Day: April 12, 2013

In Salem, N.Y., a long time ago,

centuries ago,

it was recorded in an old farm journal, that I

bought for a quarter out of an antique dealer’s basket,

that Sylvia, age nine,

headed towards the old pond

to find her stray dog Ginger,

and did not return.

“Syl is lost,” wrote the farmer on the first day,

“Not found,” he wrote on the second and third and fourth.

For seven days a search was made,

the brush and stalks were trampled,

men stomped through the darkness and the wet,

they saw her track leading to the pond,

but they did not find her,

and she did not return.

I’m sorry for the father and his grief, and sorry for the mother,

who was not consolable.

I’m sorry for grief, whose mark is everywhere.

Sometimes, loss leans like a broken stem,

I like to imagine that Sylvia

did it for all of us.

It was raining all morning, and suddenly stopped, and there is no better place to catch that moment, that transition than in the magic mirror that is a birdbath.

I was surprised to head out the back door and see Red step right on and over a three or four-foot long Milk Snake, coming right out of the basement. The house was built in 1840 and there is a point well and tunnel in there and I suspect this guest isn’t the only one coming out to check out the Spring. I picked him up, carried him to the stone wall where Maria deposited  his cousin, who came out of the kitchen cabinet. Then I came to my senses and ran back inside for the camera. He’s burrowing into a nice space in the wall.

These guys are harmless and they eat stuff you don’t to have around. Still, they make an impression (not on Red of course, they are not sheep.)

The children in Florence Walrath’s world worked hard and they played hard. They were never far from injury or tragedy, or from sleepovers and dances, rides and games. Life and death, joy and sorrow were mixed together and each shaped the other. In this period, Florence wrote, she was seeing the hard knocks of life.  Here, Florence recounts both – the great fun she had and the awful loss and hurt that always lurked close at hand. Here, she saves her brother Fayette’s life. Florence seemed to become wise and brave and resourceful all at the same time.

“The children were always staying overnight with each other. Bernice and Blanche often double dated. We were always swimming, skating or skiing. Fayette raised beans for the seed co. and got money so he and Jack could go to Florida. One winter I remember when they came home, Jack had on seven shirts to keep warm. We went to dances. Jack was a tall red head, full of fun like his father. Jack was a very good football player. But one day he got hurt. They took him out but he insisted he was all right so went back in. After the game, he was to get a haircut for his sister’s wedding that night. He could not find the barber shop and had to ask someone.

 That night at the wedding of Doris Coulter and Arthur Gallop, he had us all worried. After many trips to the hospital and all kinds of doctors, Jack passed away. This about killed Fayette and I and was hard to understand. Our pal never to see again. It took a long time to heal the wound. By this time I was feeling the hard knocks of life.

 Fayette was the one in the family who was always getting hurt. Besides the broken elbow he one day threw a hay fork up into the mow. It bounced back. He threw up his hand and the fork went through the palm of his hand. Then one day while raking hay, he put his foot back and caught the heel. This stopped the wheels and thank goodness the horse stopped too. Dad saw he was in trouble, ran over and had to spring the large rod that was holding the foot. It took off all the skin, but the bone was saved.

One other thing I remember happened to him. Dad had two strange mares which had been brought to our place to be bred.  Now Dad said when you water our horses, take the water to them in a pail, don’t lead them out. Fayette forgot and led one of ours out.  At once there was a fight. There was a lot of kicking and Fay got in the middle. The horse kicked him in the face, smashing his nose flat. I heard the noise and ran out, saw him laying all blood and out like a light. I ran out and picked him up and carried him outside the gate. I then ran to the house told Mother ran back with a pillow and found I was so weak I could not lift his head off the ground. How I got him out of the barn yard I’ll never know. The doctor did a good job on his nose, his teeth tightened up in time and all was well. At one time he had blood poisoning. He was always getting cut, etc.”

I want to write a book this year – an e-book perhaps – called “Talking To Animals,” or perhaps “Listening To Animals,” and I want to recount my experience paying attention to how animals communicate with us, once we stop telling them (and everybody else) what they are thinking. During the early days of Flo’s conquest of the farm – she had been hiding under the porch and in the woodshed for months before she would come near us, I noticed she began the process of courting me, it seemed like flirting with me. She was telling me I could get close, that she had accepted me, she was breaking through a life-long wariness of cats, they always seemed incomprehensible to me, where dogs always seemed quite comprehensible.

Both of these ideas were projections, I know, issues of my own from my own life. I lay down on the ground across from Flo and showed her my camera, something I do with all of the animals here. You have to work to get animals comfortable around glass and metal up close. She was showing vulnerability and acceptance, offering me affection and trust. I accepted the offer.