There is a lunatic in the driver seat And we’re watching a lunar mission And they’re looking at the dark side of the moon There is an empty bed at the asylum Waiting for a man Watching himself give a speech In a mirror framed in gold And they’re counting craters out the window On the dark side of the moon We see the leader growl into the microphone And drool on his lapel pin And buff his nails on his chest As he rips away our will to live We are watching history made Reaching into space farther out than any other Lunar mission and at the podium He shows us the gold encrusted ball room plan Yet no plan for the war he started There’s a lunatic driving the bobsled And it’s straight down the mountain Into an abyss And they’re looking at the dark side of the moon Taking pictures of the colors On the dark side of the moon
Upon this Easter dawn, the world is still. We celebrate that He has conquered death. Yet, no ecstatic joy fills up the rooms. The quiet, heavy, settles where I will, My family gathers elsewhere, joy apart, Bound by their own, the hearth a gentle flame. Yet silence presses deeply on my heart, And solitude, unchosen, stakes its claim. Outside, spring blooms and birdsong softly swells, Yet here I sit, a shadow in the light. In quiet, memories drift as time compels A longing for the warmth withheld from sight. So, Easter comes, profound and bittersweet, In solitude, reflection makes me whole.
In my hometown there are some left turns down in the village. I think about their order as I mentally ride my bike through the downtown section. I ride across the bridge watching the traffic looking down at the rocks underneath the bridge. The river is shallow there. The first left turn is Island Street because it brings you out on an island where a few old bridges used to be, now there are a couple of houses. They are right out there almost in the river. The power station was built near there. Once you get over the bridge, the next left turn is Crabb Street.
There is a Crabb family that used to run the hardware store (A. B. Crabb) when I was a child. My best friend and I would ride our bikes down there to see the taxidermized (I think I may have made up that word) 2 headed calf and the gigantic moose with widespread antlers.
The next left turn is all the way down by the funeral home and that is Wheeler Lane now known as Wheeler Drive. It leads up to the Catholic Church (of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary) and goes by my old grade school on the elementary side. I say old, because it was closed when they built a new one attached to the High School. This one is now apartments.) It leads to the old dairy and the water tower out in the fields there. I remember our kindergarten class walked there one hot day in spring. Doctor Wheeler is the person the lane is named for because he invented a new kind of milk bottle back in the day involving sterilization to prevent disease. We got milk in little glass bottles delivered from Wheeler dairy to our kindergarten room. Cream on top, fresh and cold; Paper straws in a big white box. A nice cookie and milk break mid-morning. Very refreshing.
The next left turn is Hepburn St. There is an historic Wesleyan church on this corner, and it is where the Hepburn library stands, and further up you can go by the grade school on the other side. This library always gives me butterflies in my stomach especially the upstairs part. When I was 8 my mom took me to get a book and it was called Stars for Cristy. It got lost among the books we already had- and no one took me back to return it. Eventually forgotten, years went by. I never even read it, to this day. And now I don’t know where it is, and I feel such Catholic guilt because I never returned it. The fine for tardy books must be in the millions of dollars by now. Also, my Girl Scout troop met every Tuesday in the basement, which later became the temporary post office after the post office burned down. There is a winding staircase that we would sneak up, just to see where it went. Much creaking of stairs and whispers between me and my friend. We never made it all the way up. We heard noises and chickened out. Later I found that it led to the main library room.
The next left turn is Bank Street, because of obvious reasons. I’m not sure whether that bank is still open. It was the first bank I had an account then and was quaint and old fashioned with the counter and the caged teller stations with brass fittings. I could see the giant safe back behind the bars. My nose came to the edge of the counter as I slid my bank look across and deposited my $5 allowance.
I know there used to be a large stone church there on the east side of Bank Street, but in 1915 most of the village burned and that was one of the treasures lost in time.
Here is a picture of the church, circa 1910.
And this is how the lot looks today:
The next left turn is Hutchins Street. (I think. …I’m a bit fuzzy on whether Hutchins comes before or after Bank.) This street was primarily developed post-World War II, with residential homes. I have a deficit of memories about, or on Hutchins St. Of course, this all depends on which direction you are riding your bike. I am remembering riding toward the west.
After Bank Street is Sober Street. That is the one that becomes the River Road. I think the name has something to do with the fact that there used to be more bars than churches in the village. Or maybe this street had no taverns on it; anyway a name ironically chosen with tongue in cheek amusement.
It follows the river, and at one time it was the main road. It led to the paper mill crossing over the village and workers used to walk across on a footbridge to get to work. The River Road is long and winding, and after they built the state route 56, River Road became less used and the paper mill went in and out of use throughout the years. It is working now, I think — but am not sure. Alas, the paper mill is a right turn so does not count in my left turn recollections.
The next left turn is a little street that led to a classmate’s house, which I only remember once attending a pajama party there, and there is a restaurant on the corner. It’s still there. The street bares the same name from the old 1850s map, Second St., and is a dead end. It winds up around the Catholic cemetery, just beyond. it is a place where many of my relatives are buried my maternal grandparents included.
After that the main street, surprisingly called Main Street, travels up a steep hill and curves to the left on the way out of town.
I’m watching clouds From my couch Through the window. I’m lying on my back, looking up. The wind is stirring The sky. I hear electric wires twitching in the wind And rubbing against the house, The wind roaring across the grass -- Old brown leaves are tossed Up into the air and glide away To visit someone else’s lawn, Temporarily. Time is passing. The sun was seen today, And patches of blue, But now it is on the downward slide. About an hour and a half left Before it slips down behind the horizon And the lights come on. In another place the sun will rise. A day has ended and begun. Another day.
They say spring is here, but spring is slow. The moon has done her work— Tugging the tides, thinning the darkness— Yet here, in “Almost Canada”, winter feels like the default setting, Snow is more familiar than bare ground. I try to remember that every season has its ups and downs, Its small mercies and minor cruelties. Still, this time of year taxes my patience. Spring around here negotiates—poorly. It shows up with a clipboard and a vague sense of optimism, Then immediately gets shoved back into the car By a white cold windchill. The forecast becomes a roulette wheel: Sixty degrees at noon, a personal attack by 3 p.m., And by bedtime you’re Googling Whether “snow pellets” counts as emotional abuse. The sun stays out longer just to watch you get your hopes up, And the driveway turns into that special April mix Of black ice, gravel, and regret.
I tip back my head as far as it goes To see as far as my eyes can see The stars are so many Filling the depths Of space Farther than imagination stretches To visions unseen and ages old Still unfolding As our planet spins Night sky Unpolluted by street lights Is hard to find now But I come from the Country where there is True night Where Unspoiled Stars are sharp as straight pins And feel like Sprinkles of ice water On your face as you Tip back your head To quench your soul
Trees with wounded limbs Wave wildly in the wind Small, green strings from fetal leaves Dance in the music of the breeze
The hot, dry day turns dark with a sigh Clouds gather, rain begins to cry Thunder rolls in, the symphony of might In the stormy cloak of approaching night
Sleepy eyes, heavy with the storm’s serenade Cozy is the day as light starts to fade Wrapped in the rumbling storm A tranquil retreat
Vibrations of thunder, A blanket’s caress, Nature’s own cradle A haven of rest
In the heart of the storm Peace is found In the cozy cocoon Of nature’s sound
The End waited quietly by the door, And when I was not looking, Came into the room And tapped me on the shoulder. Startled, My heart fell from my chest. I held it in my arms. Then my heart was gone. I had to let it go. Departing as silently as he came, The End Left like a thief in the night
Marble Hill Press 