The Floods of Felsenthal -- a poem by Grace Wagner

Grace Wagner

The Floods of Floods of Felsenthal

Every November, so says my father, the floods follow the ducks to
Felsenthal:
blue-wing teals, mallards, black ducks and gadwalls,
They gather in covens and bring the rain
which soaks the shallow roots of the loblollys
who stand evergreen over the pine-needle stratum; the rain
which gluts the earth till it brims and breaks, flooding
until it fills the basin of itself; the rain
which gives new roads to the fish, crawpie and walleye, largemouth bass
basking beneath the pine-filtered light of dawn.

As the water follows the birds, so my father follows the water.
He takes me out on its face, breaking
the water's waiting tension with the prow of our canoe.
Here two months ago my grandfather stayed, camped close.
But the flood takes it all, swallowing campsites and parking lots, slow
Southern apocalypse meandering in oxbows and bottom lands,
gathering itself in sloughs and buttonbush swamps.

Now the loblolly pines grow from water.
A small hill rises artificially high, bearing the weight of man-
made brick and mortar, restrooms for the campgrounds
when the ground was still visible.
My father sits in front of me, back to the trees,
rowing us through their shining corridors.
We say nothing and the nothing echoes
back to us across the water.

I look over the edge but cannot see
the ground only three feet below me.
The water shows me the sky and pine-lace.
I look up and see the same vision, sky and trees,
a perfect mirror of the water.
The light ripples as I move
beneath it, concentric circles radiating
from the centermost point of my eyes;
mandala in pine and sky.

The ducks watch us, augurs with webbed feet
sculling beneath the polished surface,
their buoyant bodies swiveling
to watch us pass.
They know we are not here for them.
They know the rain will soak and sink 
into the land, damp leaves left like carpet
after a hurricane.
They know my father will die
some day and that I will follow him.

A tackle box sits at my feet, but my father does not
open it. Does not pull out the assemblage of jigs,
of spinners and spoons and flies.
The buzzbaits sit unsummoned, sullen
in their rubber skirts.
Today my father does not pull out the rod
or the reel.

He rows
in silence through the trees,
knowing as I know
that nothing
needs to be said.

This is one of nine poems by Grace Wagner published in the Spring 2017 issue of Skidmore College's Literary Journal, Salmagundi Magazine

First Draft -- Fix It

Yesterday I posted a flash fiction, The Elephant in the Room. It was a first draft, not seen by my editor or, for that matter, by my husband. I liked it. But I can almost always count on me to like something I consider finished. The thing is, I know what I meant to say. The question is, will a reader know what I meant to say?

I think the most important skill for a writer (You know, over and above good grammar and the ability to use spell check.) is the ability to rewrite. It's not my editor's responsibility to tell me how to fix a problem area. It's their responsibility to identify the problem area. Good Beta readers can also help in the same way. My husband is a good Beta reader. They can say what doesn't work for them. There again, it's my responsibility to fix it.

All this said, this is the fixed Elephant in the Room.

image from newh2o.com

Her daughter Carrie sat in her normal place at the table. So beautiful. So young.

The girl reached for the rolls and offered them to the young man seated next to her.

Two months married, the girl had completed her first year at State. It would be so easy to give up her future to follow a man.

She, herself had followed Carrie's father Paul. Not that she gave anything up. College wasn't that important to her. She could paint without college and where she lived didn't make any difference. But Carrie had a true gift for math. She should be in school.

Loxodonta, the African Elephant, is one of two extant genera of the family, Elephantidae. Elephas, the Asian, is the other. At an overall length of 18–21 feet, even the smaller Asian elephant would not fit in this room. It's very size would suck the oxygen out of the room.

Her chest hurt. She wanted to ask her brilliant daughter if she was sure she wanted to follow this young man.

"What about school?" she asked pouring them each a glass of lemonade.

"Oh, Mom. They have colleges in Virginia."

The African bush elephant is even bigger, females stand an average of seven to nine feet tall. An ear six feet long by four feet wide would cast a shadow twice that large over her dining table.

She took her own seat next to Paul. Her family was already scattered across the country by the time she married him. She hadn't had the reassurance of family in emergencies. Or when Carrie was born.

She knew exactly how far it was from Fort Wayne to Norfolk, Virginia -- 728.8 miles. She could drive it if she had to, but it would take too long to get there in an emergency. And Paul couldn't take off work just any time. He would, though. If it were an emergency.

When a calf squeals in distress, its mother rushes to its protection immediately. It is common for the bond between mother and daughter to last more than 50 years.

"Yes, Carrie. I know there are colleges in Virginia." She looked at Paul. Paul raised his eyebrows.

Michael reached for the meat loaf. "That'll give her something to do while I'm deployed. That and the baby."

"Yes, the baby ..." she murmured.

She wanted to say how hard it is to sit in a hospital waiting room or, worse yet, to wait 728.8 miles away.

She left the table to get something. Paul followed her. What was it she was in the kitchen to get? Napkins? No. A serving spoon.

The African elephant's trunk ends in two opposing lips, whereas the Asian elephant trunk ends in a single lip. The trunk is an important method of touch. Elephants use touch in much the same way humans do. In greeting. To reassure and soothe. She wanted to weep.

Paul touched her cheek, then took the spoon from her.

"It'll be all right," he said. "She'll be fine." He kissed her on the forehead. "You'll be fine."

Elephants exhibit grief behaviors, including a period of despondency, dragging behind the herd for days. Elephants have been reported to surround a grieving family member. 

The End

When my husband read it yesterday, he asked "What's the point?" 

And my editor felt that the elephant facts seemed too random, not relevant to the story.

Hopefully, the point is now more obvious and the elephant facts more relevant.

If you missed yesterday's post, click here.

                                             

If Wishes Were Horses -- flash fiction

The alarm! Shut it off. Quick, before it wakes Ken. If she can just sleep fifteen more minutes. She wishes she had another blanket over her legs. Damned arthritis.

“Mom?” 

The plaintive call to arms moves her to the master bathroom. She leaves the light off taking care not to wake Ken. The night light is enough.

“Mom.”

David’s a good boy. He’s hardly ever sick.

Snores rise from the man still sleeping. And the dog is stirring. Maybe she can get out of the room before the dog wakes Ken. Poor Ken. He doesn’t have to get up until six. She’s sorry about his job. She wishes he weren’t so worried.

“Mom.”

Where are her slippers? She should have put them somewhere specific when she went to bed.

“Hush, girl.” She pats the dog on the head and lets her out into the hall. Mollie’s tail smacks everything. She’ll wake Ken. A dog should wag her tail. She should be happy it’s breakfast time. “Shhhh.” It’s a shame to wish her less than happy.

The hall light is on. The hall light is always on. 

“Morning, Dad.”

Her elderly father shuffles from the bathroom. Yet again. She’s heard him up at least three times this night. It was her habit to listen for him to go back to his room, each time hoping he could find his way. Sometimes he couldn’t.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Haven’t slept since midnight.”

She knows that may or may not be true, but there’s nothing to be gained by pursuing the subject.

“Mom!”

“Just a minute, son.”

“What are you planning for breakfast?” her father asks.

“Oatmeal. I’ll have your pill out for you in a minute,” she says as she opens David’s door. “What is it, son?”

“Can’t breathe.”

“Why are your pillows on the floor?”

She’s tempted to turn on the overhead. Why should she care if it hurts his eyes? But the dog wants breakfast. Her father needs his pill. David would just be one more disruption. A fine way to think of her only child. And he really is a good boy. Gets good grades. Stays out of trouble. She piles the pillows on his bed and props him up. Maybe he’ll sleep at least until Ken is ready to leave.

Her father and Mollie wait outside David’s door. Mollie’s tail wagging enthusiastically. She wishes she felt like wagging a tail.

“Could you heat the water? For my pill?”

“Sure, Dad. Let me feed Mollie first.”

She steps out into the garage to get Mollie’s food and wishes she’d found her slippers. If she thought the floor inside the house was cold . . . .

“If wishes were horses,” her mother always said, “even beggars would ride.”

“If wishes were horses,” she thought, “I’d just have more to clean up.”

She misses her mother. 

Life in a Tree -- flash fiction

image from beforeitsnews.com

“Stevie, are you still up there?”

“But what about Daddy?”

“Steven Michael, you come down here this instant. We’ve got to be at the airport in six hours.” Now he decides he’s not going. I won’t have it. He does not make decisions for me. “Steven. Now!”

“I won’t leave Daddy.”

“I’m coming up there.” Climb a tree after a six-year-old? This is the stupidest damn thing I’ve done in a long while. “Steven, do I have to drag you out of this tree?”

“But, Mom, look at the world. You can see the whole world from up here.”

“Yes, very pretty.” She sat down on the limb and let her legs dangle. “Stevie, this is exactly why we’re leaving. What you can see from here is not the whole world. It’s not even a little bit of it.”

He’s just like his father, no imagination. Satisfied, satisfied, satisfied. He’s a little boy. He doesn’t understand. We’re one hundred and fifty miles from an airport. A regional airport. Not even a hub. You can’t get anywhere from here without going somewhere else first. That far from the nearest ballet company. Not that Michael cares how far his son is from a ballet company. But we’re just as far from a hospital – a Level II trauma center. There is no Level I in the whole state. God forbid if he fell out of this tree. We’re talking med flight into Salt Lake or Denver.

“Just think of it Stevie. Washington, D.C., the Capital of the United States, the most important city in the world.”

“But we won’t have a house. Where will we sleep? I don’t like hotels.”

“No, honey, we won’t live in a hotel. We have an apartment there. You’ll have your own room just like here.”

“I don’t think Rufus will like an apartment.”

“He’s too big for an apartment. Besides he can’t go on the plane with us.”

“I’m almost as big as Rufus, maybe I’m too big for an apartment.”

“We’ve been through all this before.”

And much, much more with his father. Michael knew what she was like when they married. He was handsome and brilliant. He was proud to have a wife graduating at the top of her class, then clerking for a State Supreme Court Justice. He knew she wanted out of Wyoming. She thought he would want to go where they could actually make a difference. Actually protect the wildlife he loved so well. She thought the National Park Service would be just the beginning. The first step. Decisions were made in D.C.

Michael should have been there an hour ago. He should be the one up in this tree.

“Hey! What are you two monkeys doing up in the tree?”

“Daddy! Come up. Come up.”

“Yes, Michael. Do come up and see if you can talk some sense into your son.” She moved toward the trunk of the tree. “Wait. Let me come down first.”

He lifted her out of the tree and set her on the ground. “What’s going on?”

“Steven Michael doesn’t want to come with me.”

“Okay.” He took a slow deep breath. “What do you want me to do?”

“Talk to him. Explain it to him.”

“Explain divorce to a six-year-old? I’m not sure I can.”

She snorted in disgust and stomped away.

He climbed the tree and sat on the third from the bottom most limb. Drawing his son into his lap he asked, “Now why don’t you want to go with Momma?”

“It’s too far away, and you know how she always gets lost and she needs you to tell her how to spell words and Rufus can’t go.” The little boy’s eyes filled with tears.

Michael kissed Steven’s forehead, knowing that this was one hurt he couldn’t kiss away.

“Stevie, your Momma won’t get lost and if she does there’ll be lots of people there to help her find where she wants to go. And you know she never goes anywhere without her phone so she can use it to find out how to spell any word she wants to.”

“Okay.” The child sniffled and snuggled against his dad.

“And Rufus will go to work with me most days.”

“But why, Daddy? Why?”

“Why what?” he asked, knowing very well what. “You know how unhappy Momma’s been, for a long time now. Sometimes grown-ups just don’t love each other anymore.”

She had loved him once, he was sure of that. She was beautiful and intelligent. And she had been enthralled by his intelligence. She could have had any of the campus jocks, but she loved him. She knew what he was like. He lived out-of-doors, in the wild places away from the corrosive element of human beings. Wildlife management was his way to save at least a little part of the world he loved. He thought she would settle into the life, appreciate the vitality of Wyoming, the skies, the fresh air, the unlimited opportunities for discovery.

“Daddy?” the child put his hands on either side of Michael’s face and made him look at him.

Michael would never get over how completely beautiful the child was. His child. The wild must be preserved for all the Steven Michaels.

“What?”

“Do they have elk in Washington, D.C.?”

“In the zoo, maybe. They have deer. Not mule deer like we have here, but white tail. And raccoons and rabbits and some varmints like you’ve never seen here.” He set the child on the next lower limb. “Be careful.”

Before the boy climbed down, he asked another question. “Do grown-ups stop loving little boys?”