MICHAEL MAURI

NOTE TO SELF
(South Deerfield, North Amherst)

Note to self: next year don’t split so much of the firewood into small pieces; leave more big chunks for a longer burn. Otherwise the day is too hectic, spent running up and down the stairs to stoke the fire.

Also, make sure to cut all the wood 15 inches or less. 16’s don’t fit in the stove. 15 and a half is the max. You knew that but you messed up anyway. Now you have to get out your saw and cut a bunch of pieces a second time.

End of January. World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. Global leaders trying to explain where they went wrong, who messed up. What happened to the Grand Celebration? Even the rich got fooled this time, letting Wall Street paper-pushers fritter away their wealth, all the while siphoning off regal fees and stunning bonuses. Of course, the rich are still rich, and the poor are still poor, and everyone else is still in between. We’re all in this together, it’s just that we’re all worse-off at being whatever we are.

I’m thinking that what I have here is an Off-Davos Un-Economic Forum, of sorts, in South Deerfield, Massachusetts, with just myself in attendance, and I’m looking at my woodpile. It appears the woodpile might last the next two months. But, then again, it might not, either. So, if not, ⎯ note to self ⎯ be ready to bring in more wood next year. More than just three cords.

Today I’m making a chocolate layer cake. Why? It was on the cover of a magazine in the dentist’s office, on glossy paper in rich, sumptuous detail. I saw it; and, ogling the lush, image, I decided I’d try it. But, let’s face it, this is not really a cake, this is insanity. So much butter, so much sugar; so much heavy cream, even cream cheese! On the platter, the cake weighs about 15 pounds. But, oh, the excited faces of my girls! That regular routine of bread- and pie-making has kept me in the dark about the excesses of layer cakes. Home-making’s questionable side. But it’s too late now. Must go forward. Must eat.

Nonetheless, after we each eat a piece, and then another, we cut the rest of the cake into three chunks. Give two away to friends with kids. Keep one for tomorrow.

And now I know: beware of Family Circle magazine. It could lead you astray.

A death notice is taped above my computer. A young guy, just 31 years old. Ten years ago he was the crack young mechanic fixing my chain saws down in the basement of Streeter’s General Store. But then he got a job with the railroad, a good job. And now this. The newspaper mentions that people can donate to juvenile diabetes. The poor dad. I know him. A great guy, too, like his son was. What’s he going to do now?

True, my work involves cutting trees, yet I felt like weeping when I saw the great, old beech tree in front of the North Amherst library. All the branches had been cut off, amputated on all sides! Just the bare stem was still standing. While driving home from a day’s work, I saw it, standing naked in the cold air, darkness settling in, crescent moon already out.

We all know the economy is in free fall. No one is saying it isn’t. Not anymore, anyway. It had to happen. We’ll see what kind of economy comes next. Maybe a new economy that doesn’t wear down the world, dig it up and incinerate it, drop bombs on it, dig huge graves for people, ruin all the places. But that’s still pie in the sky. Right now everyone just wants to patch up the old one, hoist it back up, shine it up a little and get it back on its feet so everyone can start speNNNding again. Buying STUFF.

Someday, maybe, our insignificant micro-decision to raise laying-hens in the backyard will prove provident. Maybe it won’t seem so odd in this American neighborhood setting where maintaining mow-able lawns is a top priority, where status is measured in lack of productivity. Our chickens, our multi-colored feathered folk, a little noisy at times, a little smelly, too, often comical, livening up the yard and bringing joy to one and all. Except when they disturb the neighbors.

It’s just half a dozen hens. Various breeds. We provide for them and they provide for us. Every day now they give us one or two eggs, sometimes three.

Fresh eggs; different shades of brown in your hand as you walk back across the snow, sometimes still warm, to show the girls.


1/30/2009

Michael Mauri has lived in the US and abroad. Raised in western Massachusetts where many of his poems rise from the earth, he lives with his family in the shadow of Sugarloaf Mountain, making his living as a forester. Small booklets of poems have been issued, including Florida Turnips from Longhouse in 2008.





© 2009 by Michael Mauri & Longhouse Publishers