Family Fire
Almost
hunting season
Last
week of October
No
one was around when the new house
Somehow
turned to fire and after
A
year building for this farm family
Fell
into ashes in a half hour.
The
first person to get
There
before the fire department
Spoke
of gas tanks blowing off,
Windows
melting flames,
A
big blue spruce close by shredded brown.
Now
down in the dungeon of the cellar
Snow
shovels and pitchforks sift through
Savings
of four sons, a man and woman —
Blackened
chain saw bar, lost book pages,
Bills
and receipts, iron coat hooks, an axe head.
No
clue to the favorite family photographs
Or
pet parakeet, only the twisted
Hunk
of his wire cage.
I
can just imagine the fright
In
the bird at first sense of fire —
A
quarter mile away one of our dogs
Broke
the clasp to his chain
Smelling
five cords of firewood
Burn all at once.
The Walker
Everyone
who has been around
The
last twenty years, at least,
Has
a different story to
Remember
about the Henry boy
Who
walked the roads.
He’s
dead now.
One
night after not seeing him
For
a few years I came across
His
tiny obituary in the newspaper
And
if you hadn’t known him
The
notice said nothing —
Only
that he lived,
Had
relatives in town,
And
now he was dead —
No
mention that he walked
Twenty-five
miles sometimes in one day.
Started
off at his parents’ farm and
Followed
over the hill then
Tracked
down into the village,
Poked
through the covered bridge,
And
turned on his heel to the left
Wandering
down the river road —
Where
two miles later he would
Pass
me digging up stone for
One
of the old walls around here.
Usually
he was surprised when
I
said hello, squinted over at
Me
and raised his whole arm
In
a salute, while still marching.
No
one would have kept up with
His
stride, and I watched him
Until
he disappeared down the
Knoll
— a harmless character in
Clothing
that blended with the
Trees,
road gravel, spring air.
Most
of the people called him
Deaf,
dumb or other things.
Old
timers brushed his name aside
Whenever
it came up, or else
Said
something about “How it
Was
a shame.” And now as the
Town
changes and funny looking
Houses
are built and taxes go up
Each
year for easier living
I
know I miss the Henry boy,
Who
I simply called the walker,
Because
that’s what he did
Everyday.
And everyone either
Ignored
him, or were used to what
They
thought a pitiful sight
And
no doubt he did struggle,
But
this road isn’t the same
Without
him — it’s gotten
Respectable
almost — lost sight
Of
one who walked these miles
For
whatever his private reasons.
Nevertheless,
he always saluted
His
hello, passed without words.
Tom Newall
We
haven’t a clue
What
he is doing —
Moving
in tangle of
Thistle
and goldenrod,
Grass
wet to his chest,
Sun
storms the barn roof —
This
is Tom Newall who is
90
years old and never married,
And
he might be in a habit
Of
walking his fence line
Tugging
off brush and tassel
My
friend drives by this farm,
Always
tells me the same
Story
no matter how many times
As
if he can’t remember repeating
Why
he is proud about knowing
Tom
Newall — who boiled 400 gallons
Of
maple syrup last year,
Triple
that when he was younger —
And
he never did marry, but how
Is
it possible no one would fetch
This
man of gentle poise and nitid
Eyes
I can’t forget from meeting
Him
just one time
Around
the house lawn trim and
Kept,
chickens roost on the front
Stair
stoop as if, and now
It
is, perfectly normal —
There
is no reason to bother
Tom
Newall or any other like this
Good
man — if my friend had his
Way
this farmer and land and
Summit
would remain as it is —
That it won’t, has us look
________________
Bob Arnold
O N C E I N VE R M O N T
G n o m o n
