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A Wanderer Forever in the Streets of Men
Ever since I discovered him by playing book roulette at the local library, Loren Eisley has been one of my favorite writers. An anthropologist and nature writer, Eisley was “discovered” by Ray Bradbury, who read one of Eisley’s essays in a science magazine and wrote him, saying, “You need to write a book.” Eisley took Bradbury’s advice, and I’m grateful he did. Eisley’s brooding prose saturates my mind every time I pick up one of his books. My favorite of his works is his guarded, haunting autobiography All The Strange Hours: The Excavation of a Life (1975, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, NY). I want to share a portion of…
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Little Things Find Their Beds
I had the day off due to yesterday’s holiday falling on a Sunday, and I made good use of it. Jinx and I moved half of a load of wood I’ve been putting off, and then I built a new door for the goat shed– another procrastination project. Mowed the front meadow and decided to go ahead and cut the entire yard, since it would be needing it by week’s end. By the time the sun was slanting down across in the west, my feet were sore and I was out of steam. So I sat and read the rest of the day, procrastinating on my correspondence, too, watching it…
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It Comes To This
Time comes when a man realizes, truly and finally, that he will never do any of those things he’s kept in the footlocker of dreams in the back of his life’s closet. They call themselves the Chicks now, because they’re ashamed of the word “Dixie” and because they’re progressive and they’re on the right side of history. Mind you, they don’t have much of a career anymore, and they’ve never been introspective enough to take the blame for their Maines-inflicted fatal wound, but they were once very enjoyable. And the lyrics to this song are poignant and powerful. And tonight, the lyrics are personal. UPDATE — I replaced the video…
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Having Enough
When I open my eyes to the gray light peeping around the borders of the curtains and drop my hand to scratch the stubby little ears of my dog, I do not trouble myself with thoughts of the world or its viruses or those who scramble after its thrones or its frocked masters who speak for God or its oil reserves or its intentionally-stoked fires of unrest. These things may come to affect me someday, but in order to do so they will have to make their way to this small acreage. If they do this, they may well learn why the gate to my life is locked and guarded.…
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A World Diminished
It sits just off the highway a few miles from the turnoff to our farm, a squat, unremarkable building in the middle of a blacktopped lot, two gas pumps out front. Two donkeys live in a corral adjacent to the building, and customers sometimes saunter over and offer treats to the pair. It’s the Market, and for almost four decades, Danny owned and ran the place. Danny’s market was one of the first places we patronized when we bought our place years ago. From the get-go, he was a genial shopkeeper, helpful and gregarious. In addition to groceries, cigarettes, beer and whatnot, the market stocks a large variety of useful…
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Inarcurlated Outlaw
I suppose it was bound to happen. Though I have held out hope, a superstitious confidence written on slips of tissue paper and tucked into the fissures in my heart. Now it’s caught up with me, and I see how futile my hope was. Middle of the afternoon, and my phone buzzes. Unfamiliar number, so I silenced it and went on about my business. A few minutes later I glanced at the screen. Voicemail waiting. Found a private room and listened. “This is Lacy? And um? Your dog is here at our house? Can you call me back?” So I called her back, and I got the story. Jinx had…
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That’s The Deal
When I arrived home this evening, something was different. Jinx wasn’t there to greet me. He is always either lying in front of the door, or sprawled in the grass, or he comes running from the back porch, and he greets me with all the I’m-so-glad-to-see-you-again joy that characterizes our daily reunions. But this evening, he was absent. He’s a rake and a rambler, and I know he sometimes strikes out for the Territories, or at least for the Baskervilles up behind the house, but by the time I had changed clothes, fed Dixee, and prepared his supper, Jinx still hadn’t appeared. And I began to be uneasy. I walked…
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Holy Saturday, Night
We walked together, Jinx and I. At dawn and in the warmth of the day and at its close. We marveled at the same colors and listened to the same songs. And now we are with Mrs. Orr and Dixee, all of us in the same room, a fire’s flames curling up behind the stove’s glass on the night of the day known as 4-3-21. A countdown day. The dogwoods will not blossom tomorrow after all. Perhaps later in the week. The buds are larger and fuller, but they are not ready for Easter. They have their own timetable, they listen to their own music, singing in the sap that…
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The Trip and the State of All
I spoke at length today with an aged woman. She told me about the death of her husband a month ago. I expressed sorrow for her loss and the void it must have left in her life. She thanked me, then shook her head. “But you know,” she said, “we had a good life together, a good long life. And he went home to Jesus just as easy as pie.” I liked that, and I asked her to elaborate. This is what she told me — “He’d been ailing for some good little while, and one night, he seemed to get his strength back. I cooked him a good supper…
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Footfalls
Out in the yard this morning with Dixee (Jinx was off rambling, in search of the source of some mysterious howling my wife heard before dawn), I felt the frost crunching beneath my shoes and was reminded that this afternoon I will return to the podiatrist. I hope that he will be able to accurately assess the effect, if any, of the temporary orthotic insert I’ve been wearing since my initial visit. Looking at the state of the Catholic Church today, I am tempted to be disgusted and to withdraw into myself. But then I am reminded that for most of the 2000 years since Christ ascended into Heaven, the…