Tuesday, November 26, 2019


I was told by an online journal that they will publish one of my poems tomorrow.. that is good to look forward to.  I did some more work on my Wikron story today, and added more poems and organization to my chapbook for the december 13th deadline.

Trying to keep my hopes up, because with it being the holiday season it is so difficult to actually go ahead with work, everyone wants to do something else.  I checked into the electrical and carpentry skills classes in McKenzie and they said to goto Paris, and of course they are closed for the holidays until next week.  With FAFSA and taxes and Christmas, and melancholy sometimes because several other people have lost their fathers or other loved ones this year and it keeps bringing it back to my mind... while the business is going slow that he wanted me to succeed in... and cold, rainy, fear of snowstorms...

I should feel better but those are the reasons I don't.
The other things I can do, cleaning up the offices and being ready to spring on the job when I get the info I've asked for... clearing out things we aren't using out of the house etc...

I wrote this on a memory today, since the poem being published is about the old house
This happened there, too (except we didn't have the eggs, uncle Earl did, and we do now)  It was usually Bill or Kenny pulling me back up.  And my wrists are too delicate for that now.. I wonder if that was part of it.  The root cellar was located under a little trapdoor in the center of the living room, the same room that held the barrel stove in the corner.  You would pull up the rug and pull out the board, and someone small (usually me or Marsha) would be lowered in to catch foot on the wall and then a flashlight would shine down, and we would retrieve whatever the asking was for.  Then after we had handed the bits up, someone would reach down and pull you up partway, catch foot on the wall again and lever up and out of the hole.  It was scary and exciting and scary all at the same time...the dirt walls in a six foot hole... and when the house burned down I am sure the whole house fell down into it in the middle.  I don't know though.. I can only imagine it.

The Root Cellar
We’ve gathered our stores
for winter’s fierce yells
the wood for the fire
and the eggs in the kirtle
jars of summer bliss
And now we come to raid them a little at a time
through the tiny hole in the floor
they dangle me, the smallest by far
to drop to the floor and hand up the wares
honey from the shelf
green beans soaked in brine
potatoes three by four from the bag
then gently, as if handling bird bones
they pull my wrists again and give me rise
back into the light and the warmth
out of the cool dark of the earth
that holds things dear enough

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