Analog and Digital

I can’t deny that compact discs store easy and play pretty. Their studio-fresh tracks sound eternally new, scrubbed free of noise. Perhaps this is why I prefer vinyl records, because I’m not a tremendous fan of “new”. I like the hiss and pops of dusty wear. I like the way albums feel, the balanced weight of them. I like centering them on the turntable, pushing the start button, then listening for the click and whirr of motors as the tonearm levitates into place. The loud half-scratch of initial contact. A few seconds of fuzzy anticipation, then warm, full music.

It’s still magic, to me, how sound was trapped in those spiral grooves. How it stayed there, unchanged, during years of transport from home to college to apartment to duplex to home-of-our-own. How it reverberates–ringing off the vinyl, through the needle, and into a set of speakers that harmonize, that wail and thump. How it fills my house with acoustic contentment and electric excitement, with voices from my youthful years. I wouldn’t live those spent decades again, but it’s nice to hear such vibrant ghosts, singing their distant songs once more.

And it’s nice to preserve my ghosts on these modern discs and silicon chips, even if part of their warmth is lost in the process.

Watershed

Watershed

Really just a stream
What we called simply
“Creek” (in accent: “crick”)
Shallow rills for summer wading
Cold flanks of limestone spring

We ragged group of nymphs
Sisters of my youth
Bolted gaily, daily
Down the hills, pooled
Ourselves beside the bank

We harried crawdads from their dens
Gave silver minnows fairy names
We saw ourselves in damselflies
Molting toward our adult wings
While sustained by infant gills

What snakes we found in Eden
We kept all summer in our rooms
Their flicking tongues, feather light
Spoke nothing of temptation
We loosed them in the fall

As time loosed us one season
To gain the winnowed air
We gleamed in bright emergence
Damp jewels ferried on a breeze
Into brilliant scattered flight

Published in The Journal of Liberal Arts and Education Winter 2010

From the Dove Archives

Our yard is full of doves. I watch and listen as they amble along our fence, browse beneath the feeders, and coo low love songs from our roof. I follow their nests in our pear tree, in our roses and pansies, and wave goodbye when the fledglings fly away. Do they return, sometimes, when they are ready for nests of their own?

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All these doves in our yard. Do they also watch and listen, wondering where we came from and where we will go?

Tornado Season

Here in the mid-Atlantic, tornadoes rarely threaten. However, along the Tennessee/Alabama state line, where I grew up, spring routinely brings tornado outbreaks. These photos are from Easter morning 1984. That window, the one nearly hidden by leaves, was my bedroom.

There’s a pale blur of silhouette, in the back yard, that is one of our confused chickens. I don’t know where they were, when the storm hit, or how they survived. I was in bed. It was about four AM when the wind grew and grew and grew into a furious whistle and wail. I remember fear, and the wincing spasm of muscle and nerve when our roof shifted with a BANG.

After the storm, after it was too late to bother with safety, we gathered in the middle of our dark house. Despite having no warning, everyone was safe and unharmed.

Mother and my older sisters surveyed the damage, which was minor. I wanted only to check on my cat. Mischief had delivered kittens, days earlier, in one of the sheds. Mother made me wait until sunrise, which may have been the longest hour of my young life. When I opened the shed, Mischief greeted me with her usual cry and purr. I remember counting her kittens, even though it was obvious they were safe.

For that matter, all of the animals were safe. The chickens, whose roosts had been rearranged so rudely, gossiped and fussed for a few hours, then returned to their interrupted routine.

The peach tree (which had never produced peaches) was a total loss, and one of the small maples in the back yard. The older trees survived, survive yet, despite losing much of their upper growth.

Here in 2012, just this morning, a classmate from high school picked up her children after a tornado damaged their school. I don’t know how she survived the minutes between hearing the news and holding her kids. Simply reading her Facebook update, her few sentences confirming that the kids are okay, made my heart race.

And this afternoon my heart still races, because the day is not over. I want to curl, catlike, around my loved ones. Around all the ones they love, and everyone in the storm’s path. Please stay safe.

Before I Knew

Before I Knew

Before I knew pleasures
Should be guilty
I climbed trees

Forfeiting homework and chores
In search of the beginning
Of wind
In those days shadows danced
Proved the sun moved around the Earth
(Did Ptolemy climb trees?)

Before I knew history
Was more ancient than myself
I hunted arrowheads

Scouring new plowed furrows
I exhumed fallen masterpieces
Of war
In those days summer ruled
Proved we would live forever
(Was Einstein once a child?)

Before I knew memory
Shaped the future
I dreamed easily

Dozing among the branches
Bare feet thickly shod
With dirt
In those days apples beckoned
Proved the universe was infinite
(Did Newton also dream?)

Published in The Powhatan Review, Vol. V, Number 1, Summer 2005