JACK BELDEN ~

any old fella. . .

Jack Belden



Uncle Jack is what the young kids

Around here call him, even though he

Isn’t really their uncle but rather

Their own parents’ uncle and usually

They just called him Jack. His name

Doesn’t come up too much when I’m

Working with my neighbors.

There are three houses of the same family

Up the dirt road running alongside

French Brook. The brook eventually

Climbs higher into the next town of

Cheshire and Jack drinks from this brook.

The dirt road winds around Church Mountain

And swings back into the village

Passing through the covered bridge

And over the waterfall,

Forks then into two roads like a wishbone

That provides travel for a dozen families.

They hardly ever come down our road

Which follows the river, and I don’t

Think anyone knows Jack Belden up there.

The three houses on Jack’s back road

Are the homes for two of his nephews

And his sister; Jack’s small trailer

Is hidden in a hollow from them all.

He never married, doesn’t own a car,

Hikes to Brattleboro 12 miles away or

Picks up a ride with the rural mailtruck.

One day walking home from work

I was 500 feet behind Jack who had just

Left the mailtruck in the covered bridge

And was stalking down the muddy river road.

Middle of the season. A warm day.

The buckets on the roadside maples

Brimming with sap.

A mile down the road

And still a distance between us

I watched him abruptly stop,

Look both ways (but not behind him),

Let down his burlap sack of groceries

From his shoulder, then walk to

One of the trees and remove a bucket,

Drink for a good half-minute

Wipe his mouth with his sleeve

Hang the bucket back

Then continue the remaining mile to home.

I thought all about that yesterday —

It was eight years ago. He was 75 years old.

Today I’m tapping the same trees

On the farmer’s land Jack drank from.

The mud is deep and the day is warm,

Not much has changed.

But I heard and couldn’t believe

That Jack has been in the hospital

Since January, the month we broke

All records for freezing temperatures.

I recall one night sitting with neighbors

Already reminiscing about

The headaches of busted water pipes

Depleting cordwood and icy roads,

But no talk about Jack —

The whiskered old man who walks.

Everett, his nephew, told me

As we filled our aprons with tap spouts

That Jack’s gas ran out in the trailer

During one of those real cold nights.

30 below. His feet froze.

They amputated the gangrene from all his toes.

Shut out all the lights to any more walking.

I wonder what this all means —

We worry about water pipes bursting,

But a quarter-mile away

Jack loses his toes.

It wasn’t brought up at town meeting this year.

Jack’s photograph doesn’t grace

The inside town report bulletin

As one of the patriarchs of Guilford.

Yet, he knows his territory —

Takes a leak outside his trailer door

Like any liberated yankee.

Quietly living so that you

Don’t know that he lives.

Showed me once how to

Crush an early shad bud

Between my fingers
For the first scent of spring.

_______________________

Bob Arnold

Where Rivers Meet

WARM ~

Warm

Apple, poplar, ash,

Cherry, red maple,

Pine, basswood, oak,

These are the woods

That we sawed today,

In two hours of thinning,

Selecting, we made a cord —

Trampled branches on snow

Worked without words.

Simple thoughts, like picking

Up these sticks — back and

Forth in the mind — until we

Stop to rest together against

The pile, brushing off woodchips,

Shedding hats and gloves,

And because we kiss, I warm

My hands beneath your blouse.

First Snow As I Split Wood

Thin snow falling into

Valley fog, quiets everything,

No bird call, nothing flying.

The splitting wedge and hammer

Echo over the pasture

While the flakes open bigger

For no reason other than snow.

And I straighten my sweaty back

To watch this world, lend a tongue

And taste it melt.

Scout

Here you are again

Late at night

Snow falling in the valley

Life on snowshoes

Hardly faraway from home

In fact, isn’t that the glow

Of the kitchen lamp

Lighting through the trees

I’ve spend the better part

Of darkness stamping in

A mile wide circle enjoying

The measure of going nowhere

Stand with me

Waste some time

Everything you’ve always wanted

Is all around you.



_________________

Bob Arnold
Where Rivers Meet
Mad River Press






Susan photograph by Bob Arnold , 2016

BACK ROAD CALLER ~

Now

Without any warning,

No wind or dampness,

Just as I was about to

Step out from under

The empty stall,

Shake woodchips

After chain saw work

From my rubber boots

Then split the wood —

Sleet rained down all at once

As if someone whispered now

Caught even the chickadees

Feeding in the overgrown

Raspberry canes, but I

Watched as they regained

Themselves over the

Pasture, flying away.

The Long Way Home

January and no thaw

Freezing days and nights

Far back in the woods

I stamped caked ice

Off my snowshoes after

Breaking into the open

Onto an old logging road

Returning down into the valley

Sunlight rinsing the hills

Passing my neighbor’s pasture

I feel staring between the trees

Huddled in deep snow

The whole world stop

As horses watch

One Shot

      for Russell Denison

The one shot

I don’t think

He wanted to shoot

Put this deer down,

Found on the river ice

After the dogs

Had been chased off.

He left the body alive

Longer than I would

For someone to call

The game warden, or

Hoping 3 or 4 in the pack

Would circle back,

Put a slug in each one’s head.

But nothing returned —

This deer waits

Head flat

Muscles clawed from her legs,

She won’t ever rise again.

Bloody dog tracks

Pinwheeled from the body.

It is late winter

An open sunny day for a change,

The air is starting to melt

With new bird songs —

Her eyes are wide

She can’t move

Watches us as we move.

Sugaring Time

All at once

Off in the distance

Where an old hut

Sinks into the ground

Two small windows lit

And steam bellows

Up into the farmland sky —

You thought it was a fire

Until you tasted the air



________________________

Bob Arnold
Where Rivers Meet