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Contests : Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest : Past Winners : 2007 : High Distinction
DOUG DIED
"Been to the best doctors around, and they mostly agree," he said.
We met every year for golf—sixteen of us, sometimes more, chasing fulfillment of a sort. The date was chosen with precision—crisp fall days and chilly nights, leaves of every color on a canvas of evergreen, a Renoir on every mountainside, good Kentucky bourbon or maybe just a light beer on the deck, cooking burgers, as crickets and whip-o-wills began their music.
Doug was always, "Chef", the "Burger King"—originally appointed because no one else wanted the job, but he turned it into a five-star experience. We might be inside watching football or arguing over a rule of golf, but Doug never left his post at the fire, treating each morsel with great respect.
He knew the name and history of every man there—knew the right questions to ask, the best old stories to tell again, and, in some amazing way, he was aware of every conversation in the room. If a remark seemed a bit too strident or a friendly insult crossed the line, Doug asked an "off the wall" question or brought up a current event to divert the talk. This was the signal to settle down, and we knew it. It might take a newcomer several gaffes before he learned the rules. It paid to be a quick study.
In quiet conversation, he was riveting. When he mentioned Hemingway or Dos Passos or maybe Justice Holmes, it was always to nail down a point—never to name-drop. He could laugh uproariously, but most times wore a wry smile even when attempting, once again
the subjugation of a fickle, seductive game. It was a bond we all shared—chasing the dream, the mastery of an illusive art-skill.
Slowly, we learned humility. Over the years, the jokes were more self-deprecating. We never learned surrender, though. It would have amounted to dishonor. And though we often talked of quitting, we knew it was a bluff. It was part of the bond—curse your fate, but never give up.
Which is why the look in Doug's eyes was so haunting during that last weekend in October in the North Carolina mountains.
"I have to make a decision, boys," was the off-handed way he put it, but his eyes were different and couldn't bluff. "It's chemo and radiation and all that crap and no promises, either. This may be my last round for a while, so I'm just going to savor it and probably make a decision when I get back home."
It was bad—worse, even, than he let on. Surrender was not in his vocabulary, we knew. You honor the game, no matter where your ball lands. But, those eyes!
The burgers were unimaginably wonderful. The bourbon tasted of charred Kentucky oak. And on that last night, we drifted one by one out to the deck to just stand together around a fire that Doug built.
This poem won a High Distinction Award in the 2007 Tom
Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest sponsored by Tom Howard Books. Author Noble Collins received a $100 award. Winning Writers assists this contest. Copyright is reserved to the author.
SECOND OLDEST OF SEVEN
She was the second oldest of seven—
the oldest girl—
four brothers
two sisters.
They were the children not seen in "American Gothic."
Two others died in infancy
before she was born—
both girls—
I don't know if that would have made the difference.
I saw an old browned photograph of her mother and father once.
He was Thomas Mitchell as Gerald O'Hara,
She was the farmer's wife in the Grant Wood painting.
I never heard any of them tell of childhood happiness.
Each possessed a somewhat macabre sense of humor—
fatalistic, never maudlin—
too strong for that
If nothing else, their mother was a survivor—
and more—
absolutely—
not without talent and ambition,
but whatever fire burned within her
never radiated very far.
I was only six when grandmother died
and her husband was already gone,
so I never knew them as my grandparents.
To the day my own mother died,
I never heard much about them
I can't tell you one thing about my grandfather.
I'm pretty sure about one thing:
I can never know when the transition was made
or to the precise degree,
but, at some point,
my mother, the oldest girl,
became her mother.
Growing up,
I always sensed a sort of reverence and respect for my mother,
from uncles and aunts.
It was more than merely familial—
more like allegiance.
I think she attempted to fill a great void in her family.
I think she tried to be the fire.
There must have come a time
when it became far too great a burden.
She was engaged to a local boy, a nice young man,
but one day the man who became my father appeared,
not terribly handsome, but dashing, confident and
"On his way" (she once confided in a rare moment).
He was driving a new automobile and he was fun.
This must have seemed to be the brass ring,
and she grabbed it.
Like most of her life,
I still don't know all the details.
She was pretty
and inherited the best of her mother's talents.
She could cook and sew
and grow and arrange beautiful flowers.
She was among the best of her time at most things,
but she had no model for sophistication,
or happiness,
and the little fire she nourished—
the one she probably hoped would someday grow into a bonfire—
smoldered.
In her little home town, she would have become a Maven,
but they moved to the city
where my father could be "On his Way",
and to his great credit, he was.
Cooking, sewing, canning foods and flower arranging
were great talents,
but the ways of great city women escaped her,
and, when the fire went out,
she had nothing to fall back upon.
There were lots of pretty women.
My father was a great man, but far more ambitious.
A country boy himself, he wanted a place at the table
of the rich and famous.
He was comfortable there and well received.
His raw, eager intelligence was refreshing.
He admired many men—feared none—
earned public acclaim, and relished it.
She searched within herself for acclaim,
but found none.
She was her mother—couldn't escape it—
the mother who was always fighting her own loneliness—
the Lady in Black—
conserving every measure of her own warmth—
unable to share.
My mother built her own fire
and made sure every brother and sister
felt the flame.
There became a time, though,
after she had given away
almost every warm cinder—
when no one stepped up to replace them.
Everyone needs an internal fire.
My mother's flame burned out
long before any of us knew or understood it.
In my Seventies,
I am coming to understand.
It still hurts,
but I am coming to understand.
This poem won a Highly Commended award in the 2007 Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest sponsored by Tom Howard Books. Author Noble Collins received a $70 award. Winning Writers assists this contest. Copyright is reserved to the author.
About Noble Collins
If a writer writes in the forest does he or she make a sound? Only if picked up on the sensitive sonar of folks like Tom Howard. I have been writing all my life, but only in my retirement years have I submitted anything for publication. To have the great honor and sense of achievement of having a few works published by this excellent publisher (among his many attributes), is far beyond anything I could have imagined. It is reason aplenty for continuing to seek the company of The Muse. Thank you.
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