The Hunt

One day my Mother came outside,
To the shade of the old apple tree,
And looked askance, as what she saw.
'Twas, my dog, Tail, and me.

All stretched out, in the soft green grass,
As comfy as we could be.
She said, “Why don’t you both get up,
You’ll be the death of me.

Take your gun, go get some meat,
We’re running mighty low.
I could see that if we wanted supper,
We would both sure have to go.

So we climbed up on a razor back,
Or hog back ridge, they’re called,
And hunted quietly through the trees,
Where the hornets’ nests were balled.

It wasn’t long before I spotted,
A deer with massive horns.
He looked real fat, he’d eaten well,
On mushrooms and lush acorns.

I snapped a shot across the canyon.
I saw him stop and fall;
I hurried down and up the side,
But he wasn’t’ there at all.

Then, I heard him moving.
Down the mountain side.
So I took off down right after him,
My dog, Tail was by my side.

I could see he was headed right
Towards my Mother’s kitchen door.
So I never shot, but chased him down;
We were running then, full bore.

So I whooped, and yelled, and hollered
And dog, Tail, let out a squall
Well, Dad came out a runnin’;
As the deer banged the milk house wall.

He hit so hard, it broke his neck;
He fell, in a pile, 'bout the door.
Dad just laughed, and said, “By Damn.
You’ve never done that before.”

But Mother didn’t seem to like it,
As she turned and walked away.
She said where we all could hear her,
“After this, hunt ten miles away.”

*****

I've never been hunting, and I like it that way. I'm not a fan of guns in my own hands. Having that kind of a weapon is a big responsibility. I've only shot a gun once since my days in Boy Scouts. If I'm ever in the position where I had to hunt or starve, I might try this "crash the deer into a solid object" method so I wouldn't need a gun.

My Dog, Tail

One summer night, I packed my bed,
And struck out along the trail.
The moon was full, I took some food,
And my dog, we called him Tail.

We named him Tail for reasons,
He didn’t have very much,
But what he had, he treasured;
He’d growl, if a stranger touched.

He got in front of the mowing machine,
While dad was cutting the hay.
Before he knew what had happened,
Dad cut his tail away.

But we traveled good together,
My dog, Tail, and I.
Mother never knew where we headed,
‘Twas; “See you, Mom, Goodbye.”

She never seemed to worry,
When the two of us were gone.
I guess she had it figured,
We’d get hungry, before too long.

This night we traveled rather late,
We stopped, to sleep, at eleven.
We broke some fern, laid out the bed,
Intending to sleep, till seven.

Sometime, along in the dark of the night,
The moon had settled down,
My dog, Tail, began to shiver and shake;
I arose and looked around.

As then I scented the awful smell,
That dead animals leave around,
When a bear would find a carcass,
He would roll it in the ground.

I gathered up my flashlight,
My trusty rifle too.
I didn’t want to kill a bear,
But it was him or me. Wouldn’t you?

Well, he was a great big fellow,
Standing erect on his hind legs.
You’ve probably seen them in the circus,
The same way they sit up and beg.

Well, I flashed my light, across his eyes,
And fired my gun in the air.
I guess I caught him by surprise,
For he let out a growl, and got out of there.

Next morning, I stepped down to a little creek,
To get some coffee water.
I left my gun with my dog, Tail,
To pack it was such a bother.

When I looked back towards my camp,
Between me, and my dog, and gun,
There stood a big old panther cat.
I didn’t dare to run.

My dad had often lectured us,
If we met a panther cat,
To never run and run away,
We must never, never do that.

He said to get down, on all fours,
And bark just like a dog.
Well, I barked and snorted and made a fuss,
Even grunted like a hog.

My dog, Tail, heard my commotion,
And ran the panther away.
Well, I didn’t know how to bark like a dog,
But I sure did learn fast, that day.

*****

No lie, I would have screamed and wet my pants; I blame it on my upbringing (but I'm probably just a big wuss). I've never been hunting, camping was often in my own back yard, and the only "wild" animals I've really ever had contact with are birds and squirrels. To just go off in the woods with a dog and a gun? I would have starved to death in the first two hours.

Even if this never really happened in Grandpa Don's life, it very easily could have. The man was a man's man, man. Maybe that's why we didn't really connect growing up. His hobbies included word working, hunting, fishing, and so on. I would list my hobbies as a kid as playing video games, pretending I'm in a video game, thinking up ideas for new video games, and pretending I'm in a video game I thought up (somethings haven't changed).

We did share at least one common interest, however: flat tops. In my early elementary school years I would always get a flat top (in case you're wondering, my twin brother Paul would get a side spike--basically parting your hair to one side and spiking up the hair around the part). For as long as I knew him, Grandpa Don always, always sported a flat top. Although, more often than not the sides would collapse in leaving only a high ridge in the middle. In modern parlance we might call it a "faux-hawk."

One time Grandpa Don took me to his barber and we got grandpa/grandson matching haircuts. When I got home, my family all called me Grandpa Don. It was short, a lot shorter than I was used to. It was almost military looking. Looking back, it may have hurt Grandpa Don's feelings and I feel bad if it did, but the short length and initial teasing made that the last flat top I ever had. Maybe I should try it again. I wonder what my wife would say.

She said no.

Nellie

Have I told you about my Nellie?
Nellie the one-eyed mare,
Whose gait would jiggle my belly
And bruise up my posterior.

She was a bummer to look at,
Most often she leaned to the port.
With one eye the color of a rainbow,
And a left leg just a little bit short.

She swayed in the back like a croissant,
Her belly it dragged on the ground.
But Nellie was dear, to me as could be,
When I got her, here’s what I found.

Her heart was as big as a bucket,
'twas ever she wanted to play.
So I took her out to Nantucket
To a stallion that lived out that way.

Well she kicked him once on the fanny,
Then bit him real heard on the nose.
'twas then that I knew, there was nothing she wouldn’t dok
She whipped him right down to his toes.

Well, we couldn’t stay in Nantucket,
Nobody wanted us there.
So we wandered along to Pawtucket,
To take in the summer State Fair.

We got along fine on the first day,
Old Nellie seemed calm and serene.
Till along came a horse, whose one eye looked worse,
Right then old Nellie got mean.

She kicked the slats of her stanchion,
She caved in the side of the barn.
'twas only her way, of trying to play,
She really didn’t mean any harm.

Well, they took us to the edge of the city,
They told us to stay out of the there.
Oh, what a time I had with my Nellie,
Nellie the one eyed mare.

*****

Grandpa Don and I do not share the same fears. Even though this poem is just a made up silly poem, in real life Grandpa Don had a horse named Chubb. That's not my idea of a fun pet. But I'm getting ahead of myself. First, some background.

There are three things in this world that terrify me. The first is falling from great heights. I'm fine in airplanes or hiking up a mountain that has wide paths and railings, it's the potential for falling that scares me. Watching someone being irresponsible at a cliffs edge makes my stomach turn.

The second thing that absolutely terrifies me is riding on a motorcycle. Every time I've been on a motorcycle I've been on the back, so I'm at the whim of whoever it is at the handle bars. "Lean into the turns," they always tell me. Well, what if I don't want to lean into the turns? It only gets me closer to the pavement rushing past.

Here's where my fears get relevant: the third thing that terrifies me is riding horses. Nellie would have terrified me! In a day and age where even if you don't have a car you can take public transportation anywhere, who in their right mind would ever decide to travel on a horse? They can weigh five times as you, their feet (which they kick at you if you startle them) are like rocks, and worst of all they have a mind of their own. If a horse decides it doesn't like me on its back, there's no way I'd be able to stay on. A five foot drop to the ground (probably head first) followed by a swift kick and a quick trample? No thanks, I'll take the bus.

The Spring Bath

When spring came along about May the first
And Mother felt winter was over
We kids could see the look on her face
Then one by one we’d run for cover.

For out would come the old wooden tub
And we knew we were due for a wash.
Strong soap and a brush to scrub with
“Twas no use to hide in the brush.

‘Cause first she’d catch the crawling ones
Who weren’t fast enough to hide.
And dump them in together
And line them up side by side.

Next she’d catch us one by one
And hold us down on the floor.
Then snip the seams of our winter underwear
Up the back from the little trap door.

After us mom and dad would shoo us out in the yard
Then join one another in the tub,
And have a good bath together.
As they scraped and scrubbed real hard.
‘Twas real tough for poor old Grandpa
Whose turn would come at the end.
About all he’d have lift to scrub with was a tub full of wet, gray sand.

How he’d growl and grumble at the feeling
As the sand would scratch his hide.
And swear that when he was younger
He’d bathed in a creek outside.

But I noticed that always my mother
Would check him over with care.
Sometimes she would find as he finished
He’d still be wearing a spare.

She knew than that late in the fall
As she sewed us up for the fair.
That grandpa had slipped one over.
Just put on the second pair.

*****

I have no idea if this poem is autobiographical, but one thing is for sure: gross! I shower everyday and I still get pimples. If I didn't bathe all winter long I'm pretty sure I would be nothing more than a mass of red bumps with little white heads. Seriously, just gross!

In this poem I did find something Grandpa Don and I share; we both like to write silly things. Instead of poems, I write TV shows. None of them have ever been picked up, heck I haven't even really tried to market them yet. But I do dream of seeing one of my shows on TV some day. I wonder what Grandpa Don wanted done with his poetry. He probably never even imagined it being available for anyone in the world to read. Well, it's out there now. I wonder if anyone is reading. I guess it doesn't matter, really. I'll keep sharing Grandpa Don's poems and my thoughts until they're done.

Living on a Farm

I’m inspired by things that happen
To brighten up the day.
I love to watch the break of dawn
When the birds come out to play.

And then there come the cotton tails
Hopping along the road.
They love to come out in the morning light
From their bramble bush abode.

Then hear the squirrels chatter
As they hustle through the trees,
With cheeks puffed up with hazelnuts
To store for the winter’s freeze.

The bees are humming all around
The honeysuckle bush,
Whose strong clean scent of sweet perfume
Permeates the morning hush.

The cows are lowing at the barn.
It’s time to open the gate.
The morning chores are next in line
‘Tis hurry, the cows won’t wait.

Now hear the chickens cackle.
It’s time to feed the hogs.
And then its out to the old wood hut,
To gather the winter logs.

‘Tis great to live down on the farm
Where nature rules your fate.
To hear the song of the mocking bird
From out the garden gate.

Soon the days will shorten.
Mother gets out the winter coats.
Just hear that old mare whinny,
Begging for a feed of oats.

As the days get dark and dreary,
And the snow blankets the land,
We sit around by the old log fire,
Listening to a cowboy band.

Then it’s off to sleep in a nice warm bed
With my head on a pillow of down.
I really love it down on the farm
More peaceful than living in town.

*****

I never thought of Grandpa Don as a farm kid. I knew he grew up on the Oregon coast and that when my mom was a little girl he was a commercial fisherman. I guess I just always assumed that his father was a fisherman as well. But no; Grandpa Don was a farm boy who knew what it was like to put in a full days hard work from an early age. While I'm sure there were times he just wanted a break, years later he could look back fondly at all the hard work of his youth. It's amazing how different our childhoods were; he had the daily chores of feeding the animals and chopping logs, while I was supposed to put away the clean dishes everyday and mow the lawn once a week. Oh how easy my life has been in comparison.

Unlike Grandpa Don, I shudder at the thought of taking care of pigs. When I was in ninth grade I raised a hog as part of my agricultural science class. I thought it would be fun, and if nothing else I would at least get to touch a pig. I was wrong. While I did get to touch a pig on day one, it was anything but fun. Chasing 30 piglets in the rain and mud to give them a shot in the rump only to have them immediately poo all over themselves, and in the process you, is not my idea of fun. The year I had that pig included many days like that; shoveling out the pens, transporting them to the fair, narrowly avoiding a pig attack in the presentation ring, the list goes on. But who knows, maybe when I have a little more experience and the past is a little farther in the past I'll be able to look back fondly and laugh (or at least not feel sick to my stomach).

Dad

Picture if you will, in the winter’s chill.

A bouncing mountain stream.

Sheltered by the trees, where the northern breeze

Blows icy cold, and mean.

Where the trees stand stark, in their frozen bark,

And the ferns are bent with snow.

Where the trailing moss, like Christmas floss,

Floats gracefully to and fro.

And the steel head jumps the rapids white,

On his lonely trek from the sea,

Ever darting, onward, upward,

To mate, as it’s meant to be.

There’s many a scene, that meets the eye,

On a blustery winter’s day.

If you stand real still by the water’s edge,

You many watch the otters play,

As they slip and slide down a wet clay bank,

And splash in the water with glee.

Though the air by cold, and the brush be dank,

There’s much beauty, for the eye to see.

The furtive doe with big, dark eyes,

Slips down to drink in the stream.

Then quickly fades in the underbrush,

‘twas as if it had been a dream.

It was here as a child, Dad brought me to this wild,

And lonely fishing hole.

‘twas here as a child, I felt the first thrill,

Of a tug on my little, wooden pole.

How he struggled and pulled, and tore at my gear,

Then dance in the air on his tail.

As I trembled and shook, with an inner fear.

I must catch him! I must not fail!

There’s many a time, in the after years,

When life has given me a thrill.

 And many a time, when the days were dark,

It has caused my blood to chill.

As I lean back, in my easy chair,

In the warmth of the fireside glow.

My thoughts drift back to that long ago day,

And the finest man I know.

How I’d love to go back, on a wintry day,

To sit by the wild fishing hole.

And feels once more, the thrill of a catch,

With my Dad, and my dog, and my little wooden pole.

*****

I remember Grandpa Mark only vaguely. I couldn't have been more than four when I saw him. To me he looked ancient; if he wasn't 100 he was close. An old blind man in a wheel chair in California, if I remember correctly. Grandpa Don remembered him differently; he wasn't always old. Even Grandpa Don was once just Don, a little boy fishing with the finest man he knew.

After only one poem I've already learned something Grandpa Don and I share in common: great respect for our fathers. I can't enumerate all of the qualities that make my dad the finest man I know, but as far as my Grandpa Don was concerned, he never had to worry about how his youngest daughter (my mom) was treated. My dad taught me respect for women, and Grandpa Don could rest easy knowing that he taught me that lesson through his own example.

My dad wanted so much to give me memories like the one in this poem. We didn't do much fishing, but that's OK, I never really cared for it anyway. If I were to write my own poem entitled Dad it wouldn't be about fishing or camping. It would look back at my dad singing me to sleep at night and what I feel now as I sing lullabies to my own child.

Grandpa Don knew I liked mashed potatoes

One Thanksgiving he saw me fill my plate so full of them that there wasn't room for anything else. From that moment on, Grandpa Don knew that Matt liked spuds. He also knew I would do just about any amount of yard work if we went and got a whopper afterward. And do you remember that commercial for Werther's Originals where the grandpa talks about how his grandpa gave him tasty butter candies? Well, Grandpa Don called them "Picker-uppers" and always had them on hand to share when the morning was dragging on.

My most vivid memories of Grandpa Don are cleaning up the yard. You may be thinking that means weeding flowerbeds, mowing the lawn, and so on. Not my yard. I grew up on two and a half acres of old farm in western Washington. There was a field in the front and forest in the back, kind of like a mullet. After a storm the yard would be covered with fallen tree limbs. Early the following Saturday Grandpa Don would come down the long gravel driveway in his pickup, ready to put some lazy kids to work. My parents raised us kids thinking that "fart" was a bad word, so you can imagine our surprise when the first words we heard those mornings included a real swear. "Wipe the chicken (excrement) out of your eyes," he'd say. We'd get up, dress warm, and mentally prepare ourselves for a few hours of "hard labor" on a cold, wet, Pacific Northwest morning.

Picking up piles of wet branches and putting them into the back of a truck wasn't so bad once you got through the first hour and Grandpa Don shared the first round of "Picker-uppers." One time he let me, an eight year-old boy, drive the truck. That was a mistake. No damage was done, but it took a while before he trusted me to operate anything of his after that. I don't remember Grandpa Don sharing very much about himself, but he would listen to us and laugh often.

The last time I saw Grandpa Don was in the summer of 2000. My twin brother Paul, my parents, and I drove down to Coos Bay, Oregon to visit him and his wife Barbara. I figured this would be the last time I saw him as I would soon leave for France for an extended period of time. During this visit, two things happened that I don't remember ever happening before. First, Grandpa Don gave me a big hug and said "I love you." His love for me was never in question, but that is the only time I can remember him saying it. Second, I heard him quote poetry that he had written.

After his passing a few months later, his surviving daughters put together a collection of his poems for the family to have and cherish. Now, nearly a decade later, events have led me to a desire to get to know Grandpa Don better. I hope that by sharing his poems, writing what I learn from them, and inviting other family members to comment on their own memories that I can begin to know the man that I remember as Grandpa Don, the man to whom I owe my hairline.