PAWTUCKET'S LOST ASSETS --NARRAGANSETT RACE TRACK
The recent essay in the Providence Journal by columnist Mark Patinkin in which he speculated that the PAWSOX are probably headed for Worcestor really struck me as unbearably sad.
Why must Pawtucket lose another one of its precious assets?
We have lost so many. In this blog I often lament the end of such delights as Dunnel's Pond, The Blue Pond, Novelty Park Pool and playground, Sacred Heart High School, The Leroy Theater, the Strand Theater, the Darlton Theater,
I don't even bother to mention the terrible closings of all the mills that employed all the people I knew--The Coats Mill, Lebanon Mill, Darlington Fabrics, Collyer Wire, Glencairn, Corning Glass Works. Just naming the ones where either my mother or my aunts worked or myself worked during summer breaks.
No, I mostly salute places where I loved to play during my childhood here in the 40s and 50s
But what amazes me is that the corrupt politicians in this state are determined to make this little city more desolate,
Just in the past year alone we have suffered the loss of several major assets and institutions:
The Pawtucket Memorial Hospital
The Gamm Theater
and the threatened move of
the PAWSOX from McCoy Stadium
And today in conversation with my good friend Maureen another place that delighted many came up in conversation. We happened to mention that we have been watching the Races at Saratoga that have been televised each day during their meet. We both laughed to think that we both independently had been watching the races. AND Maureen said:: I love to watch them race.
I do too, I replied.
AND then she said : My father often took me to the track.
AND so did my father.
I suddenly laughed because we had been on the outskirts of each other's lives since childhood.
Of course, we were talking about the
NARRAGANSETT PARK RACE TRACK.
We speculated that maybe we were side by side watching the races at the rail and drinking large cold drinks lavishly laid on.
We did not know each other but our families knew of each other.
That Irish and Valley Falls connection, I guess.
We sometimes joke when our stories overlap that we were probably at the Darlton, or at McCoy or surely downtown in front of the White Tower and on the same bus--what are the odds?
I often say that in Pawtucket the "six degrees of separation" have been whittled down to "two degrees"
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
Monday, July 30, 2018
MY GOAL--TO READ THE HIGHWAYMAN
THEY REFUSED TO READ IT TO ME REPEATEDLY
I could not get enough of the story of the HIGHWAYMAN. It reinforced my already strong dislike of REDCOATS. I already knew from my Jenckes Yankee anti-King background and My Irish mother Coleman's opposition to the continued English occupation of Ireland that the REDCOATS were the bad guys.
So I was totally sympathetic with Bess and her Robber lover.
IN fact I could not get enough of the story. As soon as my mother or Uncle Joe finished, I would beg them to start and read it over again. Sometimes they did, but after a few repetitions, they refused.
SO I began to try to remember the wonderful lines--they were like music to my ears.
I especially loved the phrase --"the moon was a ghostly galleon." I immediately added it to my stock of phrases. When I stood in the window and watched the moon, I would recite that line over and over again.
I was in love with the metaphor. and the idea of ghostly and galleon. I wondered .what a galleon was . And Joe consulted a dictionary :A galleon refers to a type of sailboat used in the 15th to 18th centuries mostly for battles and carrying consumer goods. Galleons had big square sails rigged onto several masts. They were built and sailed by many Europeans, but they are most commonly associated with the Spanish
And just imagine this was a GHOST SHIP-- and I watched for the times when the moon moves through the clouds and plays a kind of peek-a-boo game with us on Earth,
"TOSSED UPON CLOUDY SEAS"
Pretty soon I had all of PART One committed to memory. I would sit with the book open to the page and begin my recitation.
That got my mother's attention.
OMIGOD! Is she reading?
Then when I faltered or came to the end of my memory, she saw that I had remembered half of the poem. She started sitting next to me and pointing to each word with a pencil. When I stopped, she would prompt me and we would go on. Pretty soon after a couple of days past, I had conquered the whole poem. I especially liked the description of Tim the Ostler--"his eyes were hollows of madness," WOW STRONG STUFF.
What is an OSTLER? A man employed to look after the horses of people staying at an inn. ... 'He partook of a leisurely breakfast, paid his reckoning, had the ostler bring his horse, and set off to the sound of church bells in the clear air.'
My mother loved showing me how to use the dictionary--she said that all the words in the English language were inside that one book. SO that started me on the habit of looking words up. I liked the fact that it was all in alphabetical order.
I had known how to say the alphabet since I was two years old. I thought that it was just a kind of jingle or rhyme, but I never saw why it was important--now I knew. So if I knew how to spell a word, I could find it in the dictionary.
I suddenly knew that words were made up of letters and there were only 26 letters-- so all words were combinations of those few letters.
SO exciting and simple.
I kept reciting The Highwayman and sat with my mother pointing to each word,
AND SUDDENLY A HUGE LIGHT WENT OFF IN MY MIND.
Those sounds that I was saying were connected to those letters I saw arranged into words on the printed page.
IN SOME WEIRD WAY I GOT THE CONNECTION OF THE SOUNDS AND THE SYMBOLS
AND SO I STARTED READING!
I could not get enough of the story of the HIGHWAYMAN. It reinforced my already strong dislike of REDCOATS. I already knew from my Jenckes Yankee anti-King background and My Irish mother Coleman's opposition to the continued English occupation of Ireland that the REDCOATS were the bad guys.
So I was totally sympathetic with Bess and her Robber lover.
IN fact I could not get enough of the story. As soon as my mother or Uncle Joe finished, I would beg them to start and read it over again. Sometimes they did, but after a few repetitions, they refused.
SO I began to try to remember the wonderful lines--they were like music to my ears.
I especially loved the phrase --"the moon was a ghostly galleon." I immediately added it to my stock of phrases. When I stood in the window and watched the moon, I would recite that line over and over again.
I was in love with the metaphor. and the idea of ghostly and galleon. I wondered .what a galleon was . And Joe consulted a dictionary :A galleon refers to a type of sailboat used in the 15th to 18th centuries mostly for battles and carrying consumer goods. Galleons had big square sails rigged onto several masts. They were built and sailed by many Europeans, but they are most commonly associated with the Spanish
And just imagine this was a GHOST SHIP-- and I watched for the times when the moon moves through the clouds and plays a kind of peek-a-boo game with us on Earth,
"TOSSED UPON CLOUDY SEAS"
Pretty soon I had all of PART One committed to memory. I would sit with the book open to the page and begin my recitation.
That got my mother's attention.
OMIGOD! Is she reading?
Then when I faltered or came to the end of my memory, she saw that I had remembered half of the poem. She started sitting next to me and pointing to each word with a pencil. When I stopped, she would prompt me and we would go on. Pretty soon after a couple of days past, I had conquered the whole poem. I especially liked the description of Tim the Ostler--"his eyes were hollows of madness," WOW STRONG STUFF.
What is an OSTLER? A man employed to look after the horses of people staying at an inn. ... 'He partook of a leisurely breakfast, paid his reckoning, had the ostler bring his horse, and set off to the sound of church bells in the clear air.'
My mother loved showing me how to use the dictionary--she said that all the words in the English language were inside that one book. SO that started me on the habit of looking words up. I liked the fact that it was all in alphabetical order.
I had known how to say the alphabet since I was two years old. I thought that it was just a kind of jingle or rhyme, but I never saw why it was important--now I knew. So if I knew how to spell a word, I could find it in the dictionary.
I suddenly knew that words were made up of letters and there were only 26 letters-- so all words were combinations of those few letters.
SO exciting and simple.
I kept reciting The Highwayman and sat with my mother pointing to each word,
AND SUDDENLY A HUGE LIGHT WENT OFF IN MY MIND.
Those sounds that I was saying were connected to those letters I saw arranged into words on the printed page.
IN SOME WEIRD WAY I GOT THE CONNECTION OF THE SOUNDS AND THE SYMBOLS
AND SO I STARTED READING!
Sunday, July 29, 2018
HOW THE HIGHWAYMAN TAUGHT ME TO READ
Who made the decision to read the poem
THE HIGHWAMAN aloud to me?
I am not sure if it was my mother or my Uncle Joe. I think it was Joe because I can remember him reading this poem and when I loved it, he then said there was another poem he wanted me to hear--that was LOCHINVAR.
I loved the story telling of both poems and the romance.
But I went wild over THE HIGHWAYMAN; it was a tragic romance and told of a really brave girl whose love lead her to sacrifice her life. I also loved the sound effects. AND I do hear Joe's voice in my memory creating the tlot-tlot-tlot of the galloping horses to such a great effect.
Joe was a Christian Brother and he spent his life teaching boys. He constantly gave my mother reading lists and the choices were those that a boy would be expected to love. He had a robust and hearty manner
that was contagious. Here is the poem that he read:
The Highwayman
BY ALFRED NOYES
PART ONE
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
PART TWO
He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.
. . .
And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard.
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
FROM BEING READ TO TO READING TO MYSELF--CONT.
FROM BEING READ TO TO READING TO MYSELF--CONT.
n/a
Source: Collected Poems (1947)
Thursday, July 26, 2018
HAIKU NOVENA AT OAK HILL
MY HAIKU EXPERIMENT
I guess this was bound to happen--I want to share some of the haikus I have written recently. You know about the Haiku experiment I tried with a series of 9 Haiku grouped in a kind of poetic Novena. I ended up composing several of these Novenas because I kept on veering into new subject areas and would see that it was a new grouping.
With my attention in the past month caught up in grieving, I suppose that it is only to be expected that this concern with the dead might show up in my Haiku writing. Especially because Haiku --I now understand--is a form of contemplative practice that does seem to tap our deepest and not always conscious thoughts. It connects a momentary glimpse of something in nature with a personal emotional place.
I offer these as a humble gift back to the ongoing and unsurpassed example left to us
by MASTER POET BASHO
HAIKU NOVENA AT OAK HILL
1.
Sky darkens, rain pelts
you went for a walk today
you'll get soaked, come home.
2.
You come through the door,
you made it home, thunder claps,
so do I, we laugh.
3.
How narrow the gate
and how constricted the road
who find it are few.
4.
Told your sister died
you placed a single red rose
before her picture
5.
On a leafy bank
green ferns wave their lacy fronds
Is there a fragrance?
6.
Summer solstice here--
brown sparrow perched on birdhouse
last one you built me
7.
Oak's secret garden
leafy shade lures us through gates
find a place apart
8.
This ground is sacred:
Union soldiers dug their graves
left to free the slaves.
9.
Tiger lilies bloom
blaze orange among tombstones
Indomitable.
Wednesday, July 25, 2018
40 DAYS AFTER DEATH in Woonsocket
THE 40 DAY GATHERING AFTER THE DEATH OF PETER VANGEL
Although Roman Catholics have a mass celebrated a month after the death of a loved one, I do not think that it is the same as the tradition in the Christian Orthodox faith to have a gathering 40 days after the death of a Church member.
I did some research and learned that the tradition flows from the belief that the Soul must make a 40 day long ascent up to the Gates of Heaven.This ascent marks the last time that the forces of evil, the Devils, those like Lucifer who have been banished to Hell and are always seeking souls to take to Hell, can battle for the soul of the dead person.
The Orthodox believe that the soul is in transition and its fate is uncertain for that time.
They believe that the soul is protected and helped by its Guardian Angel--that is an individual Angel that is appointed to guard each soul from birth to death and after death into eternity.The Guardian Angel pleas the case of the Soul. Sometimes the Arch Angel Michael appears with his flaming sword to fight off the attacking Devils.
The soul must go through TWENTY terrible toll-gates during these forty days. Each bitter tollgate records and recounts one particular sin or failing such as pride, envy, lust, anger, etc and the accounts of the recording Angel are brought forward. The Guardian Angel and sometimes the Saint that shares the person's name and/or birthday speak on behalf of the fearful trembling soul.
This idea of a series of toll gates is quite a dramatic and vivid one. It is certainly true as I learned in the year as a Fulbright Senior Fellow that I lived in Romania, which is an orthodox majority country, that people there have a sense that the dead are still around for the first forty days after death,
To serve and help them through this trial, the Romanians bring food to the grave site and leave it there. Sometimes in the winter they also bring cloaks and wrap the stone monument over the grave to show their desire to help the dead keep away the frigid air. They also light long lasting votive candles on the grave.
It is not that they are frightened of the dead. No, they do not want the Dead to be frightened during this period of trial and transition. And of course, they pray for their beloved dead daily.
Such elaborate and community habits do not seem to be exercised in their entirety in Woonsocket today, but the 40 day gathering and meal is a reminder of that tradition.
The oasis of peace that is Oak Hill Cemetery cast its spell on this warm and dry day. A landmark that was created by men and women of Woonsocket who were ardent Abolitionists and were prepared and fully expected to sacrifice their lives to secure the end of slavery in THE LAND OF THE FREE. They planned a burial place that would be like an old forest of strong Oak Trees. They marched and drilled in this space, and some even dug their own graves before they went off to battle in the Civil War. What spirits must inhabit those sacred woods!
On Saturday we could still feel their benign presence as we drove into the gates and began the ascent to the grave site. Once there, I met the priest who was presiding over the ceremony and who so carefully lead us in prayer. Father Morar of Saint John the Baptist Romanian Orthodox Church set the tone of reverence and also friendship. He is blessed with a high intelligence and expansive personality; he engages people easily and creates an immediate sense of community,
Known for his superb craftsmanship in wood, he also brings a creative and artistic temperament to the spiritual guardianship that he personifies.
Speaking to him reminded me of the many people I met in the year that I spent teaching as Senior Fulbright Fellow in Romania. Father Romar had just returned from a visit to his homeland. It was a great blast to my memory to be able to share a few reminiscences of that beautiful country.
I was impressed by both his simplicity and his worldliness. He exuded a sense of tolerance and wide understanding. I felt that he sees, as our Savior did, the sharing of food as one of the key acts that bring about human harmony,
He reminds me of the host that Jesus praises in one of his parables who sets a lavish table for his son's wedding banquet and the invited guests decline. He sends out his servants to the roadways to invite people from far and wide to join the feast that has been prepared.
That is the sense of inclusiveness that marked the grave side 40 Day event and it so matched the personality of the gracious educator Peter Vangel whose passing into his eternal reward we were celebrating. I imagine that his soul passed through the tollgates unimpeded. On that perfect July day I believe that he was looking down at those of us below who must still one day face that same treacherous ascent. May we have the grace to follow his footsteps into eternity.
Although Roman Catholics have a mass celebrated a month after the death of a loved one, I do not think that it is the same as the tradition in the Christian Orthodox faith to have a gathering 40 days after the death of a Church member.
I did some research and learned that the tradition flows from the belief that the Soul must make a 40 day long ascent up to the Gates of Heaven.This ascent marks the last time that the forces of evil, the Devils, those like Lucifer who have been banished to Hell and are always seeking souls to take to Hell, can battle for the soul of the dead person.
The Orthodox believe that the soul is in transition and its fate is uncertain for that time.
They believe that the soul is protected and helped by its Guardian Angel--that is an individual Angel that is appointed to guard each soul from birth to death and after death into eternity.The Guardian Angel pleas the case of the Soul. Sometimes the Arch Angel Michael appears with his flaming sword to fight off the attacking Devils.
The soul must go through TWENTY terrible toll-gates during these forty days. Each bitter tollgate records and recounts one particular sin or failing such as pride, envy, lust, anger, etc and the accounts of the recording Angel are brought forward. The Guardian Angel and sometimes the Saint that shares the person's name and/or birthday speak on behalf of the fearful trembling soul.
This idea of a series of toll gates is quite a dramatic and vivid one. It is certainly true as I learned in the year as a Fulbright Senior Fellow that I lived in Romania, which is an orthodox majority country, that people there have a sense that the dead are still around for the first forty days after death,
To serve and help them through this trial, the Romanians bring food to the grave site and leave it there. Sometimes in the winter they also bring cloaks and wrap the stone monument over the grave to show their desire to help the dead keep away the frigid air. They also light long lasting votive candles on the grave.
It is not that they are frightened of the dead. No, they do not want the Dead to be frightened during this period of trial and transition. And of course, they pray for their beloved dead daily.
Such elaborate and community habits do not seem to be exercised in their entirety in Woonsocket today, but the 40 day gathering and meal is a reminder of that tradition.
The oasis of peace that is Oak Hill Cemetery cast its spell on this warm and dry day. A landmark that was created by men and women of Woonsocket who were ardent Abolitionists and were prepared and fully expected to sacrifice their lives to secure the end of slavery in THE LAND OF THE FREE. They planned a burial place that would be like an old forest of strong Oak Trees. They marched and drilled in this space, and some even dug their own graves before they went off to battle in the Civil War. What spirits must inhabit those sacred woods!
On Saturday we could still feel their benign presence as we drove into the gates and began the ascent to the grave site. Once there, I met the priest who was presiding over the ceremony and who so carefully lead us in prayer. Father Morar of Saint John the Baptist Romanian Orthodox Church set the tone of reverence and also friendship. He is blessed with a high intelligence and expansive personality; he engages people easily and creates an immediate sense of community,
Known for his superb craftsmanship in wood, he also brings a creative and artistic temperament to the spiritual guardianship that he personifies.
Speaking to him reminded me of the many people I met in the year that I spent teaching as Senior Fulbright Fellow in Romania. Father Romar had just returned from a visit to his homeland. It was a great blast to my memory to be able to share a few reminiscences of that beautiful country.
I was impressed by both his simplicity and his worldliness. He exuded a sense of tolerance and wide understanding. I felt that he sees, as our Savior did, the sharing of food as one of the key acts that bring about human harmony,
He reminds me of the host that Jesus praises in one of his parables who sets a lavish table for his son's wedding banquet and the invited guests decline. He sends out his servants to the roadways to invite people from far and wide to join the feast that has been prepared.
That is the sense of inclusiveness that marked the grave side 40 Day event and it so matched the personality of the gracious educator Peter Vangel whose passing into his eternal reward we were celebrating. I imagine that his soul passed through the tollgates unimpeded. On that perfect July day I believe that he was looking down at those of us below who must still one day face that same treacherous ascent. May we have the grace to follow his footsteps into eternity.
Tuesday, July 24, 2018
CHINESE POET WHO CHANGED THE WORLD: LuXun
The First One we will meet is LuXun from China
Is there enough room in the Bucket for one-- poet --who changed the world?
I start with LuXun because he is the one who is most distant from me--not just in time but in his place and his destiny.
This man who wanted to be a doctor turned to poetry as a way to better heal the pain in his country. He is a very subtle poet.
Subtlety is the mark of a great poet in the Chinese, Japanese and Korean traditions. So he disguises his meanings and he hides in symbolism. The difficulty of anyone being certain of his meaning acted as a safeguard in a country that is ruled by despots and Emperors --there can be some mortal danger if your objections ring out too clearly.
AND YET---and yet the suffering people must know that you speak for them and that you are their champion. So that is a hard trick to pull off.
LuXun approached writing through the Short Story and there he made a revolutionary innovation. He used the vernacular form of Chinese when he wrote--he used the words that people used in daily life and that made his work accessible to his readers. He also loved the visual that can communicate with out words and he promoted a certain kind of Chinese woodblock that could depict the suffering of the people.
AS a poet he even delineated his work as in the Classical Style or in the Modern Style. This would help his readers to know how much ambiguity or clarity they could hope to find.
But one thing that he was always clear about--his own love for China and his mastery of the older forms.
I wanted to put LuXun first in my poetry workshop but I found it difficult to find translations of his work online. So I ordered a book of his poems from AMAZON from a third party seller.
Yesterday the slim volume appeared in Pawtucket entitled
LuXun Selected Poems. It had his portrait on the cover and was a Chinese Book printed in China. To my delight I found an old sales slip used as a book mark that showed that someone in China had purchased this book with four others in 2003.
I was glad to have an authentic version in my hands and not one that showed the bias of the Cold War. Scholars have been able to present LuXun's achievement more fully since the end of the Cold War. They praise his style and also his psychological insights.
I am going to pick one poem for us to read and talk about.
As I start to read through the volume I am stopped by another small red book mark; it brings my attention to a poem that blows me away.
AN INSCRIPTION FOR THE SANYI STUPA
My first reaction: this is too coded and mysterious for me--I am not sure I know exactly what a stupa is.
Then I read the opening inscription and my heart breaks---
"The Sanyi Stupa was built to hold the bones of a pigeon once left alive in Sanyi Lane, Zhabei, Shanghai. In Japan such stupas are made by the peasants."
I could not make this up!
A stupa for a dead pigeon!
If you have read my blog entry on "Birds in the Bucket" about my brief and intense friendship with a pigeon I called SMOKEY, you may recall that with neighborhood children I made a stupa of piled stones for his grave site. And we did that sort of instinctively before we knew the name for it. A STUPA IN PAWTUCKET
Here is the text of Lu Xun's poem. Here is his inscription:
When thunder and raging fires were slaughtering mankind
Amid the ruins survived a starving pigeon
One of great heart that took it from the ashes,
Later to build for it an Eastern tomb.
When the bird's spirit wakes it carries stones;
Warriors stand firm to stem the flood together.
After we two brothers have endured a kalpa
We shall meet smiling and our hate shall die.
QUESTION--WHAT IS A KALPA??
A Kalpa is an aeon, a length of time in which a universe can come into being, thrive, destroy itself, and leave a long period of nothing behind. It is the APOCALYPSE
So in this poem the poet imagines that the spirit of the dead pigeon when he awakes will carry stones to help those who are still fighting to stand firm.
Eventually, the men who are fighting will meet and will see that they have more in common. They will see the Brotherhood of Humanity--what connects us is eternal and will withstand any tests that time brings to us. The pigeon will even join in the struggle and this shows the solidarity of all sentient beings.
Is there enough room in the Bucket for one-- poet --who changed the world?
I start with LuXun because he is the one who is most distant from me--not just in time but in his place and his destiny.
This man who wanted to be a doctor turned to poetry as a way to better heal the pain in his country. He is a very subtle poet.
Subtlety is the mark of a great poet in the Chinese, Japanese and Korean traditions. So he disguises his meanings and he hides in symbolism. The difficulty of anyone being certain of his meaning acted as a safeguard in a country that is ruled by despots and Emperors --there can be some mortal danger if your objections ring out too clearly.
AND YET---and yet the suffering people must know that you speak for them and that you are their champion. So that is a hard trick to pull off.
LuXun approached writing through the Short Story and there he made a revolutionary innovation. He used the vernacular form of Chinese when he wrote--he used the words that people used in daily life and that made his work accessible to his readers. He also loved the visual that can communicate with out words and he promoted a certain kind of Chinese woodblock that could depict the suffering of the people.
AS a poet he even delineated his work as in the Classical Style or in the Modern Style. This would help his readers to know how much ambiguity or clarity they could hope to find.
But one thing that he was always clear about--his own love for China and his mastery of the older forms.
I wanted to put LuXun first in my poetry workshop but I found it difficult to find translations of his work online. So I ordered a book of his poems from AMAZON from a third party seller.
Yesterday the slim volume appeared in Pawtucket entitled
LuXun Selected Poems. It had his portrait on the cover and was a Chinese Book printed in China. To my delight I found an old sales slip used as a book mark that showed that someone in China had purchased this book with four others in 2003.
I was glad to have an authentic version in my hands and not one that showed the bias of the Cold War. Scholars have been able to present LuXun's achievement more fully since the end of the Cold War. They praise his style and also his psychological insights.
I am going to pick one poem for us to read and talk about.
As I start to read through the volume I am stopped by another small red book mark; it brings my attention to a poem that blows me away.
AN INSCRIPTION FOR THE SANYI STUPA
My first reaction: this is too coded and mysterious for me--I am not sure I know exactly what a stupa is.
Then I read the opening inscription and my heart breaks---
"The Sanyi Stupa was built to hold the bones of a pigeon once left alive in Sanyi Lane, Zhabei, Shanghai. In Japan such stupas are made by the peasants."
I could not make this up!
A stupa for a dead pigeon!
If you have read my blog entry on "Birds in the Bucket" about my brief and intense friendship with a pigeon I called SMOKEY, you may recall that with neighborhood children I made a stupa of piled stones for his grave site. And we did that sort of instinctively before we knew the name for it. A STUPA IN PAWTUCKET
Here is the text of Lu Xun's poem. Here is his inscription:
When thunder and raging fires were slaughtering mankind
Amid the ruins survived a starving pigeon
One of great heart that took it from the ashes,
Later to build for it an Eastern tomb.
When the bird's spirit wakes it carries stones;
Warriors stand firm to stem the flood together.
After we two brothers have endured a kalpa
We shall meet smiling and our hate shall die.
QUESTION--WHAT IS A KALPA??
A Kalpa is an aeon, a length of time in which a universe can come into being, thrive, destroy itself, and leave a long period of nothing behind. It is the APOCALYPSE
So in this poem the poet imagines that the spirit of the dead pigeon when he awakes will carry stones to help those who are still fighting to stand firm.
Eventually, the men who are fighting will meet and will see that they have more in common. They will see the Brotherhood of Humanity--what connects us is eternal and will withstand any tests that time brings to us. The pigeon will even join in the struggle and this shows the solidarity of all sentient beings.
Sunday, July 22, 2018
MORE MEMORIES
THE BEGINNING OF MY SECRET LIFE
It seems that the griefs and duties of the present have usurped the allure of the memories of the past.
And I guess that is only right.
But the past -- as some one said --is not even past. Our past experiences have shaped us and sometimes they rear up in unexpected ways to show they still have power over us.
All of my memories are not happy. Who's are??
I just shared the bittersweet memory of Smokey my pigeon. But some other memories are ugly and hateful, and I do not want to turn this blog into a confessional.
I used the actual sacrament to confess what I knew even as a child were real sins. But before I was seven and had made my first confession and communion, I had no one to tell these secrets to.
Our life on Englewood Avenue was not perfect, but at least I knew and liked the neighbors and I knew my way around. Things at home started to change in 1946 when my sister Sheila was born. We lived on the corner of Brewster and Englewood in the second floor of a three decker. My mother had a good friend who lived upstairs with her husband. She was a little older than my mother and was also an avid reader. They got the best sellers from the library and read them and laughed together. The two of them loved to sit and smoke at night and talk about the books they were reading. Her name was Mrs L'Hereux--I know now that this means "the happy one" and she was--I don't think I ever heard her first name. That is how formal the world was in the 40s.
I didn't understand that anything was wrong with Janie, my older sister. She seemed a perfect older sister for a toddler like me --she was always willing to play with me, and she never got tired of simple games like Hide and Go Seek or Simon Says. She often couldn't find me, but I always found her. And if I said it fast enough I could catch her in Simon Says. My mother could take both of us for walks: she had a hand for each. I remember an Irish cousin who lived near enough to walk to. And as we came up the stairs to her tenement, she would stand on the landing and say in her Irish brogue over and over "Poor Janie. Poor Janie, Poor Janie."
The birth of Sheila changed all this. I remember sitting and waiting with my father for word of the birth. We watched out the window where we could see to Brewster Street and the Memorial Hospital and my Aunt Grace hurrying home with the news. When she arrived, my father left for the hospital and we settled down to making a few pies. Things changed when Sheila was brought home. She cried a lot and she was very difficult to feed.
My mother could no longer take all of us to the store with her. Slowly she began to turn over some of those jobs to me.
She sent me to the Grocer Mike's with a list and I would carry what I could home. I had such mixed feelings--I was so proud and yet, I was so scared that I could not carry the groceries and would drop them.That is a strange admixture--pride and fear-- but I know now that it marked many of the events in my life after Sheila's birth.
All of my mother's time was taken up with Sheila's feedings. So gradually she let me or told me to do new things. Things that were beyond me, but that flattered me. For example, she asked me to do the grocery shopping. Then she added taking my sister Janie to school and meeting her and bringing her home after school. Patiently, she drew a map of the streets from Englewood to the school and she showed me the best route. I was only to cross Brewster once and then only take side streets to Prospect.
I can recall with what trepidation I walked the blocks up to the intersection of Melrose and Prospect Street. I did not cross Prospect Street. It was there at the cross walk in front of the school that I, a three and a half year old, could turn my Sister Janie an 8 year old over to the Crossing guard.
I would go back there at three to collect Janie where the crossing guard kept her safe, and we two could walk home. Oftentimes Janie would look wild because she had pulled out her long braids during the day at school. I can recall standing on a concrete wall on Prospect Street so that I could reach high enough to re-braid Janie's hair.
Janie also registered that Sheila's coming had changed our routines. She liked the adventures with me, but she missed the time with my mother. So did I, but I dared not say so. Janie did it for us both, and she brought it up in a way that showed a lot about her own sense of self.
One day when I was getting ready to go to Mike's, Janie turned and asked our mother, "I want to go see Poor Janie again. Why don't we go any more?" My mother laughed when she understood that Janie was asking to visit her Irish cousin, and also that she thought "Poor Janie" was that lady's name. You see she could never see herself as "Poor Janie."
Taking Janie to Prospect Street School was a huge, heart-pounding adventure for me every day. My mother and Aunt Anna disagreed about the safety of the plan. But I always insisted that it was easy, and that I wanted to do it.
I LIED. I never could confess to the fear that made me tremble.
I was most afraid --believe it or not--of the crossing guard. She often praised me and said how tall and smart I was. But I feared that she would challenge me and ask why I was not going to school.
Gradually as I succeeded, little extra errands were added. After I left Janie, I would go on to Barney's store and get one or two small items. I had a list with me. And when my father was home from work with a bad back, he would call me into the bedroom and give me a paper to give to Barney. He was placing a bet on a horse. I knew there was something up because he would always say--don't tell your mother.
And thus I entered the world of all of my secrets.
It seems that the griefs and duties of the present have usurped the allure of the memories of the past.
And I guess that is only right.
But the past -- as some one said --is not even past. Our past experiences have shaped us and sometimes they rear up in unexpected ways to show they still have power over us.
All of my memories are not happy. Who's are??
I just shared the bittersweet memory of Smokey my pigeon. But some other memories are ugly and hateful, and I do not want to turn this blog into a confessional.
I used the actual sacrament to confess what I knew even as a child were real sins. But before I was seven and had made my first confession and communion, I had no one to tell these secrets to.
Our life on Englewood Avenue was not perfect, but at least I knew and liked the neighbors and I knew my way around. Things at home started to change in 1946 when my sister Sheila was born. We lived on the corner of Brewster and Englewood in the second floor of a three decker. My mother had a good friend who lived upstairs with her husband. She was a little older than my mother and was also an avid reader. They got the best sellers from the library and read them and laughed together. The two of them loved to sit and smoke at night and talk about the books they were reading. Her name was Mrs L'Hereux--I know now that this means "the happy one" and she was--I don't think I ever heard her first name. That is how formal the world was in the 40s.
I didn't understand that anything was wrong with Janie, my older sister. She seemed a perfect older sister for a toddler like me --she was always willing to play with me, and she never got tired of simple games like Hide and Go Seek or Simon Says. She often couldn't find me, but I always found her. And if I said it fast enough I could catch her in Simon Says. My mother could take both of us for walks: she had a hand for each. I remember an Irish cousin who lived near enough to walk to. And as we came up the stairs to her tenement, she would stand on the landing and say in her Irish brogue over and over "Poor Janie. Poor Janie, Poor Janie."
The birth of Sheila changed all this. I remember sitting and waiting with my father for word of the birth. We watched out the window where we could see to Brewster Street and the Memorial Hospital and my Aunt Grace hurrying home with the news. When she arrived, my father left for the hospital and we settled down to making a few pies. Things changed when Sheila was brought home. She cried a lot and she was very difficult to feed.
My mother could no longer take all of us to the store with her. Slowly she began to turn over some of those jobs to me.
She sent me to the Grocer Mike's with a list and I would carry what I could home. I had such mixed feelings--I was so proud and yet, I was so scared that I could not carry the groceries and would drop them.That is a strange admixture--pride and fear-- but I know now that it marked many of the events in my life after Sheila's birth.
All of my mother's time was taken up with Sheila's feedings. So gradually she let me or told me to do new things. Things that were beyond me, but that flattered me. For example, she asked me to do the grocery shopping. Then she added taking my sister Janie to school and meeting her and bringing her home after school. Patiently, she drew a map of the streets from Englewood to the school and she showed me the best route. I was only to cross Brewster once and then only take side streets to Prospect.
I can recall with what trepidation I walked the blocks up to the intersection of Melrose and Prospect Street. I did not cross Prospect Street. It was there at the cross walk in front of the school that I, a three and a half year old, could turn my Sister Janie an 8 year old over to the Crossing guard.
I would go back there at three to collect Janie where the crossing guard kept her safe, and we two could walk home. Oftentimes Janie would look wild because she had pulled out her long braids during the day at school. I can recall standing on a concrete wall on Prospect Street so that I could reach high enough to re-braid Janie's hair.
Janie also registered that Sheila's coming had changed our routines. She liked the adventures with me, but she missed the time with my mother. So did I, but I dared not say so. Janie did it for us both, and she brought it up in a way that showed a lot about her own sense of self.
One day when I was getting ready to go to Mike's, Janie turned and asked our mother, "I want to go see Poor Janie again. Why don't we go any more?" My mother laughed when she understood that Janie was asking to visit her Irish cousin, and also that she thought "Poor Janie" was that lady's name. You see she could never see herself as "Poor Janie."
Taking Janie to Prospect Street School was a huge, heart-pounding adventure for me every day. My mother and Aunt Anna disagreed about the safety of the plan. But I always insisted that it was easy, and that I wanted to do it.
I LIED. I never could confess to the fear that made me tremble.
I was most afraid --believe it or not--of the crossing guard. She often praised me and said how tall and smart I was. But I feared that she would challenge me and ask why I was not going to school.
Gradually as I succeeded, little extra errands were added. After I left Janie, I would go on to Barney's store and get one or two small items. I had a list with me. And when my father was home from work with a bad back, he would call me into the bedroom and give me a paper to give to Barney. He was placing a bet on a horse. I knew there was something up because he would always say--don't tell your mother.
And thus I entered the world of all of my secrets.
Friday, July 20, 2018
Pastor Ken Postle enlarges the discussion about SOUL LIBERTY
ASKING A BAPTIST PASTOR ABOUT SOUL LIBERTY
Last week I posted a blog entry about the concept of SOUL LIBERTY which I first heard of as a child and which attracted me because of its emphasis on the spiritual meaning of freedom.
After I posted it I became a bit self-conscious and wanted to show it to a Baptist Pastor from Pawtucket Ken Postle. I did not want to seriously misrepresent a religious tradition that was part of my father's family history but which I had never studied in a systematic way,
So I decided to ask Ken for help .Here is my email request:
Dear Ken,
Last week I posted a blog entry about the concept of SOUL LIBERTY which I first heard of as a child and which attracted me because of its emphasis on the spiritual meaning of freedom.
After I posted it I became a bit self-conscious and wanted to show it to a Baptist Pastor from Pawtucket Ken Postle. I did not want to seriously misrepresent a religious tradition that was part of my father's family history but which I had never studied in a systematic way,
So I decided to ask Ken for help .Here is my email request:
Dear Ken,
I recently posted on my Blog "Back in the Bucket" an entry about the topic of Soul Liberty. I have been a member of the Baptist History Society and I am trying to learn more about the principles of the Baptist tradition.
I imbibed them in practice from my Aunt Grace and now I want to know how Baptists speak and write about them.
Anyway, I would really appreciate your reaction and tell me where and if you would differ.
Thanks for your help.
Your cousin, Norma.
See Blog ENTRY For July 11, 2018 on SOUL LIBERTY
"If I will that he tarry until I come, what is it to thee?
Here is Pastor Ken's response.
Hi Norma,
The passage about Jesus’ response to Peter concerning John after Peter had been reinstated and warned of a dire end to his discipleship is tough for any of us to hear…It is the same reaction we have when we get a ticket through our window from a cop as other cars go speeding by…We need to hear the Word of God as it is addressed to us and not worry about what He is doing with other folk..God has no grandchildren, only sons and daughters through His Grace…Free Will determines our fate regardless of our upbringing or supposed advantages. When Jesus talked about those who were hired early in the day getting the same pay as those hired last just before closing, He dealt with the same issue-Those of us receiving the Grace of God shouldn’t question others having their sentences commuted as well…Hope that helps…Islam after my own deep study of it offers no personal relationship with the holy, only a standoffish acknowledgement of fatalism-God offers choices all through our lives totally within our sphere of understanding and we will be held accountable for them…
Blessings and sorry for the late response…
This seems to me to be a perfect response because Pastor Ken has enlarged the conversation to include another Parable that many people have trouble with.
The one about the laborors who get hired early and agree to a wage for the days work. As the day goes by more workers are needed and as they are added they are also promised the same wage. Even at the eleventh hour workers who work for only one hour are given the same wage as ones who have been working all day.
Some people see this as unfair but it is really another testimony to the deep abyss that is unfathomable to us of the MERCY OF GOD. Salvation is not a labor negotiation. It is an enormous Gift of God's Grace. And HE is free to bestow it where and when He chooses. That is the Glory and Immensity of God's Freedom.
If you ask for and accept the Grace of Salvation, you will be saved. Remember that Good Thief on the cross who is actually promised that he will enter Paradise that very DAY!
SO it is a caution against despair--never believe that God is done with you. HE IS NEVER DONE WITH YOU.
He made us all and HE hopes that we will all accept his Grace and come back to Him.
There is an old UNIVERSALIST SAYING that my father some times said: GOD DID NOT MAKE SOULS TO LOSE THEM.
That phrase gives me great comfort. Our God is not a careless God-He has numbered the hairs on our head and his eye is on the sparrow. He is watching, waiting and calling to us all.
The one about the laborors who get hired early and agree to a wage for the days work. As the day goes by more workers are needed and as they are added they are also promised the same wage. Even at the eleventh hour workers who work for only one hour are given the same wage as ones who have been working all day.
Some people see this as unfair but it is really another testimony to the deep abyss that is unfathomable to us of the MERCY OF GOD. Salvation is not a labor negotiation. It is an enormous Gift of God's Grace. And HE is free to bestow it where and when He chooses. That is the Glory and Immensity of God's Freedom.
If you ask for and accept the Grace of Salvation, you will be saved. Remember that Good Thief on the cross who is actually promised that he will enter Paradise that very DAY!
SO it is a caution against despair--never believe that God is done with you. HE IS NEVER DONE WITH YOU.
He made us all and HE hopes that we will all accept his Grace and come back to Him.
There is an old UNIVERSALIST SAYING that my father some times said: GOD DID NOT MAKE SOULS TO LOSE THEM.
That phrase gives me great comfort. Our God is not a careless God-He has numbered the hairs on our head and his eye is on the sparrow. He is watching, waiting and calling to us all.
Tuesday, July 17, 2018
BIRDS IN THE BUCKET
A DIES IRAE KIND OF DAY IN MY CHILDHOOD
Got those deep down can't fly wanna die blues
Those are the words of a song that I Love.
The first time I heard it. Richie Havens was singing it. I felt like someone was speaking to me and speaking for me.
It reflects my lifelong LOVE and yes, ENVY of birds.
I always wanted to fly.
Here is the beginning of the song:
There's a high flying bird flying way up in the sky
and I wonder if she looks down as she flies on by.
She is flying so deep and easy in the sky
Oh LOOK AT ME I am rooted like a tree
Got those deep down can't fly, Oh Lord, wanna die blues
OUR SECOND FLOOR PORCH, MY RETREAT When I was young and living in the second floor tenement on Englewood Avenue, I spent lots of time on the porch. One attraction was the proximity to the pigeons that nested on our roof and neighboring ones. For a few summers I can recall finding some fledgling who had blundered onto our porch in some early flight attempt and now could not get off.
Our porch was covered construction part of the house, not just railings and had a broad top to the half- wall where we could place flower pots or-- against all rules --sit and sometimes even stand.
I was forbidden to sit there but I often did. I would sit with my back against one of the square support columns and my feet up with extended legs along the top. My mother would scream if she caught me, but more often than not she did not see what I was up to.
I could read that way for hours, and also keep my eye on the streets below. See from my perch who was out and about to play with or maybe make some trouble.
When a baby bird appeared suddenly dragging a wing and cheeping piteously, that was a signal for me to go into full rescue mode. I would bring a saucer of milk out and soak bread crusts. Crumb by crumb I encouraged the trembling trapped birds to eat and get strong. Usually after two or three days of this they managed to fly away. and I would come out in the morning to an empty porch which I would be told to mop with hot sudsy water to erase all signs of pigeon life.
But once or twice, when the birds got stronger, they stayed. The most memorable bird was the one I named SMOKEY. He was all grey and shades of black and some dark iridescent blue around his ruff and puffer chest.
He was very young when I found him huddled in the corner of the porch. For him I used an eye dropper to put water and milk down his throat. He did not seem to like it, but he tolerated it.
Then I added the bread crumbs and later when he was bigger, I would cut up pieces of bologna and he snapped at those. By then he was my pet.
He had fixated on me and he would follow me everywhere.
I trained him to sit on my shoulder and after a while I dared to take him out and off the porch. I showed him outside to my down stairs neighbors the White children. AND then when word of his tameness spread other kids from the other streets came over to see him.
I was nearly out of my mind with delight. I tried walking further and further with him. Sometimes if a car or a loud noise scared him, he would fly off and go up to a tree, but as soon as I started walking again he would follow, and when I called. would alight on my shoulder.
I was madly in love with this bird. I even took him on my shoulder all the way to my friend Lucille's house on Columbus Avenue. He would fly away into a tree there, but he always watched where I was. When we were done playing and I started for home, I would clap my hands and call him and SMOKEY would descend.
HE was extremely smart. Lucille was very taken with him, and he would go to her shoulder if I placed him there. She would sometimes walk home with me, and then I would take him back when we got close to my street.
The most elaborate outing I ever had with him was when I walked to downtown Pawtucket with him, We were a sensation on the Main Street bridge and in front of the White Tower on the bridge. That was one of the happiest days of my life.
However, all was not so happy on the home front. My mother complained constantly of the pigeon sh_t all over the porch. This bird had out stayed his welcome, and she yelled that he had spoiled the porch. That it was too filthy for us to play out there or sit out there at night. She had a point. and she said that he should be with other birds and have a bird life. He could not spend the harsh winter on our porch and survive.
Then one day I walked out to the porch and it was empty. He was gone. I clapped and called his name but nothing happened. My mother was glad--he has just gone to join his bird family, she said.
SPOILER ALERT : THIS STORY DOES NOT END HAPPILY!
One hot day in late August my mother was washing dishes in front of the open window over her sink when suddenly she said, WHAT IS THAT AWFUL SMELL?
She opened the screen and stuck her head out the window, something has died and is rotting on the roof. I went out onto the porch and could see just a smokey grey wing hanging over the edge of the rain gutter attached to the roof, My mother had gotten a broom and was leaning out the kitchen window using the long handle to prod the thing that was there. All at once it tumbled to the ground below. It was SMOKEY.
I ran down to the yard and saw his grey and black feathers and that iridescent blue ruff that I had stroked so often and I knew it was Smokey. I began to cry and I could not stop. My mother called down to me.
There is a shovel in the back hall. Bury him.
I got the shovel and began to dig in the hard dry dirt. When I turned him over to roll him into the hole, I could see where the maggots were feeding and there was a terrible stench.
I retched but finished the work. My mother and Aunt Anna were fighting in the kitchen about it.
I heard my mother say over and over again:
No, it is her bird. She loves that bird, this is her job.
And I knew that she was right--she usually was right about love.
When you love someone you go to the last with him and you never flinch. But you do cry and weep. I know I did.
As I placed the soil over Smokey's body I began to sing to myself a little chant that we were learning in our Gregorian class in 4th grade.
DIES IRAE, DIES ILLA
Then when I smoothed the spot over I looked for some rocks in the yard and I marked the spot. And I made a sign SMOKEY R.I.P.
And stuck a stick through it and placed it into the ground. Later
I told the other children and they came and we put any flowers we could find on the grave spot.
Got those deep down can't fly wanna die blues
Those are the words of a song that I Love.
The first time I heard it. Richie Havens was singing it. I felt like someone was speaking to me and speaking for me.
It reflects my lifelong LOVE and yes, ENVY of birds.
I always wanted to fly.
Here is the beginning of the song:
There's a high flying bird flying way up in the sky
and I wonder if she looks down as she flies on by.
She is flying so deep and easy in the sky
Oh LOOK AT ME I am rooted like a tree
Got those deep down can't fly, Oh Lord, wanna die blues
OUR SECOND FLOOR PORCH, MY RETREAT When I was young and living in the second floor tenement on Englewood Avenue, I spent lots of time on the porch. One attraction was the proximity to the pigeons that nested on our roof and neighboring ones. For a few summers I can recall finding some fledgling who had blundered onto our porch in some early flight attempt and now could not get off.
Our porch was covered construction part of the house, not just railings and had a broad top to the half- wall where we could place flower pots or-- against all rules --sit and sometimes even stand.
I was forbidden to sit there but I often did. I would sit with my back against one of the square support columns and my feet up with extended legs along the top. My mother would scream if she caught me, but more often than not she did not see what I was up to.
I could read that way for hours, and also keep my eye on the streets below. See from my perch who was out and about to play with or maybe make some trouble.
When a baby bird appeared suddenly dragging a wing and cheeping piteously, that was a signal for me to go into full rescue mode. I would bring a saucer of milk out and soak bread crusts. Crumb by crumb I encouraged the trembling trapped birds to eat and get strong. Usually after two or three days of this they managed to fly away. and I would come out in the morning to an empty porch which I would be told to mop with hot sudsy water to erase all signs of pigeon life.
But once or twice, when the birds got stronger, they stayed. The most memorable bird was the one I named SMOKEY. He was all grey and shades of black and some dark iridescent blue around his ruff and puffer chest.
He was very young when I found him huddled in the corner of the porch. For him I used an eye dropper to put water and milk down his throat. He did not seem to like it, but he tolerated it.
Then I added the bread crumbs and later when he was bigger, I would cut up pieces of bologna and he snapped at those. By then he was my pet.
He had fixated on me and he would follow me everywhere.
I trained him to sit on my shoulder and after a while I dared to take him out and off the porch. I showed him outside to my down stairs neighbors the White children. AND then when word of his tameness spread other kids from the other streets came over to see him.
I was nearly out of my mind with delight. I tried walking further and further with him. Sometimes if a car or a loud noise scared him, he would fly off and go up to a tree, but as soon as I started walking again he would follow, and when I called. would alight on my shoulder.
I was madly in love with this bird. I even took him on my shoulder all the way to my friend Lucille's house on Columbus Avenue. He would fly away into a tree there, but he always watched where I was. When we were done playing and I started for home, I would clap my hands and call him and SMOKEY would descend.
HE was extremely smart. Lucille was very taken with him, and he would go to her shoulder if I placed him there. She would sometimes walk home with me, and then I would take him back when we got close to my street.
The most elaborate outing I ever had with him was when I walked to downtown Pawtucket with him, We were a sensation on the Main Street bridge and in front of the White Tower on the bridge. That was one of the happiest days of my life.
However, all was not so happy on the home front. My mother complained constantly of the pigeon sh_t all over the porch. This bird had out stayed his welcome, and she yelled that he had spoiled the porch. That it was too filthy for us to play out there or sit out there at night. She had a point. and she said that he should be with other birds and have a bird life. He could not spend the harsh winter on our porch and survive.
Then one day I walked out to the porch and it was empty. He was gone. I clapped and called his name but nothing happened. My mother was glad--he has just gone to join his bird family, she said.
SPOILER ALERT : THIS STORY DOES NOT END HAPPILY!
One hot day in late August my mother was washing dishes in front of the open window over her sink when suddenly she said, WHAT IS THAT AWFUL SMELL?
She opened the screen and stuck her head out the window, something has died and is rotting on the roof. I went out onto the porch and could see just a smokey grey wing hanging over the edge of the rain gutter attached to the roof, My mother had gotten a broom and was leaning out the kitchen window using the long handle to prod the thing that was there. All at once it tumbled to the ground below. It was SMOKEY.
I ran down to the yard and saw his grey and black feathers and that iridescent blue ruff that I had stroked so often and I knew it was Smokey. I began to cry and I could not stop. My mother called down to me.
There is a shovel in the back hall. Bury him.
I got the shovel and began to dig in the hard dry dirt. When I turned him over to roll him into the hole, I could see where the maggots were feeding and there was a terrible stench.
I retched but finished the work. My mother and Aunt Anna were fighting in the kitchen about it.
I heard my mother say over and over again:
No, it is her bird. She loves that bird, this is her job.
And I knew that she was right--she usually was right about love.
When you love someone you go to the last with him and you never flinch. But you do cry and weep. I know I did.
As I placed the soil over Smokey's body I began to sing to myself a little chant that we were learning in our Gregorian class in 4th grade.
DIES IRAE, DIES ILLA
| 1 | Dies iræ, dies illa Solvet sæclum in favilla, Teste David cum Sibylla. | The day of wrath, that day will dissolve the world in ashes, David being witness along with the Sibyl. |
Then when I smoothed the spot over I looked for some rocks in the yard and I marked the spot. And I made a sign SMOKEY R.I.P.
And stuck a stick through it and placed it into the ground. Later
I told the other children and they came and we put any flowers we could find on the grave spot.
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