Eastern Indigo

Not quite comfortable but having grown familiar with the blue racer that lives in bushes on the west side of the house as well as the green striped and much longer grass snake that prefers the front and east side, my wife and I were shocked to see, after being alerted by serious barking from Gertie, a new arrival  that would make three of those other snakes. Indeed, looking through the safety of the lanai screen, we guessed its length to be in excess of five feet and closer to six with girth to match my forearm.  At first, we imagined it must be a water moccasin, but the wife, who is now most reluctant to return to weeding and trimming our many flowering bushes, a task that requires wading into that greenery, conducted an Internet search and concluded the monster to be an Eastern indigo snake (Drymarchon couperi, i.e., "Lord of the Forest"), sometimes called a blue bull snake, that, according to the article, is the longest snake native to the U.S., growing to nine feet, dines on other snakes, including rattlesnakes (a plus there), and has been known to "kill its prey by wildly beating it against nearby objects."  Now, Gertie is fearless and weighs in at 42 pounds, but even so, she had better be careful--sound advice, too, for the blue racer and grass snake. The Eastern indigo is listed as a threatened species, nonvenomous, and not prone to bite if picked up, so I doubt I'll go after it with a shovel, but rather hope it eats whatever rats, toads and lizards it wants and then moves on. I am reminded of a rather bad poem I wrote as a young man, but can't recall whether or not I was talking about snakes.

He a winding motion makes,
routine of Eden's garden breaks,
strong men's breath he often takes.

He reposes wound in coil,
the self-same color of the soil,
then, "Pow!" some chick blows his head off.    

Angst Redux

A floor fan vibrating in the window,
pulling in the downtown night,
the quiet of two a.m.,
thin ghost of existence,
shadow in a dark room,
the streetlight always with you,
two illuminating life.
If you could see yourselves, you'd sigh,
but are far too blind for that,
so you gaze at each other;
it at your awaiting, and you
its stoic singularity:
your thoughts, its light,
both too late at night,
too late and lost in time,
but it burned your shadow on the wall,
didn't it?
Don't fret: I'm not mocking.
We're together in this,
twisting rhymes for streetlights
singing songs for floor fans,
lighting cigarette off cigarette
to keep the torch burning,
that reverence for life,
when there is nothing
but a naked heart beat,
the streetlight, the night, and
a floor fan vibrating in the window.
No, please, continue:
your anguish bathes the world.


(SK, May 1986) 

Out of Context 24

During the fall and winter of ’76, I studied Shelly and Keats, Wordsworth and Blake, Shakespeare and Chaucer, Henry James and W.D. Howells, Mark Twain (yet again) and Hamlin Garland, while working part time--over the years in Denver, I worked as a janitor, hot roofer, construction laborer, painter, extruder operator in a plastics factory, and cook to supplement the G.I. Bill--and Dad studied boats for sale.  We ended up with a picklefork (not a Butts Aerowing, but a copy by Krier) I named "Jumpin Jack Flash" and one of Marshall Grant’s “Ring of Fire” runabouts we renamed “Why Me."  It was a good, fast runabout and we raced B and C Konigs on it.  Although I didn’t like runabouts, I raced it a few times, once on Lake Catherine in Hot Springs, I think 1977 after the Diamondhead races went kaput. 

We set up our pit a couple days before the race and had plenty of time to test.  I came back from a  run in “Why Me” with the B Konig, and Vernon got on me, started whipping me on the butt with a start rope: “Stevie Jr!  Boy!  What were you doin’?  You need to get your butt in the back of that boat!  All the way back!”  I told him it felt pretty good where I was riding, but he said, “I want to see your ass against the transom next time!  That boat’ll take it!  Hell, they ran a D on that boat!”  So I got back in for another run with Vernon whipping me on the butt as I climbed in.  After rounding the first turn buoys, I headed into the back straight, squeezed the throttle closed, grabbed the sliding stacks, scooted my butt back until it hit the tank or transom or both, and hunkered down. 

I’m telling you, that little “Why Me” boat just started cookin’.  We were going fast, ripping down the back stretch.  About the time I decided Vernon and Dad were right, things took a turn for the worse, and all I saw was sky.  The boat was pointing to high noon, or at least 11, and doing that brief dancing-on-the-stacks routine that I witnessed from the banks a few times, and while some drivers, like Butch, were adept at recovering from that situation, I, apparently, was not.  After coming down hard on the left side, “Why Me” went one way, and I went the other.  The impact on the boat caused such a concussion or flexing that it blew wood from the opposite side of the hull, while I felt like my ribs were being pummeled by a gorilla. 

Back on the bank, I gave Dad and Vernon the silent treatment when they told of a gust of wind they saw rippling across the back straight.  I felt like I had a chest full of broken ribs; even taking shallow breaths hurt, so I went off to get X-Rayed, although Vernon and Dad suggested, and rightly so, there was nothing doctors could do about cracked or bruised ribs.  You just had to man-up and deal with it.  As it turned out, I didn’t even have cracked ribs, only bruised.  What a wimp.  But I got back on the horse and raced “Why Me” a couple days later after we put a quick, wooden patch on the side, which accounts for the wavy look in the photograph.  I did not put my butt against the transom, and I did not finish in the money.

 About getting back on the horse, a few decades later in 2004, after being without one for several years, I bought a motorcycle, a new Honda VTX-1300-C, not a Harley but a nice, fast bike.  I once had her up to 110 mph coming down from the hills on the Steese Highway near Fairbanks, and she had more to give.  Well, I had about 3,000 miles on it and was out riding some 25 miles north of Fairbanks on the Elliott Highway, a paved but potholed road, when a dished out, unpaved patch snuck up on me while doing about fifty.  It’s a beautiful ride: the road rises to follow ridgelines with views of spruce and white birch filled valleys down below, and, on good days, Denali way in the distance as clear as a postcard.  Riding in Alaska is a bit different.  The roads are much narrower, the woods aren’t cut way back from the shoulders—where they are cut back, willows quickly grow to fill the void—and pot holes and frost heaves are common, as are moose and other critters. So, if you’re smart, you ride with eyes scanning like radar. Still, with shadows falling across the road, riding in and out of sunlight, it’s difficult to spot road damage.

Unfortunately, the exit end of the gravel patch had a substantial asphalt lip.  The front wheel cocked against that pavement, and the Honda and I went arse over tea kettle. Fortunately, I was wearing a padded jacket, knuckle gloves, a full cover helmet, and, as it was chilly, insulated jeans with Long Johns underneath.  Still seeing stars swirling and gasping for breath, I got up and started patting myself down, feeling for bones, and was happy to find myself intact, but beginning to hurt.  I went to retrieve one boot that had dispatched down the road.  Dumb as it sounds, my greatest concern at that point was bear.  Holy crap, I’m out in the middle of nowhere, I’m hurt, there’s no way I can pick up this bike, and there are bear out here who want to slap me around and eat me.   

But before a bear came, a pick-up truck stopped—I got lucky: you could go for miles and miles without seeing another vehicle.  He helped me get the Honda on its wheels and off the road.  When I asked for a ride to town, he said, “Oh, I wouldn’t leave the bike out here.  It’ll be gone when you get back.  Can’t you ride it?”  The shifter and foot brake levers were bent, so we straightened them with a huge pair of channel-lock pliers he had.  Then I tried starting it, and, being a Honda, it started.  So with mirrors broken off, tail lights dangling by their wires, and a big dent on one side of the gas tank along with other minor damage, I rode the 25 miles back to Fairbanks.  I was hurting but okay until I got near Fairbanks and into traffic, where, without mirrors, I had to crank my neck and back around to look for cars. 

When I pulled into the garage Vicki came out and was horrified at my condition, jacked and helmet all scratched and scuffed up, jeans torn, and me quite pale.  My right leg was beginning to swell from the contusion when I suggested she might want to drive me to the hospital.  They discovered I had six cracked ribs, a partially collapsed lung, fluid on the lungs, a chipped bone in my foot, and various contusions later rendering my right hip black with bruises.  I spent three days in the hospital and walked on crutches to physical therapy for a couple weeks. In fact, as I write this, my hip is starting to hurt: must be getting ready to rain.

(From "Inanimate Objects and other Family Members"--June 2014)  

 

Blankets

Of life, I have enjoyed most blankets,
the layered quilts of winter,
summer with a top sheet blowing,
the midnight searchings of spring and fall,
and all the nights of life there dreaming,
they covered, protected me while I was gone,
off to a world I can't recall,
off to a soft reality of actions
where sins disappeared with the opening of eyes
and death truly had no dominion.


(SK/1982, or thereabouts)

Dancing and Aircraft Maintenance

I love to feel the mind dance,
jitterbug with a problem,
anticipate me.
Sometimes,
with my hand
withdrawing from a problem,
and before the fingers
have time to touch the temple,
I see the solution
as clear as any postcard.
At other times,
it waltzes me to my desk
to plod step by step
through a sickening scientific method.


SK/1983