises unmet.
(Spend your life here, and you’re better off dead.)

Our most prominent families so well bred
(Not common mongrels like the family pet)
If you believe all the twaddle you’ve read.

Yet those lawyers and doctors live in dread
Of their pedigree scandalizing their set.
(Spend your life here, and you’re better off dead.)

We who live here with cold stone near our head
Are wholly unconcerned if you’re upset
If you believe all the twaddle you’ve read
(Spend your life here, and you’re better off dead.)

To read other works by wk kortas and many others, visit us at the Appalachian Writer' Forum.

Bad Night in Baghdad

2007-11-08T22:57:00.000-05:00

There are no stars in the soldier’s eyes
Only reflections of rocket’s red glare
There is no hope in the soldier’s heart
Except to get out alive

Dances With Bees...

2007-11-03T10:32:00.001-04:00

Well, it’s coming on to that time of year again; it’s time to start thinking about harvesting some honey. I know it’s the right time because I just finished my last jar of last year’s crop with some hot buttermilk biscuits a few minutes ago. And being out of honey is just against the rules with me; it just won’t do at all. Nope. I get a little nervous just thinking about being out of it, like a smoker without tobacco or a drinker with an empty glass. It just makes me get a little antsy, I guess you would call it.

I have been keeping and tending bees quite a few years now. It’s a good hobby that produces its own rewards. People I know that I have not seen in a year, suddenly start showing up at the house and hinting around about how divine it would be to have a little honey for their biscuits. It’s kind of funny how that works. You can’t find one of those devils when it’s time to throw square bales of hay or hoe the tobacco out. But just like magic, they appear on your doorstep when word gets out that you were seen fooling around in a beehive. Pretty peculiar, isn’t it?

I usually make pretty good money for my troubles. I get $5.00 a pint or $8.00 a quart. Last year, I got 27 pints out of one hive and sold every jar by dinner time (that’s lunch, for you city folks). The reputation of my honey precedes it and it’s not hard to move at all. The hard part is having enough left to do me over the winter! But I manage to stash away 3-4 quarts when they aren’t looking, and that’s plenty for me.

While thinking about harvesting some honey a while ago, I reviewed some bee keeping basics:

 Never open a hive on a cool day, it can chill the brood of unhatched bees and this is not thought of highly by the rest of the hive.

 Never open a hive on windy, overcast days for the same reason.

 Always open hives in the middle of the day, so the majority of field bees are gone gathering nectar and pollen.

 Always move in slow deliberate moves so as not to startle the bees.

 Always have plenty of cool smoke available to soothe the bees.

 Wear light colored clothes and a head net at a minimum.

I thought back to last year when I harvested honey. It was a little later in the year than it is this year. I had been planning on bush hogging that day and had on a pair of blue jeans and a dark green t-shirt. I was coming back up the drive from having breakfast at the little country store on the corner. The wind was blowing a bit and it was drizzling rain. It was basically just a dreary, cool autumn day in the making. It wasn’t cold but yet cool enough to see your breath. It had just got light enough to see good and I thought, “what better day than today to harvest some honey?”

I stopped the truck up the drive from the beehives. I figured this to be fairly quick work, so I left my smoker and head net behind the seat of the truck All I took with me was my hive tool (a small pry bar). My bees are always tame and I’m experienced at this right? It will all be ok.

I let the tailgate of the truck down to set the super on (the box that holds the honey frames) and went on down to the hive. There were a few bees mulling around the entrance, but mostly it looked pretty quiet. I took my hive tool and carefully pried the top cover off and then the hive cover itself underneath. The super had 9 frames in it packed with honey and ready to go. It was also packed with bees. I was thinking that I had better go back to the truck and get the smoker. I bet there were 5000 little heads sticking up between those frames and they were all looking at me.

As I started to turn for the truck, I saw a blur just before the first one stung me right above my left cheekbone, in that real tender place under my bottom eyelid. Well, that hurt. I instinctively raised my hand up rather quickly to remove that little devil as two more popped me on the back and side of my neck. I kind of stumbled backwards a few steps and swatted a few times around the bees gathering in my face. About then I saw what looked like a steady stream of black and yellow demons pouring out of the top of the hive. And I said to myself, “Self! You better run!”

The decision to run had been made, but run where? My mind raced and I thought-water-pond-quick! I stumbled back a few more steps and did a whirl or two and a few sidesteps and then I tripped and fell flailing in the gravel of the drive. I got back to my feet, flailing around and ducking and dodging as I headed for the pond. I noticed that a friend's truck had slowed down out on the road several hundred yards away and he was watching me I suppose. I guess he wondered, “Now, what’s that fool doin’? Out there in the driveway break dancin’ in the rain!” But I was pre-occupied and didn’t have time for him right then. I still had fifty yards between the pond and me, so I pulled out in that direction.

My only problem was that I forget about the high-tensile electric fence between the pond and me. So there I went, flailing around like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, straight into that fence. Pow! Pow! Every second it poured it on me again. I had bought one of those real good fence chargers, the kind that pops through 100 miles of fence in heavy weeds. There I was; wet and grounded on wet grass! Pow! Pow! Every time the fence hit me, the bees were knocked off and came back even madder than before!

I managed to roll over the fence and do a somersault and come up running. I am fairly sure I have seen some of the moves I did that day on MTV. Between that electric fence and the thud on the ground on the other side of it, I think the bees about had their fill of me for one day. I know I sure had my fill of them for a spell. I did finish running to the pond though, just in case. I sat right down in that wet grass and struggled with my shaking hands to get a cigarette lit. And there I sat for a good thirty minutes or so before I dared get up and move around again.

It had started a slow steady rain by then and I was hoping against hope that every one of them little devils drowned. But they didn’t. After we all got calmed down a bit, I got my bee suit on and went and covered the hive for another time. I had just lost my appetite for honey that day. I was reminded of an old saying I had heard years ago. Every time you are riding a motorcycle and think you are the boss, it will lay you down in the gravel and bark your hide a little just to remind you who’s really in charge. I reckon tending bees is about the same. I got a little cocky with them and they gave me some re-enforcement training, no questions asked. I did everything wrong that I could do wrong. Guess I was lucky I didn’t get hurt worse than I did. You just can’t fight Mother Nature on your terms and win.

Copyright © 2006 WML. All Rights Reserved

Appalachia for Foreigners

2007-11-02T15:49:00.000-04:00

I would like to say that it was my world-renowned knowledge of Appalachian Culture that got me the job. In reality, it was probably because my e-mail address had the word "hillbilly" in it that I was approached by a French magazine for English language learners to write an article. Today in English, a magazine out of Paris, France, written for French-speaking people learning English, wanted me to write about "hillbillies" and the "mountains" of Appalachia. The editor specified that most of the audience would not even know that the Appalachians existed, so I had to stick to the basics. The following article was published last November of 2006.

The Appalachians: My Hillbilly Home
When my grandfather was a young boy, he would sometimes follow the smell of an oak wood fire into the Buck Woods where the old-timers secretly made moonshine – corn whiskey, to be precise. They were mighty suspicious of visitors, but since my grandfather was too short to shoot, they let him watch. My grandfather also liked to eat the sour mash they fermented to make the alcohol and the men would sometimes give him a cup of this “shiner’s porridge”. Whether he got drunk from this or not, my grandmother wouldn’t say. It would seem too “hillbilly” to her, I suppose.Hillbilly wasn’t a name to use in polite company, but it was there, the stereotype of the Appalachian Mountains: the lazy, bearded man in dirty clothes, sitting outside his log cabin with his dogs, no shoes, no teeth, a moonshine bottle in one hand and a shotgun leaning against the wall beside him. Or the woman: barefoot and pregnant, a child on one hip. That was the image that came to everyone’s mind when they heard I was from the mountains, because that is how the rest of the country saw us. I talked different, I acted different, and I ate different food. When I opened my mouth, people automatically wanted to deduct 100 IQ points.As I grew older, though, I learned to be proud of who I was and where I was from, and learned to love that which made the Appalachian Mountains different from the rest of the United States.
Small is beautiful
They barely cast a shadow, as mountain ranges go. Only a few peaks reach over 1,800 meters. At a distance, their gentle and forested hills may seem mundane for travellers accustomed to the Rockies or Alps, but the Appalachians are a unique island of tradition surrounded by the ever-changing waters of pop culture and progress. From their deep cultural heritage to the rich colors of the autumn foliage, their history and scenery are worthy of discovery.Stretching 2,570 kilometers from Newfoundland, Canada, to Alabama in the southeast, they are one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world, having eroded from Himalaya-like peaks to their present size. The first to discover and settle the area were the American Indians. Later, the Scotch-Irish settled in the coves - some say it was because the area reminded them of the highlands they left behind. Many were devout Presbyterians, but they also brought their love for fiddle music and making whiskey.
Families and Feuds
What makes people from Appalachia different than the rest of the country could best be summed up in three factors: family, land, and time. There are stronger ties to family and tradition here in the mountains. Vendettas have been declared over blood ties - the famous Hatfield and McCoy feud is an example. In my area, there was a feud between the Allen family and law-men that finished in a shootout at the court, today called the Carroll County Courthouse Tragedy. Families stick together around here, for good or bad.People also feel a closer tie to the land in the mountains. There is a sense of belonging to the mountains, of them defining who we are. What part of the mountains someone is from can be just as important as the sports team for which one cheers - so West Virginians, for instance, are fiercely loyal to their state. They have to be because of all the jokes that get told about them.Time is viewed a little differently here in the mountains, and there is a friendliness and hospitality that is found more in the Appalachians than elsewhere. Whenever I leave the mountains and visit places like New York City, for example, I realize how much I miss expressions such as “Thank you” or “Excuse me.”
Not one range, but many
The Appalachians are really not one but several mountain ranges, each with distinctive geographic and cultural differences. To the north there are ranges such as the Adirondacks of New York and the Poconos of Pennsylvania. These are wonderful places to visit, don’t get me wrong, but being from the South I am naturally inclined toward the Southern Appalachians such as the Blue Ridge Mountains, which run from Virginia through North Carolina. They get their name from how the dark green of the summer forests look blue in the distance, rather as the nearby Smokey Mountains get their name from the blue-gray haze that veils the summits. Autumn is one of the best times of year to visit them, as the leaves lose their green color, revealing deep reds, oranges and yellows.When it comes to recreation, camping and hiking are popular activities. Practically every park or national forest has miles upon miles of well-maintained trails and campsites. One of the most famous is the Appalachian Trail - a 3,478 kilometer footpath crossing 14 states from Maine to Georgia. Whitewater rafting and kayaking are also favorite pastimes with many world-class rapids here. Believe it or not, winter offers opportunities for skiing as well – the season is much shorter than in northern Appalachia or the Rockies, but places such as Beech Mountain in North Carolina and Snowshoe Mountain in West Virginia offer comparable conditions. “Spelunking,” or cave exploration is another popular recreational attraction. Kentucky is most famous for Mammoth Cave National Park, the longest recorded cave system in the world. More than 570 kilometers have been explored and mapped.
Bluegrass and Country
The Southern Appalachian region is also rich in the cultural legacy left by our Scotch-Irish ancestors. From the settlers’ love of music developed two styles that are distinctly American: Bluegrass and Country. Though not as internationally popular as Rock ’n Roll or Jazz, they all originated from the same old-time sound. From the beginning, the Scotch-Irish fiddle was accompanied by the banjo, an instrument used by African slaves. Guitars were added much later, as well as the mandolin. The music was used as a means of entertainment at dances, and of storytelling, passing folk tales down to younger generations. Only later did Bluegrass legend Bill Monroe give it a title, after the blue-hued grass of Kentucky.Once called “Hillbilly music”, the name "Country" developed as record companies tried to meet an urban demand for a traditional sound of rural, “country” people. The birthplace of country music isn’t in Nashville, but in Bristol, Tennessee – the place where the famous Carter Family, whose tight harmonies defined the genre, first recorded their songs (recently made famous by the movie O Brother, Where Art Thou?). Today, Country and Bluegrass music has experienced a renaissance, both mainstream and in smaller circles. Festivals such as Merlefest in Wilkesboro, North Carolina, celebrate country and bluegrass greats new and old every spring.
The Moonshine Boys
They were called the Robin Hoods of their time, roaring down the backwoods roads and over bridges, their big engines heralding their approach. With moonshine bottles rattling together in the back, they outraced the police with their hard-driving skills, delivering their cargo to the big-city bars and bringing the money home to support the family. Called "moonshine" because it was made by the light of the moon, this illegal whiskey-making was a profitable enterprise at a time when jobs were scarce. So, to avoid getting caught, young men would rebuild their car engines to enhance performance and outrun the police. Soon, they began to argue about who had the fastest car, deciding the contest with late-night races around a farmer's field. This is the unlikely origin of one the USA's largest spectator sports: Stock Car Racing. Better known today as NASCAR (National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing – memorize this and you win the admiration of thousands of fans!), it originated in the Appalachian region. The Dukes of Hazzard television show and movie attests to this legacy.
Don't Believe What You Hear
Over the years, the stereotypical hillbilly image has been romanticized in historic figures such as Davy Crockett, or seen as comic in television shows such as The Beverly Hillbillies, and even portrayed as evil and monstrous in movies such as Deliverance, where sadistic and depraved hillbillies harass, torture, and sexually molest a group of canoeists from the city. Don’t worry; the only things I’ve ever encountered canoeing and rafting around here are mosquito bites and a sunburn.In reality, every society has its hillbilly. For the English, the lower class of ridicule was the Irish. For the French, it was the Belgians. For us hillbillies, it is the summer tourists from Florida who don’t know how to drive in the mountains, but that’s another story.Many people laugh when we call the Appalachians “mountains,” and I can understand that, having myself traveled through the Rockies. But what the Appalachians lack in height, they make up for in depth -- of history, culture, and charm. To the rest of our country, they are like the wise and eccentric uncle of the family. Besides, to call them “hills” seems too condescending. Certainly, when I am on top of Mount Mitchell, with miles and miles of mountains rolling like waves around me, I can’t help but feel like I am standing on top of the world.

To the Victor Go the Spoils...

2007-10-30T20:09:00.000-04:00

I sense it slipping in again.
Although I cannot see it.
Sunny days and star lit nights,
Say nothing of this visitor’s approach.

It probes the walls of my defense, determined in its efforts.
Poking here, pushing there, probing without rest,
Until it finds a place to squeeze through the stones,
And slithers in between Hope and Desperation.

The watchmen on the parapets, stand vigilant at their posts,
Blinded by their confidence in things as yet untested.
New measures they have slid in place, to deny this villain entry,
Fail before it one by one, no match for this ancient warrior.

Once inside it stops to rest, coiled and at the ready,
There is no rush, for time is its favored ally.
It breathes in deep the air of peace and happiness around it,
And exhales a haze of silent sadness into the courtyard of my soul.

Brought forth from the wretched womb of Misery,
Daughter of the House of Despair, a harlot of the night.
The bastard creature knows not its father,
For its mother has lain with countless lovers.

But it knows the history of its fathers House,
Its features mark the pedigree from there to here.
Its cold dark heart pushes blue-black blood,
That belongs to House of Unspoken Secrets.

It eats its fill from my garden of Life,
Glutting itself on Reason, Will and Goodness.
Self-Respect and Humility lay wilting on the putrid ground,
Wallowed down to the breaking point beneath its scaly belly.

It pulls me down and replaces my breath with its own,
A vile venomous fog that paralyzes my spirit with hopelessness.
And all that remains to be done is to wait for relief,
At the time and place of its choosing.

I cover myself with a blanket of restless sleep,
The only antidote I have found to treat this poison,
While the creature gorges and takes its fill,
Then slips away unnoticed at the end of this long night.

As the fever breaks and strength returns, one spoonful at a time,
Fed as a bitter broth from the cauldron of Resolve, I heal.
To tarry is pure folly, for the creature will feel its hunger again,
Mend the walls and sow new seed, I must prepare for nightfall.

And I must be ready…
I must be ready this time.
My spirit is bruised and scarred, with eyes growing old and tired.
Each new battle could be the last, and who will stand the victor?

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

Where Ghosts Come From

2007-10-29T22:17:00.000-04:00

He never had a home,
the kind where he could put down roots,
surrounded by family and memories.
Perhaps never is too strong a word—
he did have a home once,
in the mountains of North Carolina,
on the side of Grandfather Mountain.
He left to join the Air Force,
and never returned.

He married a girl in Washington,
had a son and moved to Germany,
France, Texas, Alaska.
Bought a house in Maryland,
then a bigger one in Virginia.
Retired from the Air Force,
he became a civil servant, moved
a short way in distance
but far in status.

When he retired again,
still young at 55,
he bought his dream--
a house in Florida.
Added a screened porch
a covered in-ground pool,
and thought he had it all.
His son was grown and married
with four sons of his own
who were not invited to visit Florida.

Finally old and in need of help
he called, but the boys were men by then
with families, jobs, and homes
many miles and a lifetime away.
Move here, the boys said,
where you can be near us,
but the Florida dream
was still too strong,
and then it was too late.

He died in a veteran’s hospital,
an old man
far from any place like home.
His widow
had his body cremated,
his ashes buried
in a national cemetery
somewhere near Tampa,
nowhere near family, friends, or roots.

No one ever visits his grave.

For a Friend on Veteran's Day...

2007-10-29T14:41:00.000-04:00

Almost Home . . .

I recall the first time I saw Petie. It was about eight years ago this coming week. As a disabled veteran, I go to the Veteran’s Administration Hospital for treatment of my service-connected disabilities. I had just moved back to Kentucky and needed to renew my prescriptions, so I took the bus downtown to the VA Medical Center. I chose the bus instead of driving due to a big snow the night before and I didn’t want to drive in it. Let somebody else wreck his or her vehicle I reasoned. Besides it was cheaper than driving. I walked the half of a mile to the main road and caught the bus. I shuffled about half way back and took a seat. As the bus pulled away, I pulled my coat tight and tried to get warm again. I looked around as I settled in, to see who else might be on here with me.

There were a couple of kids, maybe in their mid-teens, sitting together a few seats up from me and across the aisle. Just behind the front door sat a little old woman with stockings rolled half way up her legs. I could see her pursing and chewing her lips with toothless gums. Turning her scarf-covered head from one side to the other, she rode in silence, looking out the windows. Her old weathered hands clutched a rather large satchel of a purse and a worn, old umbrella. I felt my eyes twinkle a little as I thought about how little old women all around the world looked the same.

Across the aisle from her, right behind the driver, sat another passenger. He was a slight man; mid-fifties, I would say. He might go 140 pounds soaking wet with his pockets full of change. Like the old woman across the aisle from him, he was missing most of his teeth. He was wearing a pair of pants several sizes too large for him and a dingy old sweatshirt. His faded army field jacket had seen better days and pulled down over his head was a lint-speckled black watch cap. His gaunt features seemed to center around his pale blue eyes and hawk-like nose. I could see his reflection in the large mirror in front of the driver’s head. He never shut up as he leaned across the rail behind the driver’s seat. Her eyes met mine on several occasions with the look of ‘please, God, let him get off at the next stop’.

Well, he didn’t. We rode all the way downtown before he got off to catch the transfer to the VA hospital, the same as me. We smoked as we waited. Assuming familiarity with me, he continued his lecture as I prayed for the arrival of the bus. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something just wasn’t quite right about this guy. I nodded from time to time and smoked in silence. The bus arrived right on time and he scuttled up the steps in a hurried gait. I hung back a bit to allow a buffer of passengers to board behind him and ahead of me.

The seats were all taken and we were standing in the aisles, clutching the overhead rails for balance as we pulled back into traffic. I could hear him continuing his chatter to my rear, somewhat muffled by the other sounds on the bus. "Hell," I thought to myself, "He’s kind of annoying but he ain’t hurting anything." I mentally let his voice drone into the other sounds around me. When we got to the hospital, I was off and quickly headed to my destination and forgot all about him.

When I had finished my business, I hurried through the revolving doors at the main entrance. Checking the bus schedule posted on the board there, I lit a smoke and shrugged up under my coat. Turning my back to the cold wind and snow flurries, I noticed a glass-enclosed waiting area off to the side of the bus stop and quickly made my way over to it and stepped inside. My eyes immediately began to burn from the fog of cigarette smoke and hot air blowing out of an over-head heating duct. But it was still better than being outside. There were about a dozen people there, standing around in small groups of two’s or three’s and quietly talking amongst themselves. Hearing a familiar voice, I looked past a group of guys standing there and saw the little man from the bus earlier. He was sitting alone on the long wooden bench against the back wall talking to no one in particular. One of the guys standing beside me leaned over in my direction and whispered in my ear, "Don’t mind Petie, he’s OK".

...

Over the next several years, I saw Petie almost every time I came to the VA. Familiarity breeds friendship and over the course of time we developed an odd but comfortable relationship. I found myself half-looking for him each time I came to the hospital, knowing he was around somewhere. I would engage him or him me, as we waited for the bus. I sometimes waited for the bus with him, even on those days that I had driven, just to pass the time with him. There was more than one occasion when several buses would come and go, only to find us sitting under the trees at one of the picnic tables there, sharing stories, thoughts and the occasional joke. Petie loved to fish, he said. And you could have filled the bed of a pick-up truck with all of the whoppers he told me about. The day came when we were both late getting out of appointments and the buses were two hours apart. I offered to run Petie home. He told me where he lived and we pulled out.

He directed me off the expressway and onto the side streets around East Market where we found a parking place. I was going to let him out, but he insisted that I come up and see his place before I left. We locked the truck and started up the sidewalk towards Main. We passed the homeless shelter; with its annex for battered women. Several people standing outside called Petie by name and he acknowledged them with a hello as we walked on. Crossing the street, we came to a little second-hand store and Petie said, "Let’s go inside for a minute." He found the couple who ran the place, told them he was home and we left. I asked about that and he told me that they rented him a room above the old abandoned store we were now in front of. We turned down a narrow alley that led to the rear of the building.

We went up a set of crude steps and to the door of his little place. The landing there overlooked a postage stamp yard of overgrown weeds, dead lawnmowers and an old willow tree with a park bench under it sitting along the fence. We passed through the door into a small hallway created by a stove, fridge and kitchen sink on the left side and a closet and shower stall on the right. The hallway opened up into the only room in the apartment. It was empty except for two plastic milk crates, on one of which rested an old black and white television. He offered the other to me as a seat and he sat down on the single mattress pushed up against the wall.

He said he had only lived here for a short while. The couple we spoke to downstairs are his guardians and handle all of his VA checks. They saw to it that he had a place to stay, something to eat and cigarettes. If he needed anything else, he just told them and they would see to it that he got it. He opened the bag of White Castles we had picked up on the way here. He offered one to me but I declined. He said he had to eat, he was diabetic. I nodded and told him to go on and eat then. He explained to me that was the reason he went to VA every day, for his insulin shot. He could bring it here, but sometimes he forgot to take it. Besides, he enjoyed the trip and the other people at the VA.

We started talking about the service and where all we had been and what all we had done. My record paled in comparison. Petie had been in Vietnam and had been a prisoner of war for almost seven years. He opened a cigar box he kept by the bed there and showed me the things that he had left from his service days; most notable of which was the Silver Star, Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Cluster, Purple Heart and the Combat Infantry Badge. His eyes glazed with a faraway look as he told me of his ordeals there. He said the Purple Heart was for wounds he received when the helicopter he was in was shot down and he was captured. I wondered at the wounds that Petie had endured that no one will ever see or know about. From time to time as he spoke, he would cant his head to the side and listen to the voices he heard as they pointed out details in the stories that he had overlooked or perhaps forgotten. The voices were always there to remind him and keep his vision of Hell alive and vivid in his mind.

...

Over the course of time I got to know Petie fairly well through our short sporadic visits. I had bought a little farm in the mean time and was in the process of moving there. I had some old furniture and stuff I was going to give away. I asked Petie if he wanted any of it and told him what I had.

I loaded up a love seat, a big stuffed chair, an end table, a battered old coffee table, a lamp and several other small items he said he wanted or I knew he could use. I told him when I would be there and drove down the alley behind his place until I got to the gate at the rear of the property. There Petie stood waiting on me, a small pile of smashed cigarette butts at his feet. We unloaded the truck and carried the stuff up the awkward stairs and placed it around the room. The whole time Petie talked with excitement, telling me that he too had been a farmer, back before the war. He had grown up on a small farm down in Hart County, not too far from the lake. He said he had tried to go back there after he returned from overseas, but he was not the same man that had left those little hollows and just didn’t fit in there anymore. He knew he was different. He said, "It’s a pretty funny feeling when you don’t even fit in at home anymore." So, scorned by some, pitied by others, he hitchhiked to Louisville and took to the streets. And that is where he had been for almost the last twenty years. Drifting from the streets to the shelters to the halfway houses and back to the streets again. He had struggled with life at its most basic level. He had been locked up, beaten up, robbed and shunned. He finally made it to the VA and they helped him get this little place, a small pension every month and some medical care. He told me that he went to the VA hospital everyday, not so much for the insulin shot, but to be there with those who understood him best; to be there with his family.

I had to go to the VA last February for an appointment, and as always, I looked for Petie. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I waited and watched several buses come and go after I had taken care of my business. Thinking I had missed him, I went inside where he always went to get his insulin and asked about him. Standing there with a little bag holding two flannel shirts I had brought for him, the nurse told me Petie was gone. Gone where? Moved? No, he was gone, dead, I was told. She went on to explain that during the big freeze we had back around Christmas, that Petie had been found sitting on the little bench behind his house frozen to death. Clutched in his hands, on his lap, was a little cigar box with his medals and effects in it.

I had a hard time finding the door through the tears I was fighting back. I went outside and found one of the picnic tables off to the side of the building and just sat down there on the frosted bench in stunned disbelief. It was bitter cold but I didn’t even notice. I wondered if Petie just got tired of being Petie or if he had just drifted off into a dream and gone fishin’.

"Don’t catch ‘em all before I get there, Petie! I’ll soon be comin’ along."

Copyright © 2007 Mike Lawson

poem

2007-10-22T16:28:00.000-04:00

Grandma’s Kitchen

My wife won’t stop
for mom and pop restaurants,
but rather enjoys the consistency,
the glossy, dim-lit sterility
of Outback and Applebee’s.

One cold Christmas day,
traveling back from my folks,
the only sit-down place open
for miles in any direction
was Grandma’s Kitchen.

A little barn-framed building,
next to a truck stop where
the pavement ended in ruts
and the air was chicken-fried.
I was ready to claim my stake.

“She’s not my Grandma,”
my wife said with upturned brow,
“probably some sweaty cook
dropping ashes in the French fries,
scratching himself with a spatula.”

I just looked solemnly out the window,
thought of corn bread and beans
and the coffee I was about to receive.
While she drove away in my truck, I thought,
she must not be that hungry.

Time, Times, and Timely

2007-10-14T22:51:00.000-04:00

It’s the times, you know.
The times that make us so crazy.
Running in high gear, never enough time
Can’t keep up with the work of the day.
No time.

Time is the problem,
We don’t have enough.
The twenty-four-hour-day should be longer.
Sleep is an activity that’s much over-rated,
It takes too much of our time.

We try to keep everything timely, on-time
Not see time-a-wasting on timeless endeavors
Like art and talking and visiting friends.
There’s simply and plainly
Not enough time.

It’s the times that we live in.
There is not enough time to sit down
Or listen to an old man telling a story
In the timeless way of the past.
All time, too soon, is passed.

When Mother Lights the Fire…

2007-10-10T09:48:00.001-04:00

I feel it coming on again
In my spirit and my mind
This affliction comes over me
Each year about this time
With warning signs clear as day
Same thing everytime
You’d think an old hand such as I
Would learn to read the sign

But I miss it as I always do
Caught up in day to day
Before I see it, the time’s at hand
And the Warm Girl’s slipped away
But She leaves for me, a gift She does
For a poor boy’s needs are dire
Nothing leaves me more content
Than when Mother lights the fire

She strikes a match and touches tender
Much smoke but still no flame
A little wilted for their cause
The world remains the same
In one starting spark the colors flow
And spread along the ground
They creep in silence as they go
Without a single sound

The Ironweeds and the Asters
Take the striking blow
Honeysuckle and briar bushes
Are the very next to go
I hardly even notice
Busy in life’s quagmire
Somehow I fail to notice
When Mother lights the fire

Looking up the hillside
I see the subtle flame
It can’t be time already
Seems Summer’s hardly came

Pale yellows on the ashes
Timid pinks on sassafras
The dark blood red of sumacs
Orange blazes upon the maples
Burnt yellow of the hickory
Pale reds of dogwoods glow
All of these and many more
When Mother lights the fire

Woods stand in glory
Dressed in best attire
And sing the colors of Autumn
When Mother lights the fire

Copyright © 2007 WML. All Rights Reserved

Winner - September 2007 Poetry Challenge

2007-10-08T08:13:00.000-04:00

Our affiliated site, The Appalachian Writer's Forum, holds a monthly writer's challenge in poetry, fiction and nonfiction. One of the awards for winning is to be posted here as a guest.

Congratulations Genie, well done!

Ancient Voices

I heard the geese tonight
and I saw them in
my mind as they passed
before the moon at full
and so it starts, this
annual tug to poets, butterflies
and birds.
There! Did you hear them just
now? Again the night is filled
with the ancient cries, and as
I sleep they will carry on
as they always have,
one long
wingbeat
after
another.

Me and My Dreams

2007-10-03T16:04:00.000-04:00

Me and My Dreams~ A short story

I walked to the pond today and I laid my dreams on the ground because I was wonderin’ how they might appear from the outside lookin’ in instead of from the inside lookin’ out. I gave ‘em a little pinch because I had to know if they were real and if they were reasonable, if they were within my reach.

I stretched out next to them and I pondered the idea of dreams. I thought about the laundry and the dishes and I decided they could wait, ‘cause I’ve washed enough dishes in my lifetime and I've dreamed too few dreams. I thought about where I’d been and which direction I was headed and while I was at it, I thought about faith and considered havin’ some courage and how it seems we never go anywhere if we stay where we’ve already been.

I stood up and dusted off and I slung my dreams ‘cross my back. I bid the pond goodbye for a while and said see ya later to my worries cause my dreams and me, we got big plans.

We’ll be seeing ya on the upside.

Poem

2007-09-28T10:05:00.000-04:00

Martha White

The first time you saw me
without my dungarees
was down by the creek.
You were wildcrafting
and I was skinny-dipping,
washing bales of hay dust
from behind my ears.
In your arms you held
a basket of Yellowroot,
which you dropped
in teary-eyed laughter
at the sight of my backside.
When you told me I was
as white as two buttermilk biscuits,
I drew close my arms,
bronzed from the elbow down,
concealing what pale skin I could
that almost glowed in the clear water.

I couldn't count the times when
my grandmother said the same thing
during childhood baths.
I sat in the wash tub, embarrassed,
with a sponge and a bar of lye soap,
watching the water turn cloudy
while she always made sure
I cleaned behind my ears,
standing above me in her gingham dress.

But you hung yours
on a rhododendron limb
along with your bloomers
and, with a cannonball splash,
jumped into the swimming hole beside me,
making sure to soak my clothes
on the opposite bank.
I smiled astonishingly,
wondering
what rock
you had been sunning yourself on
for your back to be so tan,
so unbroken by modesty,
and remembered how Grandma
never cared much
for buttermilk biscuits.

Happy Birthday Mr. Harvey

2007-09-23T23:33:00.001-04:00

"In times like these, it helps to recall that there have always been times like these."
~Paul Harvey

I've always loved Paul Harvey. Even as a youngster I would sit and listen nearly spellbound to his unique voice and manner of speaking. It hardly mattered to me what the subject matter might be, there was always something so intriguing about the way he talks and how he presents his stories.

Paul Harvey celebrated his 89th birthday on the fourth of September and he's still broadcasting strong. He's nearing the end of a 10-year contract with ABC Radio worth $100 million.

Born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, Paul Harvey has been called the "largest one-man network in the world." His show, "The Paul Harvey News" is carried on 1,200 radio stations, 400 Armed Forces Network stations around the world and 300 newspapers. His broadcasts and newspaper columns have been reprinted in the Congressional Record more than those of any other commentator. Every week 22 million people “stand by” for Paul Harvey on more than 1,350 commercial radio stations, as well as 400 stations of the Armed Forces Radio Service.

Paul Harvey was inducted into the Radio Hall of Fame in 1990. He has been named Salesman of the Year, Commentator of the Year, Person of the Year, Father of the Year, and American of the Year. He has been elected to the National Association of Broadcasters Radio Hall Of Fame and the Oklahoma Hall of Fame and appeared on the Gallup poll list of America's most admired men. In addition he has received 11 Freedom Foundation Awards as well as the Horatio Alger Award. Harvey served in the United States Army Air Forces from 1940 until 1944. Harvey is married to Lynne Harvey (née Cooper) of St. Louis. He is author of several books, the last of which "For What It's Worth," was written in 1991.
Statistics collected from Wikipedia

One of my absolute favorite pieces from Mr. Harvey is "Dirt Roads." I hope that you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed it over the years.

DIRT ROADS

What's mainly wrong with society today is that too many Dirt Roads have been paved.

There's not a problem in America today, crime, drugs, education, divorce, delinquency that wouldn't be remedied, if we just had more Dirt Roads, because Dirt Roads give character.
People that live at the end of Dirt Roads learn early on that life is a bumpy ride. That it can jar you right down to your teeth sometimes, but it's worth it, if at the end is home...a loving spouse, happy children and a dog.

We wouldn't have near the trouble with our educational system if our children got their exercise walking a Dirt Road with other children, from whom they learn how to get along. There was less crime in our streets before they were paved. Criminals didn't walk two dusty miles to rob or rape, if they knew they'd be welcomed by 5 barking dogs and a double barrel shotgun. And there were no drive by shootings.

Our values were better when our roads were worse! People did not worship their cars more than their children and motorists were more courteous, they didn't tailgate by riding the bumper or the guy in front would choke you with dust & bust your windshield with rocks.
Dirt Roads taught patience.

Dirt Roads were environmentally friendly; you didn't hop in your car for a quart of milk you walked to the barn for your milk. For your mail, you walked to the mailbox. What if it rained and the Dirt Road got washed out? That was the best part, then you stayed home and had some family time, roasted marshmallows and popped popcorn and pony road on Daddy's shoulders and learned how to make prettier quilts than anybody.

At the end of Dirt Roads, you soon learned that bad words tasted like soap. Most paved roads lead to trouble, Dirt Roads more likely lead to a fishing creek or a swimming hole. At the end of a Dirt Road, the only time we even locked our car was in August, because if we didn't some neighbor would fill it with too much zucchini.

At the end of a Dirt Road, there was always extra spring time income, from when city dudes would get stuck, you'd have to hitch up a team and pull them out. Usually you got a dollar... always you got a new friend... at the end of a Dirt Road.
~Paul Harvey

Happy Birthday, Mr. Harvey

Autumn Again

2007-09-21T12:28:00.000-04:00

earthen tones blanket the hills
in a patchwork of color,
with each burst of wind the quilt frays
as leaves set sail

banquets of chestnuts lay on the ground,
bushy tailed little neighbors
gather their winter stores

iron cauldrons of brunswick stew
and apple butter bubble a tune
accompanied by dulcimer,
fiddles and fine tenors
as kith and kin draw near
to give thanks for the harvest

© Deb Starr, 2007

Poem

2007-09-13T11:04:00.000-04:00

The Summer Camp of Love

I was so high that summer
- - - - - The world was unclouded and bright
- - - - - - - - -Taking hits off the Holy Spirit
- - - - - - - - - at the Chapel Woods campfires
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Getting ready for the bridegroom
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -Trimming our wicks, we knew
- - - - - - - - - He was coming with sound of trumpets
- - - - - - - - - And we would never be alone
- - - - - For those who repented of their sins,
cast their earthly vices aside,
- - - - - were the first to get stoned.

Secrets...

2007-09-08T15:29:00.000-04:00

No one who knows either one of us, knows where we are this morning. They don’t have a clue. We have planned this little getaway for almost a year now. Finally, here we are. As I stare out across the ocean, my mind drifts back to last night… the smell of her hair, the soft warmth of her skin, the fire of desire in her eyes. With a gentle kiss on the cheek, I left her in bed sleeping this morning and walked barefoot to beach below.

Standing there now, I feel the breeze blowing in my face; tender breaths of cool, salty air. The sun is not up yet, but the sky is beginning to brighten in the east in an array of color that was the thunderstorm that passed through last night. It turns the waters in front of me red and orange and yellows, a fiery rainbow that ripples and changes with the rise and fall of the waves. The pulsing beat of the ocean pushes little, warm tongues of water around my feet and quickly withdraws them back down the beach to the safety of their mother.

Down the beach, I hear the muffled roar of larger waves as they crash against the rocks there in an age-old struggle for superiority. She always wins in the end, I think, but what do rocks know of such things. I stand silent, in the growing light, hands buried in my pockets, mesmerized by it all… I don’t hear her approach, feather-like on the sands behind me.

She gently slides her hands around my waist and locks them together across my belly, as her chin finds its place on my shoulder and nuzzles there. A gentle kiss on the side of my neck and then we are still, frozen at this moment in this moment. Two sets of eyes peer out at the sea before us as one and for that brief instant, we are one. Making a memory that will live forever…

Tradition through Music

2007-09-04T18:43:00.000-04:00

Pretty Little Gal
A Folk Song by Fabian G. Franklin

I married me a pretty little gal
She came from O-hi-o
And when we took our wedding vows
She swore she'd never go

Chorus:
Swore she'd never go
Swore she'd never go
Oh I loved that little gal so
She swore she'd never go

Times were hard and we were scared
The money was so tight
Until at last my greatest fears
All came true one night

For I'd took to drinking gin
And leaving her alone
Then one night when I came in
I found that she was gone

Chorus:
Swore she'd never go
Swore she'd never go
I truly loved that pretty little gal
Who swore she'd never go

And now I'm sleeping all alone
So many nights I've cried
I want her back and she is gone
But I still have my pride

But if you have a pretty little gal
And one that you love true
Don't put your faith in wedding vows
Or you may lose her too

Don't be drinking, running round
And staying out all night
Remember in your wedding vow
You swore to treat her right

Chorus:
Swore to treat her right
Swore to treat her right
Oh, if you love your pretty little gal
Be sure to treat her right