Spot

During a major reorganization of my basement in preparation for the installation of a new heat pump, I discovered a large stash of old writing I had done many years ago, some of it actually from my days as an undergrad at Morehead State University.  Part of it good enough, in my opinion, to be used on this blog and one or two pieces, with some major edits or additional work, could probably be fit to submit to actual literary journals.  This is one of the pieces which I think fits into this blog. It is both about the first good dog I ever had and about my development as a human being. 

 

I always loved my dogs.  My youngest sibling was nearly nine years my elder.  Therefore, I grew up virtually as an only child and found much of my companionship with animals.  When I was about ten, my dog Spot was killed by a car driven by the local barber and magistrate.  Unlike most people who run over dogs, the individual who ran over Spot stopped.  

At the time, my mother and I were the only ones home.  The culprit came into our little country store, for his first visit since his last campaign, to inform me my dog was dead.  I ran to the corner of our property where Spot lay bleeding profusely under an apple tree.  The area surrounding my dog was covered with recently fallen apple blossoms, spattered with coagulating blood.  Even I could not deny that my dog was dying.  

Crying uncontrollably, I ran back to my mother for help.  But even she, who usually solved my problems, could not change the situations.  Before leaving, the man apologized and promised faithfully he would find me another puppy.  For reasons which I still cannot fathom, I chose to believe him.  

In an effort to help me deal with my grief, my mother suggested that we make fudge.  She insisted that I do much of the work.  Somehow during this process, I was able to ignore my pain.  I don't remember the taste of the candy.  But I do remember the experience and the lessons I learned from it.

I never became an inveterate candy maker and the man never returned with another dog.  His memories of the incident were probably short lived; mine are indelible.  I have never forgotten how a child feels when told a lie.  I will always remember the caring way my mother helped me deal with the loss.  On many subsequent occasions, I have been able to emulate her ability to heal.  At every opportunity, I strive to avoid repeating that man's mistake.  Without having known, he taught me a lesson for life.  

I am convinced he could never have made an equal impact on me through conscious effort.  I am equally convinced he would have never made that effort.  Yet he stands in my life as proof of the fact that many of our values are learned through experience not observation.  And many of our best teachers never intended to be.  Finally, after thirty-five  years, I am able to thank him for the experience. 

On Reading "My People Was Music" by Kirk Judd

 

Kirk Judd and I passed like ships in the night without ever knowing each other during our time at the Southern Appalachian Circuit of Antioch College in Beckley, West Virginia, in that amazing circle of writers, poets, social activists, teachers, students, unionists, liberals, and outlaws who had been assembled by the great Appalachian poet and educator Bob Snyder.  By outlaws I mean those of us who were willing and able to be, to become, to seek to be outlaws in the mold of Mother Jones, John L. Lewis, Jack Kerouac, Bob Dylan, Hosea Hudson, Woody Guthrie, Jock Yablonski, and many others who always Stood Up, Spoke Up, and Spoke Out against evil in its many forms.  Kirk Judd and I have still never met but we do communicate now and then since participating in a Zoom Poetry Reading of the posthumous book of poetry, "Milky Way Accent",  by our mutual mentor and friend Bob Snyder.  Kirk Judd published this book of poetry, My People Was Music, in 2014 with Mountain State Press in Charleston, West Virginia, and I have to admit that I had never read it until he sent me a copy shortly after that Zoom reading which I encourage all of you to view if you did not see it live.  And this is a bit earlier in my post than I usually say this, but you should also consider reading Kirk Judd's book which is actually one of three books of poetry he has published.  The others were self-published as I understand it, and will be much harder to find copies of on the open market.  

Kirk Judd has made public appearances for many years as what can best be described as a performance poet utilizing music and musicians in association with his poetry and this book was actually issued with an accompanying music CD.  The book is also noteworthy for the poem, "The Ground of Eden", which is described as a "dual voice" poem and is actually a melding of two separate poems by Judd and Sherrel Wigal with alternating stanzas from each poem on opposite sides of the page.  The explanatory notes in the back of the book have this to say about the poem(s): It is a performance piece meant to be read in two voices.  The concluding stanza, written by Wigal epitomizes the beliefs and emotions many of us hold dear who have ever lived in West Virginia: 

This

This is the land which owns you

This is the ground of Eden

This is the soil

You cannot leave

In many ways, that stanza epitomizes the entire book even though it was not written by Kirk Judd.  This book is woven throughout with a deep love of the land, the mountains, the unexplainable soul of West Virginia and the undying devotion of West Virginians for the land, the state, the mountains.  Kirk Judd describes himself as a trout fisherman among other things and a great deal of the poetry is rooted in fishing, hiking, living, breathing, in the mountains.  One of my favorite poems in the book is called "Spring Prayer On Bald Knob" which describes a hike.  One stanza of the rather lengthy poem characterizes much of what I find in the book and that all consuming love of the land: 

I make it back to the peak

And now begin to understand how awed I am.

I start the prayer.

I have no tobacco, so I offer water

The only valuable I have with me.

I gave myself years ago.

That stanza takes me back to several experiences of my own, if not hundreds, hiking in the middle of wild, desolate places, living and breathing in the land, the mountains, the surroundings, the creation around me no matter which particular version I, Kirk Judd, or any other reader might hold about the circumstances of that creation.  It reminds of standing, staring from one of the highest overlooks into the New River Gorge, or gazing out over a Virginia valley from the top of Stony Man, or taking in deep, woodsy breaths in a deep Appalachian hollow listening to the trickle and babble of the tiny stream at my feet, or the midnight Native American ceremony in which I once partook in a small cave in East Tennessee on the homeplace of Sgt. Alvin York with a few close friends, sweet grass, cedar, and a clay pipe passed hand to hand.  

I found several things in this book of poetry and one of them was a collection of common griefs with Kirk Judd of some of the people we both knew at different times in both our lives and theirs, our mentor the great Appalachian poet Bob Snyder, Joseph Barret, Rod Harless, Don West, Connie West, and others.  Another of my favorite poems about grief in the book is entitled "The Death of Her Son".  The first and last stanza of that poem describe not just that woman's grief but the manner in which many people resolve their grief: 

She asked all her questions

in the unanswering hours, 

after the preacher had gone

and the boys who brought the flowers

from the funeral home

and all the family and friends

who brought cakes and coffee

and all the food

in dishes with name tags

on the things that needed to be returned...

 The sorrow overwhelmed he.

She fell down and wept.

She felt him rise to leave

and, through her tears,

she saw him,

loved him,

and finally,

let him go.

For those of us who have experienced multiple, small, home funerals in the mountains of Appalachia, especially those of us who have seen our friends, loved ones, heroes die too young those two stanzas describe the process of grief and paint a vivid photograph of how we Appalachians have come together to support our friends and neighbors during the hard times of life and death.  We have come together carrying our condolences and our contributions in bowls of shucked beans and cushaw,  and large, stacked plates of Funeral Bologna sandwiches ground in an old hand cranked grinder which helped us meld cheap bologna, pickle relish, and mayonnaise into something which might not be kind words but clearly demonstrated our unspoken thoughts.