My grandmother lives on a plot of land that my grandfather purchased in the 60s with some business partners. It's a little hide-away of a "neighborhood" on what used to be the Roanoke River (it was dammed up in the 50s and is now Buggs Island/Kerr Lake - depending on whether you are in NC or VA). When my dad went off to college, my grandpa sold their house in McClean, VA and built their retirement home (a two-story cedar cabin) on this plot of land. This lake is where I learned to fish, waterski, drive (golf-carts, and then cars on the backroads), kill all manner of insects, and appreciate the magic of the North American woods.
I had so many moments at the lake this weekend of thinking That's a poem, but it was hard to write anything down. So I've decided to share three of these moments with you, and then I'll just let them sit for a bit and see what emerges later.
Sunday morning: I sat on the "beach" alone, half in shade under "the big tree" where all manner of life-vests, chairs, and floats are kept out of the sun's fading rays. On the ground, not too far from my chair were two butterflies - one monarch and one black and blue. They were fluttering their wings, but not flying, which in my book meant that they had just burst from their coccoons and were drying their wings before trying out the bright, big world or... they were dying. I decided they were dying, because that seemed like a better poem. I jotted down some observations about their movement, their struggle, where they chose to flutter their last, and then I walked down to the water to cool off. When I returned, they were gone....so I guess they had learned to fly after all. I then remembered it was under that tree I received my first waterskiing lesson from my grandpa. I've learned to "fly" under that tree as well.
Sunday afternoon: My dad and I pulled out our little "Sunfish" - a small sailboat. We had a wonderful sail and some good conversation. My dad mentioned that he had visited my grandpa's grave on his way down the day before. He said something to the effect of, "You know there are Confederate soldiers buried in that same cemetery, and there is still what was then called the "colored" section. It's amazing how history gets recorded by people's burial sites." We then talked a little about the lake and the Native American history that we were currently floating over. The keen eye can still find arrowheads on the shores of this lake, and I thought that it is amazing how water can cover a multitude of eras which will never be remembered in a burial of earth.
Later that afternoon, I saw my first bald eagle in the wild.
Monday morning: My dad and I had to get the sailboat out of the water and store it again, so we bumped our way down to the shore in Grandmother's golf-cart. Right before we hit the beach, my dad stopped the cart and pointed to a spot in the grass. There, my friends, was the largest snake I've seen since I lived in Africa. He was eyeing my dad, who had jumped out of the cart to get a closer look....boys. We could tell he had something in his mouth, but we weren't sure what until my dad took one step closer, causing the snake to drop his meal and zoom into the brush. I then inched my way over to get a good look, and there, half-eaten and bloody, was a copper-head. After pulling ourselves away, we loaded the boat and started back to the house. As we passed the spot where the snake had dropped the copper-head, we saw that he had come back, reclaimed his venomous lunch and disappeared once more into the brush.
So - three poems? Or maybe one long one...Below is an old poem my dad asked me to post. The tie-in is that it has to do with death and animals. Enjoy.
The
Day We Ate My Pet Chicken
They
told me halfway through the meal.
I
dropped his leg, ran to the toilet.
I
had named him and called him mine in the back of our white jeep.
As
we bounced down village roads past dripping banana leaves
and
women of burden lugging water and babies,
he
screeched and lost his feathers while I sang lullabies
and
caught those feathers in the air.
He
had been a gift to my father from the villagers
Thankful
for his visit, his words, their language on his tongue.
Days
later, the gift cluckclucked around the yard, haughty and fat with grain.
I
was a good little mama, the gardener had said.
I
couldn’t bring any part of him back up and so returned to the table.
I
shrugged and sat until the licking of bones turned into the clatter of dishes.
I
didn’t know if I should mourn when the scraps were given to the dogs.
Emily
Anne Decker (2009)
