Flipping through that folder, looking for something to share with Mom when we visited in January to celebrate her retirement, I found a handwritten poem that’s not mine. At the bottom, the writer signed the piece “Terrapin Ridge,” which is that lovely area in Illinois everyone in my mother’s family remembers as being “home” for a very long, short period of history. I sent this poem, entitled “The Joy of Words: Who Lives Alone?” to Mom, with a query… she replied to say she had not seen it before, and felt surely it was her father’s handwriting. How did I come to have this? While I’m very sorry to say that I don’t have a clear answer, the poem is very special to me, as another of my Grandpa Urban’s gifts that, like the many I’ve received from his daughter, I just want to cherish and keep forever.

Mar. 13 Update: I am embarrassed to have to report findings from my brother (thanks Scott) confirming that “Who Lives Alone?” is actually the work of the gifted poet, Grace E. Easley… and I regret not having better researched this myself before jumping to the concusion above. We live and we learn, and I beg forgiveness. Though I am disappointed to learn that the poem below is not the creation of my grandfather, what remains true is that it was very important to him, and others in our family, and he is very deeply connected to the poem’s poignant sentiments, and to the poem itself, in my family. Spirituality, poetry and written words were of clear interest to Grandpa Ridings, and his passions remain alive in me and my family. I will relate more details on the handwritten poem which made it into my collection as I get a better handle on them. In the meantime, thank you very much for your interest, and I hope you’ll be encouraged to explore other works of Ms. Easley.

From Mom, June 6, 1984, my high school graduation day.

Mom, you are such an inspiration, such a wonderful friend and guide. You are a blessing, in every sense of the word, and as you move into phase-next of your life, we wish you all the things you have wished for us, in spades. Enjoy!

Circa 1985, Roger, Maxine and Bud.

I learned today of the passing of my Aunt Maxine Ridings.  Talking about her with my mom this evening, one of the things that came up was how she has just always been part of our family, forever.  Also, for her nieces and nephews, I think we all always knew that we would get her smile, her wry sense of humor, and her easy laughter, each time we saw her.  She seemed to laugh as easily as she breathed… and for my Uncle Bud, whom we all respect and love dearly, she has been the perfect match.  Our thoughts go out to Uncle Bud, and to Dena, Janie and Keith, Bill, Marilyn, Blair and Josh. 

I wrote the following poem 21 years ago, at a time when “home” had a very special meaning to me… implying certain places in and around Greenville, Illinois, security, and many specific people in my family.  Aunt Max was certainly part of the family that I carried with me everywhere I went, that was constant, loving, and an inseparable part of my self-identity.  Of late, her health had taken a turn for the worse, and so it seems mostly a blessing that she is now at peace.  She will be missed; she was a great lady in my life, and in the lives of many other people I love.  We will remember her laugh and her smile always…. 

Aunt Max, thank you for your love, and for helping to make me who I am.

The Different Drummer
by Roger Darnell

I don’t know why I had to go
Back home in summer’s early glow…
But in my feeble state of mind
I felt a loss I had to find.

The great escape some said I made—
And true:  to sense the solemn shade
Of home, and leave the world behind
Which made me cold and scared and blind.

In all pursuits I pushed myself
Beyond the pack that somehow shelve
Their hopes and dreams for social norm
And fear the lonesome, ruthless storm.

In battle-youth, I made my way
Through acid rain of dream decay,
And while the storm’s calm eye drew near
My bravery was turned to fear.

With summoned strength I fled the storm
And limped in semi-shattered form
Toward the place where life began
To find The Answer to The Man.

I found the place I’ve always known:
Aunts, uncles, grandmas, cousins grown,
The trees that fell that I know well,
Whose echoes clang a rusty bell.

The native country took me in—
It mattered not where I had been;
It saw me as I was, and still
Gave praise for all my vital will.

I rested there, and took my time.
I slept amid the dew-cool thyme.
Serene, I saw what life could be…
Then spread my wings and flew off, free.

I don’t know just what made me go
Back home in summer’s early glow…
But on the heartfelt, wholesome track
I found my strength and brought it back.

…

by Roger Darnell

The things I find entertaining aren’t things I can write about.

I like to imagine stories about our cat, taming her world,

unafraid and attitudinal, eccentric and, well, beautiful. 

Our other cat inspires her own happy go lucky devil-may-care

cavalier and friendly tales… which are still just cat fancies.

Romantic stories from Europe, South America

and Pennsylvania Amish Country beginning to take pixel-life

in my imagination, are hopefully the right stuff and will someday

prove worthwhile things I will have written about.  For now

they’re still in the layer just above my vision, in a place I can’t see

because, looking, it rises above.  Yet I can imagine it and,

without looking, see it perfectly.  The work I’ll create, in a night

where the vein runs longer than this one.

Much longer….

 – August 14, 1997

Copyright © Roger Darnell 2008
All Rights Reserved

Tampa Bay’s sky got even more gray and the light rain that had been forecast finally began to fall as Maude’s ugly green Aspen raced along the interstate toward the Cassadaga, Florida, home of her spiritual advisor, where she hoped to escape the gnawing desire to go back to the office to choke the living daylights out of her ex-boss. Reverend Edmund Wallace was the only person in the world who could comfort her now. He was wise and strong. He always helped.

Maude tried to reassure herself that she would soon be in Cassadaga, and that, when she arrived and spoke to Reverend Wallace, everything would be okay. She pulled a Pall Mall out of the pack, worrying about finding another job and about money. Her lower lip began to tremble as she put the cigarette in place and lit it.

At forty-five, Maude was not pretty, though she still caught her share of looks. But whenever the curious ones came near, her wrinkles, loose skin, and lack of color made her disappear to them. She looked into the rear-view mirror and saw the shallow blue eyes, always so empty, looking back at her. Turning the mirror away and looking back up the road, her hand went over to grab the cigarette and catch a streaming tear. A long moment passed as she held the blue-purple smoke inside. The cigarette shook between her fingers as she tightly gripped the steering wheel with both hands. She exhaled, coughed once, and then, at last, began to cry in earnest. She dropped the cigarette in the ashtray and snatched a Kleenex to blow her nose.

In the theatre of her mind, the scene from an hour before was center-stage. Squinting slightly–there was Dr. Burns, sitting at his desk in his brown suit, round face almost smiling, peering through thick glasses toward a small mountain of papers on the desk before him. He was pointing out mistakes–Maude couldn’t actually see them, but he insisted they were there–and blaming them on her, saying, “the organization can not tolerate such miserable quality in its work.”

“Miserable,” Maude slowly mumbled through her swollen pouting lips. She thought about how great it would have been to have turned on him–to have just gotten up, crossed to where he was sitting so calm and smug–and slapped his face so hard his head spun around.

She might have said, “Dr. Burns, I have tried my best to perform as instructed. You, however, have made my job impossible from the beginning, by giving me unrealistic deadlines and by not communicating with me to let me know what was expected.

“I would have done anything for this company, but as a result of what you’ve said here today, I resign… you… jerk.”

It made her blush to think about saying the words. Maude wished she had the power to rewrite the whole scene, unaware that she had always possessed that power and more; all witches do.

She took the Cassadaga exit, looking hard and long at the liquor store on the corner before turning to drive past it. Winning a major battle in the on-going struggle to displace alcoholic tendencies with spiritual strength, she focused on getting to Reverend Wallace. She noticed the weather growing worse: Lightning was beginning to flicker and thunder softly drummed in the distance.

…

Reverend Edmund Wallace received clients for readings seven days a week and was well respected by his peers within the Spiritualist Camp at Cassadaga. His was a big white house, nestled in large oak trees, with a magnolia in front by the driveway. White quarter-moons were cut out of the black shutters around each window. Without the sign in front, it looked mostly like a normal home.

But after all, it was in Cassadaga. This odd place defined normal in its own terms. Signs posted in nearly every yard advertising palm reading, fortune-telling and spirit visitations, along with many more subtle touches, let one know things are different there.

Maude’s car spun up dust as she passed the Cassadaga Spiritualist Church and the Harmony Inn and the large, empty lot on the lake to arrive and park near Reverend Wallace’s magnolia. As always seemed to happen, a whippoorwill called out to eerily signal her arrival. But this time, the large bird left its branch low in the tree to fly directly over Maude’s car, then off into the trees. Maude didn’t notice. Thunder rumbled overhead, and through the rain she thought she saw Reverend Wallace’s shadow framed in the stained glass of his front-door window. Maude summoned her strength, breathed deeply, wiped her face and gathered her purse. Stepping out of the car and slamming the door shut, she hurried to the porch, suddenly surprised that for the first time in three years the Reverend had not come out to greet her.

She could see him behind the door and felt extremely awkward, as if she had become a stranger in this place, her shelter. Her hand went up in slow motion, and she knocked on the door. The Reverend quickly called-out in answer, “Yes?”

Maude found herself addressing the Reverend’s door. “Well, hello, Reverend, it’s Maude.”

After a moment, he called back, “Yes, Maude. I’m sorry, but I cannot see you this evening.” Maude’s mouth fell open.

“Oh no, you don’t understand! I have a problem, and–”

“It’s of no use, Miss Maude,” he answered through the door, “For I cannot help you.”

“Please,” she blinked, trying to make out his shadow through the stained glass. “Reverend–?” She waited again. “Ed!” she finally implored, “I need help! I need for you to talk to me!”

Alas, the rejection and its implications sinking in, Maude again began quietly whimpering, almost to herself, and put her hands on the door. “Please, please, help me. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Why can’t you help me?”

Through tear-filled eyes she made-out the shadow moving behind the door. His head dropped. He was moving toward the door. Then she heard, “Miss Maude, please.” The door opened slowly. Maude stepped back a little and Reverend Wallace stepped out, pulling the door shut behind him. As she tried to pull herself together, he took her arm.

“Miss Maude, you must understand that there have been people before that have come to me for ten, twenty years. Then–I do not know why, but something just happens. For some reason I can no longer find the answers their spirits seek.”

“Are you saying you can’t see me anymore?” she cried. “But Reverend you must! You can’t just stop seeing me! I was fired from my job today! You didn’t tell me this would happen!” Catching her breath, his presence braced her hopes.

“You said I should pray to my mother and stay away from Italian restaurants for awhile, but you didn’t say this would happen!”

“Young lady, you must calm down. And you must accept the wisdom of the powers that be. I could not have known, and there is simply nothing more I can do for you.”

“But why? Why? I need you. What am I supposed to do?” Maude’s frenzy rose. She swooned and would have fallen had the good Reverend not caught her and helped her down onto the squeaky old porch swing where, in bygone days, they’d often shared tea.

Reverend Wallace took a deep breath and a shard of light from the setting sun broke through the clouds to fill his blue eyes. “My daughter,” he said softly as she shook before him, “This morning when I awoke, I heard the call of your spirit. I felt that some misfortune would befall you today. I tried–I tried to contact the spirit that controls your destiny, and found only… an elusiveness. It has moved beyond my reach; I can no longer contact it. This is why I cannot help you.”

“My spirit… has gone?” Maude asked in despair. “What does that mean? I–I–am I going to die?”

The Reverend swiftly took Maude’s hand and pressed it, then returned it to her lap as he stood up. “This is why I tried to turn you away. When something like this happens, I myself am lost. I don’t know whether it indicates bad tidings–-or perhaps some birth or change in the spirit that transforms its energy into something that’s simply beyond my power. Don’t be scared, young lady; just move on with your life. I cannot tell you anything more. I’m sorry.

“Now, I must go.” He turned, eyes downcast, and entered his home, locking the door behind him, thinking how much he hated to lose such a fine, paying customer. He went to look out the side window, and finally saw his neighbor on the way over.

…

Maude no longer saw the shadow lurking behind the door. She felt too scared and confused to move. From a distance, the whippoorwill’s song floated through the shaking thunder and pouring rain.

At last, she arose and, very slowly, she turned to leave. She paused for a moment at the edge of the porch.

Lightning slashed the sky before her. “Well, Miss,” called a man’s voice from the darkness, “Have you come again to have your fortune told?” She spun to look, frightened. “It’s only been a few days–but so nice to see you again.”

Reverend Wallace’s neighbor was a dark-featured, handsome fellow, and he stood on his porch steps, still below the cover of the roof. He often spoke to her, but he wasn’t exactly a fatherly Reverend Wallace. She remembered a Kleenex in her purse and pulled it out to wipe her face and blow her nose.

“Are you so early to see the Reverend Wallace that he makes you wait outside on such a stormy evening? Would you like to come next door? I would be happy to… read you.”

Lightning menacingly flashed behind him. “I can tell you are unsettled today. Perhaps,” he said with the style of a toreador, “I can tell you where your spirits lie.”

She stared, almost against her will, beginning to wonder whether Reverend Wallace’s neighbor might somehow be able to fulfill her spiritual needs. She found herself being weakened by his voice… and his promise. He saw her look, and he smiled. “I can help you–no charge. It would be my pleasure.”

Maude tried to steady her voice as she spoke to him. “I don’t think–I don’t know. I guess I–”

“Miss, if you prefer, you can continue to wait for Reverend Wallace,” he said, crossing to where she stood, his voice lowering as he approached. “However, if he insists that you wait outside, you may become ill. You can simply wait here or I can help you with whatever it is that’s bothering you. If you’ll come along, I’ll make some tea and you can decide.”

Maude turned again to look at the door where Reverend Wallace had disappeared. Seeing that he really was gone, she decided perhaps it was time to try a new spiritualist, after all. She breathed in the damp air and traced the heat lightning across the drizzly sky. There was no thunder. “Yes, okay. It’s very kind of you,” she said as she turned to follow him, grasping her purse tightly.

She balanced herself for a moment, then stepped off the porch and was escorted across the yard. She noticed the sign:

REVEREND ALBERT MOSS
CERTIFIED MEDIUM

They stepped onto his porch and she smelled the heavy dampness of the thick plants lining it. Above the steps was another sign:

TRANQUILITY GARDEN

He politely made a motion to take her arm, but she bent away with an awkward look.

…

He opened the door for her. Stepping in, she suddenly felt her senses returning. Reverend Moss offered her a seat in the front room opposite his busy desk, and Maude noticed that his home was unlike Reverend Wallace’s: It needed something of the woman’s touch. It was comfortable, though.

Reverend Moss quickly presented two cups of tea. “Neither cream nor sugar, is that correct?”

“Why, yes,” answered Maude, surprised.

“Of course. Well, Miss … Maude, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is Maude.”

“The only suitable name for such a beautiful lady.” His smile was taking her in. “I am very happy that you have joined me, to brighten up this stormy evening. Shall we begin?”

“Well, I’m not sure. You see, I’ve been seeing Reverend Wallace for–”

“Wait,” the Reverend grandly interrupted, “Let me see.” He stood and paced a bit, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He turned to her, “You have been seeing Reverend Wallace for … two years and ten months, exactly, next Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, it’s been about three years, but I’m not sure what day it was.”
Disappointment quickly passed through him. “Then, I am quite sure that it was Valentine’s Day. The spirits are never wrong.”

Maude’s wits were slowly thawing-out. “Well, I suppose it was then. Look, Reverend Moss–”

“You may call me Albert.”

“Well, thank you, Albert. But I should tell you–”

“Wait, don’t tell me,” Albert said. He cast his eyes toward the ceiling, mumbled something unintelligible, and then brought his eyes down to meet Maude’s. “Your astrological sign is … Aquarius.”

He knew! Maude wanted to find this extraordinarily comforting — considering Reverend Wallace’s record – but instead she became wary. “My goodness! Reverend Wallace first thought I was a Virgo! Have you spoken to him about me?”

He was busted and he knew it. His voice broke when he spoke. “About you?” They stared. Looking into her eyes, he shook his head slowly. “Never,” he lied.

He turned away for a moment and she studied him… with growing awe. “You must be very powerful,” she said.

Seizing the opportunity, Albert turned back to her, speaking quickly. “Ah, Miss Maude: Yours is an elusive spirit. I can see that even Reverend Wallace has been turned away. But there is something….”

“Well, maybe,” Maude offered, “It’s that I was fired from my job today–for no reason. And now I have no job, no money, no place to go–” Her well of despair began spilling-over anew, but his intense, searching gaze was quite settling.

“I sense a great wrong has been committed. The spirits are angry,” Reverend Moss quickly pointed out. “This is why they have withdrawn. But within you, Miss Maude, there is something strong.” He slowly stood up as he spoke to her, his black eyes boring into her’s. She tried looking away into the light. “I can see the passion and fire arising within your spirit.

“The color I see,” he continued moving his face before hers, staring into her eyes, “…is red. Miss Maude, you must forgive me, but your breathtaking beauty is much too much for me to defend against.”

Reverend Moss had caught fire. His voice was a whisper. She returned his gaze. “It is a sea of red, captivating and flowing like a volcano. Your spirits are the very demons of subdued passion. I cannot control my… desires for you. You are pulling me in.”

Though it was all so overwhelming, the rush of blood washing through Maude’s mind and racing through her body propelled her onward. Her head swimming, she leaned her lips forward into his. In that second, she felt her body might soon rip apart from the passion that swelled inside her.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the fear in her heart, and when she opened them she was in Albert’s bed where he was kissing her. When they began to make love, her mind found a consciousness beyond anything she had ever known. An explosion occurred somewhere within her spirit, and Maude felt herself soaring through the wind, removed from small town of Cassadaga and the very earth itself–and somehow beyond its gravity. She no longer had a sense of where she was–only that she was traveling through time and space. As her force raced onward, suddenly the large, round face of Dr. Burns appeared before her. She closed her eyes tighter and the face turned to a ball of gas that exploded in fire as her force passed through the center of it. Her momentum carried her on and on, until at last she lost her breath and was enveloped within the empty black vacuum of never-ending space.

A rooster crowed and blackness settled in on the town, while Maude and Albert fell into a dead sleep.

…

The sun was shining through the shadeless windows of the Moss abode when Albert awoke. He shook his head to gain his senses and turned to see Maude’s face resting on the pillow next to him. Her sleep was peaceful, and he noticed that she looked remarkably beautiful–much younger and more beautiful than before.

Maude’s eyes opened and Albert knew something had happened. He thought he remembered some wrinkles, surrounding shallow, relatively pale blue eyes. A pair of piercing black eyes now adorned a face that was both young and smooth. She just smiled, not noticing his startled expression, and cuddled-up to him, closing her eyes and laying her head on his shoulder.

Albert thought. One thing he knew for sure, the deal with Reverend Wallace had been a stroke of pure genius. Also, for the first time in many years, it occurred to him that he really might have some type of weird supernatural power, after all.

Reverend Moss proposed to Maude after the ugly green Aspen sat under Reverend Wallace’s magnolia tree for two days. Vows were exchanged, and Maude’s name was painted on the sign in the front yard. Throughout the happy wedding day the whippoorwill sang its name, and in the shady backyard of their home a patch of sunflowers grew to full height and bloomed. Things like this happen often in Cassadaga.

…

That same day, back in Tampa Bay, the family and friends of Dr. Elmer Burns continued to mourn the loss of their loved one, who had died in his sleep the night before.

Fortunately for his wife, she’d gotten up in the night for a snack. Her husband was Tampa Bay’s first known victim of the rare phenomenon of spontaneous combustion.

THE END

Tomorrow it will be twenty-one years since I began writing the following poem. That’s another story, and perhaps, another post… maybe one for twenty-one years from tomorrow.

I selected the poem this evening after searching through the spreadsheet containing an archive of my poems with the date I wrote each one, collection information, and a column for me to track reviews underway with publications. The document was put together at another time in my life and career, when I was more diligent in submitting poetry to prestigious print publications and presses. Not sure if this one was ever submitted to magazines, but either way, I know the rights are mine :^). It’s part of my first collection, entitled “just.”

by Roger Darnell

In the clear blue light
slipping in behind the night
dawning daybreak shines in glory…
glowing glory giving sight

to the eyes closed tight
facing darkness in the fight
that will make the losers winners
when light enters, making bright

hopes for one more chance
in this joyous world to dance
just to wake up in the morning…
welcome morning, new romance!

Copyright Roger Darnell . All Rights Reserved.

Tonight, writing this, I was thinking about my conversations with Amelia and her recent performance. Maybe these words, written on a piece of paper in her pocket, might help?