This Town is Small

This town is small, is my town,

on the border of Nowhere

and “can’t get there from here,”

except you can, heading north

to someplace more enticing, and home again,

just passing through, a single stop

for gas and coffee and a lottery ticket,

if you’re feeling lucky in a luckless town,

yet, here we stay, complaining perhaps

about taxes and roads, pot-holes

and frost heaves, outsiders moving in,

forgetting, though, our own recent roots,

from away ourselves, and the weather, too,

too hot or cold or humid, complaints we share

over a mug of coffee down at Pete’s Place,

and a home-made muffin, fresh donuts on Fridays,

or something heartier, bacon and eggs,

home-fries, toast, and good conversation

with neighbors who, as we do, keep

to ourselves, minding our own business,

but lending a hand when it’s needed, expecting in return

only a hand lent and a story of how it used to be,

so changed, this town, from its glory days

of slate and furniture, Finns and Swedes

and transplants from somewhere else seeking work,

a place to call home, and like us who stay,

finding it here in this little town

on the border of Nowhere

and “can’t get there from here.”

Monson, ME

(Lake Hebron in foreground; Monson Pond in background)

At 87 ...

outliving two husbands and a son, and her cat,

she bemoans living this long, too long,

not the life she’s lived, of course, a full past,

but the one she can’t have now, slowed

by age and health, a body weakened and wearing down,

a heart attacked, and a mind unable to remember,

remembering only what had been -

though the dates and places, people, get jumbled

some - and what she cannot do now:

an un-split cord of wood awaiting

someone else’s axe or a roof, snow-covered,

still un-cleared, left to others, more fit,

the short jaunt to town now a journey

she cannot take, tired and winded

at the end of the driveway, and unable to go on,

turning back, tired and winded at her door,

facing the frustration of outliving her life,

a life grown old and dependent, too long,

fighting the burden she fears she has become

and burdening herself in trying to forget.

Eden's Story

- 1 -

It had all been so beautiful, before, beauty such a strange concept. For what had she to compare Eden to, Eden all she knew, all she had ever known, until now. Now, with Adam, she was expelled, barred, cast out of Eden into … into this barren place, a place so stark, so raw, she knew now what beauty really was; it was what she’d had in Eden and would never know again.

There, in Eden, he had loved her, this man, Adam, so distant from her now, cast out himself. She had awoken to him as they lay in the lushness of Eden one morning, sensing not a before, nor a beginning, just awakening as if from sleep, awakening with him who had always been, so it seemed, this man, this Adam; they were the only two of their kind in the garden, alive and free and beautiful.

Eve, taken from Adam’s rib: this she knew, this her beginnings. Though she didn’t know how she knew it; she just felt it there in the beauty of Eden and knew her role as Adam’s helpmate, as woman, taken from man, from Adam’s rib. She was not like him, was different from him, beautiful in her differences as he was beautiful in his, like him, but not like him. Her hair, soft to her touch, was dark as the night sky, cascading over her shoulders and breasts in unashamed nakedness. For there was no “shame,” no word to describe this uneasiness she now felt with him, ashamed of her own nakedness, ashamed of herself, of what she had done.

The wind blew through the trees and through her hair, tossing it gently as they walked in the garden, her body and his, upright, she and Adam, alone in Eden. All other animals were below them on four limbs or crawling on the ground, flying through the air, dominated by them; only she and Adam, alone in God’s image, walked upright, mobile and ambulatory as they walked close together, joined hand in hand throughout the garden, free to enjoy Eden and Eden’s beauty, naked and unashamed.

But now, her beauty was gone, her nakedness ugly, disgusting, covered in shame, fig leaves, crude coverings to hide herself and him. In Eden, there had been no place to hide. They had tried, hiding in the caves beyond the river or deep in the darkest woods, hiding from Him who created them, cared for them, that unseen Him who spoke softly, firmly. His voice now rang out through Eden to where they had hidden under the trees, fig leaves hiding their nakedness and shame. But they could not hide from Him, the omniscient Him who knew their sin, their disobedience: “What is this you have done?” rang out to all corners, a gentle voice firmly calling, a voice raised, His voice, echoing in Eden.

And then the curse – “Woman, your desire will be for Adam who will rule over you. You both will eat your food by the sweat of your brow until you return to the ground, toiling” – and the banishment, cast out, expelled from Eden to wander the harshness of earth, a life outside of Eden’s garden. Her beauty was now gone, her fair skin and night-dark hair, gone. And gone from her, too, was Adam, ruled now by him, beneath him, dominated in this now uncertain future, this now uncertain end. And she alone was to blame, she alone was responsible, she alone cursed as woman, destroyer of God’s perfection in man.

Banished, they wandered now in coarse animal skins, driven from Eden further and further into the wilderness, barren and raw, until she fell further and further behind Adam. He outdistanced her in his anger and his shame. He cursed her loudly in this new harsh language they spoke aloud until she could walk no further, falling down and crawling. The coarse sand cut her feet and her skin, for there was no protection from the wind-blown coarseness and the hot wind slicing her skin with sand.

Needing rest and finding shelter at last in a rocky outcropping, she collapsed, safe from the wind, the sand, and Adam’s curses, his anger, the hatred she felt from him. Adam had once been as God, as the creator Himself, protected, tranquil, dominating the land. But now this, his downfall, like her, cast out; “Woman, you deceived me. You knew, Eve, you knew what the creator had commanded, not to eat the fruit of that tree, that one tree. Look what you’ve done to me.” His curses, loud and harshly spoken, were worse than the banishment, worse than the wind-blown sand; only worse was her own shame, her guilt, for he was right, He was right. She had known not to eat of that tree, that one tree the only tree forbidden; she knew, but alone and afraid, tempted, she ate the fruit. And once eaten, fearing him and fearing the Creator, she offered it to Adam.

But it had looked so good, the fruit offered to her, fresher, larger, more succulent than any other tree, any other fruit. And the serpent had told her that it was good, that he had eaten the fruit. He was the only other creature who spoke as she and Adam spoke, who knew their language; all the others each had their own languages. Surely, as he had claimed, he was one of them, like them, in God’s image despite his appearance so different from theirs. He knew her, spoke to her, understood her feelings, her joys, her wanderings, her wonderings about Adam whom she loved and shared the garden with. Though she knew Adam as his helpmate, she did not know him beyond that, this creature called man, so like her, yet so different. Often he was so strange, so distant, unapproachable at times, and she could not draw close to him. Try as she might, he kept a part of himself to himself, closing her off from him.

Many were the times when Adam would turn silent, inward, and wander off by himself, leaving her behind. She dared not follow him; he was so stern in commanding her to stay, to attend to the garden as was her duty. And so she stayed away, separate from Adam, separate from the Creator, separate from that time he shared with the creator, wondering. Was she not able to approach Him, too?

But the snake. She had seen the serpent often there in the garden, had been there when Adam named him: “You shall be called Snake, a serpent, you and your darting tongue, flickering, forked, you slinking around on four legs so low to the ground. That is your name,” and it was done, one more animal named. And so she knew him as Snake, a serpent, the only one of his kind; there were no others like him in Eden, no mate, unlike all the other animals, male and female. But as time passed in the garden, she saw him more and more often, following her, watching her, until he finally appeared to her when she was alone, Adam out in the garden by himself, his time talking with the Creator, time forbidden to her as woman, helpmate to man, helpmate to Adam.

“Woman,” he said, softly calling, “for that is who you are.”

“Yes, I am woman.”

"Woman, taken from man, from Adam’s rib.”

“How is it you talk as Adam and I talk? How is this possible?” For no one else spoke in the language she and Adam shared, this silent language understand between them. “Are you man, too, you we have named Snake?”

“I am Snake, a serpent, as you have named me, you with dominion over me.” And with that said, he left as darkly as he had appeared, silently, his coiled tail leaving strange marks in the sand, for Adam now appeared, calling her name.

“Eve?”

Turning, she saw him, smiling, basking in her beauty, his time with the Creator done. She did not tell him of Snake, of his talking even as she and Adam talked. For nothing else mattered but him.

Now, in the shelter of this outcropping, safe from the wind, the sand, and Adam’s curses, wrapped in the coarse fur given her by God to cover her nakedness, cover her shame, she fell asleep, the wind around her subsiding as she slept. And in the morning, the sun high in the sky when she awoke, warming her, she found herself not alone, but wrapped with Adam, the two clothed in course fur, animal fur, for they themselves were animals now, animals warmed by the morning light and by each other.

As she lay there in the sunlight of a clear, blue sky, she felt Adam stir beside her, and she knew she was forgiven, knew, though cursed, they were still together as they had been in Eden, helpmates, facing a raw and barren life together, man and woman, Adam and Eve.

Awake now, next to her, he spoke in their new language, harsh and loud, a guttural, unnatural sound; “We must find food and shelter, provide for ourselves, as is our curse.” Together, they rose to an Eden-less world, for as they stepped from the outcropping, they saw a vast expanse of sand, rocks, and sparse vegetation, vegetation scrambling like them for what little water and nourishment the land afforded them.

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An Open Window on a Winter's Night

Last night the temperature fell

below zero, into the minus numbers,

indicating not just “cold,” but

“really cold.” My wife, as she does

routinely, every night, opened the window

a bit, not as much as she normally might,

but enough to let the cold air in

to circulate about to replace the stale air

of a room shut up and heated, a dry heat

forced in from the furnace across the hall.

So I piled an extra blanket onto the bed,

four blankets now to keep us warm, and

anyone looking in would wonder if we were there,

buried someplace under the lumpy mass of bedding,

only our heads barely visible above the blankets

pulled tight and tucked in around our shoulders, to our ears,

blankets keeping out the cold of minus numbers,

the temperature falling below zero.

Keep the window closed on a night like this?

We are made of hearty stock, able to handle

the weather of our lives, the storms that blow,

the rise and fall of the barometer indicating change,

and made heartier still by the cold reality

of who we are and where we live,

kept that way by the fresh air of winter

circulating and replacing the staleness of our lives

on a winter night, safe and warm.

Insulation

Winters, growing up in Maine, weren’t as cold as they are now. The snow began to fall in December, well before Christmas, and it stayed on the ground ‘till March, April even, or May; we wondered if Easter would be snow-free, the snow turning to mud, Spring’s usual arrival in Maine. And as the temperatures fell, sweatshirt weather changed to winter coats and hats, scarves and mittens, armor against the freezing cold. But those childhood winters, long ago winters growing up, weren’t as cold as winters today, these adult winters we endure. Perhaps snow insulates children, as snow piled around a house was thought to insulate somehow, keep out the cold, keep in the warmth, keep in the heat.

Snow, scooped and shoveled high along the edges of the driveway or blown high in a snowy mist, pulled the neighborhood kids out into the cold those youthful days on New Meadows Road. Thus suited up tight, as we were, in coats and hats, scarves and mittens, we built our forts on either side of the driveway, plowed and cleared now, a no-man’s land between us. Our woolen mittens quickly became wet and stretched, and our hats, wet, too, and stretched, we pulled low over our ears, or stuffed them into our pockets, fearing their loss and our mothers’ warnings. We didn’t feel the cold, though, not in our insulated childhood, as we dug and piled the snow banks higher, fashioning forts and arsenals, store houses of snow balls, weapons to be lobbed across the driveway at our winter-time enemies, rivals who claimed the other side of the drive as theirs, just as we claimed this side as ours. Oblivious to the cold and wet, or perhaps not caring, we dug our igloos and tunnels, caves and caverns in the snow packed hard by melting and freezing and childhood bodies, digging deep with our mittened hands. Deeper and deeper we dug till our sheltered cavern collapsed – it always collapsed - our snow covered bodies emerging amid our laughter, white on blue and yellow snowsuits, our hats and mittens snow encrusted, yet we were warm, insulted, and safe.

And insulted still, in childhood, we climbed, then, single file, a snowy trail forming from our boot-prints digging in, to the top of the hill, a big field of snow descending below us, flattening out across the swamp and into the cow pasture beyond. We dragged our sleds and saucers, dented, handles broken, and our long toboggans to be loaded, piled on, teams of kids competing, the air loud with our taunts and boasting, kids crunched together, legs astraddle and feet hooked together, in front of another kid astraddle and hooked together, six kids, eight kids, linked, a human chain, and with a push and a shove to gain momentum, our mittened hands digging in, we propelled as one body of eight forward and down, dashing, rocketing, a controlled control-less-ness; and the toboggan tipped and slipped, slid and careened till our bodies spilled out, laughing and falling, tumbling, hats and mittens and bodies strewn across the snow, jumping up to chase the sled continuing downhill in the cold air of a winter afternoon, insulated by our youth.

But now this cold we feel on a winter’s day, our older bodies bundled up, gloved and scarved, hatted, ear-muffed, grumbling, with fresh snow falling, fallen, building up, piling up, and our shovels scraping as we bend and lift and bend and lift, the cold seeping through to our fingers tingling and raw, lifting and bending, again and again, our backs aching, our fingers cold, our toes cold and consuming what heat we can generate in this lifting and bending, this rhythmic chore of shoveling, our time consumed and slipping away, uninsulated adults shoveling to leave, to work, to join others shoveling, too, bending and lifting, this uninsulated necessity of adulthood; the cold is colder now than we remember.

But in remembering then, as we do now, remembering when the winter, growing up, wasn’t as cold, we find now a different warmth, a new heat, for there’s something to be said for the insulation of childhood on a winter’s day, remembering.