I grew up in a small village in northeastern Pennsylvania called Laddsburg. This poem is memories of Laddsburg.
In The Little Village Where I Grew Up
Around this corner Stu was unable
to straighten the wheel, avoid that pole,
and in this very hayfield the tractor would not
stop from popping out of gear, rolling over L.J.
In the movies, bullets halt in mid-flight,
seconds before they reach flesh and bone,
but here, no one could stop the tractor trailer
from sliding down the icy hill, careening into Mike
and almost killing him. Here, migraines still pound,
nitroglycerin tablets still don’t change Elmer
from what he always was, and is: a mean old cuss.
Here, the strop with which my uncle went to hit
my grandfather continues its descent toward him,
and my grandfather continues to stop it and walk
out the front door of the barn, never to return.
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My Grandpa Robinson, the one referred to in the previous poem, died on the day after my 10th birthday. In this poem, I look back on that day.
June 10, 1979
Elmer and I are fishing the swimming hole
when my father calls from the bridge above,
“It’s your grandpa,” as if he was on the phone.
I arrive at the house, am escorted to the porch
by my uncles, who ask to see the birthday gift
I received the previous day, my first jackknife.
Opening it, I cut across the whorls of my thumb.
Inside, washing the wound, red lines the yellow
porcelain sink. Like blood from the first trout
we cleaned, skinned together in this same sink.
My thumb turns pale, the complexion he wears
lying in the room next to the kitchen. I sit now
in the recliner there, use that thumb on his diary,
discover only weather reports in his entries:
“warm, sunny, 70s today, wind at 8 mph
from the NNW, 29.08 on the barometer.”
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This one is a memory of my Grandpa Fields and as with my Grandpa Robinson is a memory of fishing.
Emerald Isle
When Grandpa picked the dobro, he’d drift
back to when he and Uncle Thelbert dreamed
of making their debut at the Grand Ole Opry,
and forward to when he and Grandma could retire,
both move out to a beach house on Emerald Isle.
We’d cast our lines off the side of the pier
to catch blue fish and flounder, but once
he hired a guide take us out in his boat to trawl
the Bogue Banks for the larger king mackerel
he always wanted to reel in out on the pier’s end,
to test his line beyond its strength,
see if it would hold.
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My Grandpa Fields listened to the radio late at night. One of the things I remember most vividly when our family went to visit him in North Carolina, usually for Christmas, was him surfing through the channels on the radio dial. I remember listening to the radio along with him from the room where I stayed. Later in high school and college, I found myself surfing the radio dial late into the night.
Continuing Granddad’s Legacy
I surf the AM waves
nights after the Late Show, tune in/
tune out women radio shrinks, traffic
reports, talk shows that use words like
“premature.” I always leave one ear open
for the slap of leather against
backboards, sneakers on wooden floors,
the other for the Mutual Broadcasting Network
brings you Larry King Live,
except come spring when both listen for
the Scooter to announce for the Yanks.
Unrealistically I seek a voice as harsh
as Ella’s “Basin Street Blues,” silky
as Sarah’s “Always,” understanding as
Dr. Joy Brown, or contradictory as Rush
on the FM. I will never find anything as foreign
as the Cuban propaganda pirate stations,
enticing as Texas radio there, as on the flip.
Like Granddad, I am learning to appreciate
the Grand Ole Opry, yet also crave to hear
more “race” records, bebop, the Big Beat.
I am continuing his legacy in my own way,
trying to pick up some whisper of
sanity, some voice of reason to speak to me.
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