Monday

On Saturday we received a letter from my favorite uncle, Jim. He is a retired English professor at Western State in Colorado He and his wife (a former librarian -- what a couple!) both still remain active in the community and university.

The letter informed us that Jim and Bonnie are working on a Robert Frost project they are working on (Jim wrote, directed, and narrated it while Bonnie produced it) for the Gunnison Arts and Theater Center. The initial project, celebrating Frost’s 133rd birthday, was an astounding success, as Jim wrote: “a capacity crowd of near 100 people responding to and applauding for -- of all things -- POETRY!”

So for the second project, he has developed a different approach (which he isn’t telling me about -- yet), and he has asked permission to use a poem I had written about Jim - and his twin brother, Jack - for my thesis. While researching my thesis, I interviewed Jim extensively and he gave me this great little narrative about how Myrtle had asked him and Jack to go fetch some coal. As typical kids, they procrastinated and complained. Finally, to prove a point and, no doubt, tired of their antics, Myrtle bundled up right in front of the boys, grabbed the coal bucket, and headed for the door. Just before plunging into the night and the cold, she cast them one long, sad look and slammed the door. Jim said the begged and pleaded as she looked at them, but she never said anything. They panicked waiting for her to return, which she did - several minutes later -with the bucket heaped full of coal. Then she took of her coat, scarf, and gloves and refilled the stove - never saying a word.

The point was driven home: she never had to fetch coal again.

In my thesis, I took that little narrative and - using free verse - turned it into a poem. I wrote it on the same day as another piece - a poem about Granny helping me shoot off bottle rockets. Of the two poems, I think this one is the weaker. But I think Jim likes it because it is my poetic take on his memory.

Here is the poem -- (I’m not sure the form will come through on my blog - it doesn’t indent well or space well either. So I’ll get it as close to the original as I can).



Wind rattled the living room
and us in our teeth.
We huddled around the stove
wrapped in a warmer world
with the Shadow and all he Knew.

But when the radio faded,
so did the stove to a bluish yellow.

Mom noticed
from beneath her paper
-- and asked us
to fetch some coal.

Jack and I whined about the bin way out back
the cold,
the wind,
the dark,
the whipping snow
that would swallow us whole.

So Mom,
small and silent,
stared us straight in the eyes,

and

bundled up in Dad’s Mackinaw coat,
which swallowed her whole,
her tiny hands crawled out the sleeves
to fasten each button

fished a wool scarf from the rack
and twisted it about
what little of her neck poked through

pulled on Dad’s red and black cap by the bill
and tugged the dark flaps down over her ears

stepped into Dad’s oversized rubber boots,
which nearly came to her knees,
and backed toward the door.

She pried the door open, lugging a coal bucket in each hand.

The winter world roared in
and we shouted --

come back,
we’re sorry,
we’ll go -
we’ll go --

But the door, slamming us inside was our answer.


Twenty minutes later --
an eternity of ticks on the grandfather clock --

she stumbled back into the house,
both buckets heaped with coal.


Mom never said a word
as she shed the cap,
the scarf,
the coat,
the boots.

Not a word
as she fed the black bits into the stove’s belly.

Not a word
as she perched herself
beneath her paper.


Mom never said a word,

Nor did she ever have to fetch the coal again.