the poetrysheet
whimsy, subversion, bowling
Number 453, Jan. 14, 2004
Marianne Moore (1887-1972)
“A guest under my roof has sacred privileges. His is
to be intimidated by no one. Not one word shall he hear that would prijudice
him in favor of goin’ away. I’ll not have it. There’s no place in this town
where they can say they iver took a guest of mine because’n he was afraid to
stay here.”
—Scully to the Easterner, The Blue
Hotel by Stephen Crane
Lousy with Jims
I stood and looked at my feet on the shoulder of the
highway where Jim had left me. Jim was a lonely guy, and I felt for him. But I
also sensed I had met a hundred Jims in my life, some of whom had been my dad,
my grandfathers, my uncles, and some of my cousins. The kind of insanity my
forefathers felt, the isolation and powerlessness, could be found, I realized,
even in the vast ocean of prairie if man let it catch him there.
The solution to the isolation, of course, was
interaction with others. I began to walk, to feel the familiar crunch of gravel
and tarmac beneath my feet. I had a feeling that another step, and another
after that, would take me to the people I needed to meet.
I wasn’t too far along in these thoughts when a
minivan, the first car to pass, pulled to the shoulder in front of me. The side
door slid open as I came along side, and the driver smiled. He brushed the
bangs of blond hair from his glasses. He was thin, with glasses, in a dress
shirt and tie.
"Give you a lift?" he said. A couple of
boys, obviously twins, began to rearrange a little brother in a car seat belted
to the bench behind the driver.
"I'm just going into Hastings," I said.
"That's where I'm headed," he said.
"But I'll take you as far as you need to get. I just picked the kids up
from the sitter, and we're looking for an adventure."
The boys had strapped their little brother into the
back seat and sat next to the toddler. Their blue eyes glittered, and they smiled.
The seat behind the driver was empty. A riot of fast-food wrappers and
Styrofoam cups littered the floor.
"I'm Jim," the driver said. "Excuse
the mess. You can put your pack on the seat and sit up front here."
All I could think as I took off my pack was that the
Great Plains was lousy with Jims.
The boys abandoned their little brother and slid into
the bench seat next to my pack. They were Jim and Harold, identical images of
their father. The boys seemed to be about eight years old.
"Any relation of James Dobson?" Jim said
after he shook my hand. It had been a frequent question. Dobson was a celebrity
in the rural plains. His Focus on the Family organization, radio shows, and
frequent appearances on cable television had built a following among those
alienated by what they saw as the domination of modern culture by established
elites based in coastal cities. It was hard to tell, when people asked, if the
question of my relationship to Dobson was a way to assay my politics or start
conversation. Jim beamed. He wanted a conversation.
“No. No relation. I’ve heard of him, though.”
"Well, I listen to James Dobson on the
radio," he said. "He's a good man. You should take some time to hear
his show."
“I will sometime. Thanks.”
As we pulled onto the road, the subject of
conversation moved from Dobson to Jim and the kids. He was proud of his boys
and had another child on the way. He worked as an accountant for a local
grain-storage company. The boys were excited to hear about the stranger.
"Don't you ever get scared?" little Jim
asked.
"Sure. Sometimes I can hardly move."
"What do you do?" The kid has precious eyes
and straight, small teeth. He talked with his chin pointed upward.
"I walk. If I stand in one place too long, I can't
move. So I keep moving."
"Have you met many people?" big Jim asked.
"More than I can tell. Friendly people,
mostly."
"I think everyone's good at the core, even bad
people," he said. "You have to be careful. Though I think if you put
your trust in others, you can't go wrong most the time. You just have to know
what to trust them with."
We drove through the outskirts of Hastings—billboards
and gas stations. The plain dropped into the wide, board-flat Platte River
Valley. Cottonwoods grew in a snake-like line along the river. Hastings seemed
to run in infinite straight rays to the north. Soon we drove into lines of
brick one- and two-story shops and restaurants that made the town look
friendlier. The rain started again. The few trees along the road whipped in the
wind. The sky brightened with flashes of lightning.
"Well, boys," Jim said, "it looks like
we're in for a big one. That's adventure."
Today’s poem:
This was her pie—a peck of apples
some walnuts, and a pear,
done up with butter-flake dough
sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon.
Knife set on the fresh laundered towel,
blade smeared with juice,
bowls, pans, measuring cups
still flour coated, slick with butter.
Grooves in the woven lattice,
second thoughts, realignments,
thoughts vanished with the thinker,
craft without the refinements of youth.
Around the room, mourners use forks
to crush the edge, notches where the index finger
of one hand pushed the dough
between two of the other, held slightly apart.
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