Feist Dog and The Farm Report

An hour and a half before the alarm clock goes off, I'm giving up sleeping through the night for Lent. When I was little, this was the only time I was allowed to sneak into bed with Momma and Daddy. Around five, I'd hear him sit up, then see the cherry orb of his first cigarette move up and down in the dark. He never sat up until the last minute when his radio started.

In the silence, I hear momma breathing and his tobacco burn as he inhales. I'm pretending to be asleep. His alarm clock told the time by rotating a drum and flipping little cards with numbers painted on them. In the silence, I hear them flipping fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, then a bigger flip and Five a.m. Good morning, feist-dog. It's time for the farm report. The cigarette goes out, and daddy gets up to pee. I watch him shave, and momma stirs and makes her way to her bathroom. One of the luxuries of moving from the Northside drive house to the Honeysuckle Lane house was that Momma and Daddy had separate lavatories. Daddy's lavatory was spartan, but Momma changed the wallpaper on hers regularly. Mother had a thing for walls. When Martha moved out of the house, she insisted on texturing the feature wall in her dining area. She didn't do a terrible job, either. I wonder if the new owner kept it.

Being alone in Momma and Daddy's bed meant I could get up and watch TV in the den. Sleeping in didn't become part of my life until adolescent depression started sinking in. Even then, I'd still wake up before Farmer Jim came on the radio, much like I did today, but I might not stay up. Sitting up in my own bed, sneaking my own cigarette in the dark, I'd consider whether or not the day was worth it. My wife hated it. "Go OUTSIDE. You're supposed to go outside." then she'd lay back for a few more precious sleeps.

Where I am now, the nurses change shift in an hour. I hear them gossip as they gather near the door. I'm not the only resident awake, but only a few of us who are awake are aware. The light is on under Dr. Amazing's door. She's probably reading.

She went to the Methodist service in the chapel yesterday. I normally do, but yesterday I went to a poetry reading instead. I met coach Culpepper's wife. We didn't recognize each other at first. It's been forty years. Once she explained who she was, it all came back to me. I remember when they were just dating.

Listening to guys read their poems, who not only let other people read their poetry but manage to get people to print them in books. I write free-verse poetry. Nobody ever reads it. I don't know if I'll keep it that way. This piece is kind of free-verse, but it's more of an exercise I usually describe as cracking open the egg and seeing what's inside. The words slip out of my brain shell onto the skillet and begin to fry. This isn't precision cooking. It's catch-as-catch-can.

If only I could travel in time as easily as my mind does when I write. What would the nine-year-old me say to the fifty-nine-year-old me? Farmer Jim's been dead a while now, but feist-dog is still with me. He's been more loyal than all the women I've loved. Probably too many. I try not to think of the number, but I remember their eyes, every-one. Their hands. Holding hands and looking into a woman's eyes while you talk in a restaurant is a perfectly acceptable thing to do in public, even though the communication through my fingertips into the well of her hand can be absolutely filthy. It's a secret. Feist-dog looks away. "Not this again."

The sky is purple now.  Trees stand out black against it.  I'd like to finish my painting today.  I haven't had the urge for the past three days.  That's annoying.  Soon blues and grays will creep into the sky and cars will begin to move.  

Today, I begin the process of closing one apartment and moving to another.  My beloved Standard Life building is for sale.  I was kind of expecting it.  Covid killed the viaduct end of Capitol Street renaissance dead.   I'm hoping Jerry will open the Mayflower for supper before I go to the Ash Wednesday service.  From what I understand, he doesn't open every day anymore.  I miss his dad.  I miss his cousin Theo.  I miss a growing, optimistic Jackson.  Maybe if I work really hard, I can leave that to the next generation.  The second generation after my generation.  Honestly, that's kind of fucked up.  About half the girls I held hands with in the paragraphs above are grandmothers now.  To me, they're still beautiful.  Their tiny hands still remind me of fairy's wings, but we're old now.  I don't feel old, even though my back hurts and I have to pee about a thousand times a day.  

I thought being old would come with a feeling of confidence, a calm reflection that I am the river's master.  It didn't turn out that way.  I'm as nervous and unsettled now as I was at sixteen.  The river laughs at me and changes its meanders while I sleep when I sleep.   This is my home.  I was made to think I could be its master, but all I can do is throw words at it.  Words, words, words, maybe there's an idea in my scribblings that will ignite a discussion that might change a heart.  Maybe changing a heart here and there as the river flows by is the only way.  I've seen guys trade tens of thousands of acres of real estate and have less impact than a properly placed idea.  

Feist-dog wants me to get up.  The alarm goes off in a moment.  My fingers race to type out the last words before it does.  Good Morning.  It's time for the farm report.