Thursday, February 7, 2008

a mighty good line




Oh the Soo Line line was a mighty good line

The main railroad that ran through my town
was the Soo
This was when I was much younger
in the 1940’s
when we would run down to the depot
to see the mighty engines
rolling into town

There was a beat from the steam engines
One-two-three-four
One-two-three-four
and as they put on the brakes
steam flew from the sides of the engine

It was as though dry ice had been thrown
as a stage effect
we loved that steam
Flying in our faces
we danced around it
A fog

And then the trainmen
how wonderful in their blue and white
striped denim overalls
would take out their pocket watches

out from their middle-upper pocket
and study the all-important time
the trainmans' chronographs
so elegantly made
and worn on gold chains

not gold chains worn around the neck
of some trucker
like some sexy embellishment
for show
no, these were functional

and pocketed, only brought out
when the railroad time
called for it
which was often

These men were always checking
the time
How’s the time? How’r we doin’?
Those ticking watches were
The metronomes of careful life
if you worked on the railroad

Sections of track had to be kept free
for passing trains
and time was metered out
was the all-important thing
to avoid collisions on down the line
The railroad watch

Entrusted to the UPPER pockets
of the overalls
where they would be safest
while the men wielded huge-spouted oil cans
splashing oil on the giant wheels

and big watering chutes swung around
and wood for caboose pot-bellies
was toted

And coal was shoveled into the engine
from the coal car, the 2nd car
behind the iron horse
by the firemen
and an engineer, if friendly, would wave

…………..

And now the Soo line’s
bustling baggage room
is long-shut down
A padlock on its paint-chipped door
hangs from a rusty hasp

Weeds grow in the cracks of
the derelict concrete platform
Nobody at the depot
nobody home on the tracks

Mostly trucks and airplanes
bring the bacon now
and wrist-watches are worn

and Exact time doesn’t matter as much

[dd 2-7-08]






transcending the years, 1947 - 2008





Blizzard, Waukesha, 1947

The snow that falls so white and fresh
is quickly pushed to the sides of
the already salted streets
and more salt is spread behind the blades

The snow no matter how persevering
can't win a temporary victory
because it's not allowed to repose there
delaying commerce anymore

Snowbound in the city is an anachronism
The big blizzard of 1947, though, closed
businesses and schools, everything for days
in Waukesha Wisconsin

until the handful of plow-equipped trucks
could get around to opening all the streets,
and the Inter-Urban electric train did not run
into Milwaukee, so Dad was home for five days

The snow was dominant then, keeping everyone blessedly
at home, happy captives of unanticipated pass-times,
skiing to the grocers or to the post office, drinking
cocoa and digging tunnels outside, dawns to dusks

During cribbage games and radio shows, the wind blew
unending heavy snow all around town
And the ice-blinkered Fox Dairy horses struggled
to pull their milk wagons until they couldn't

negotiate the drifted valleys formerly known
to them as their street routes
And everything was rounded off white
for many deepening days

But now, when there is a forecast of snow
heavy or slight
armadas of municipal plows and reinforcements
of free-lancers idle their engines everywhere

loaded with tons of salt, waiting at checkpoints, ready
to make short work of any white that quietly comes
and to make the trains, trucks and everything else
run on time

The esthete dreaming of snow having dominion
over him for a just a little while
loses to technology and industry
and loses no precious time at work or school

thanks to economies dedicated to rumbling
street-clearing machines
and salt, lots of salt
And fervent salty neighbors

keeping their sidewalks absolutely clear
of Old Devil Snow, running neck and neck
toward the inevitable loss against the plowers
who fill and re-fill the grumblers' driveways

Over clear but gray-skied days, whizzing traffic splatters
more salt onto the salt-laced drifts and the sun melts
and re-freezes the mounds into darkened, pitted reefs
of dingy black coral

And you wish for another clean, crippling snow, as in 1947

[DD]

………………………………………………………

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

Where are they now?



TIN TO ASHES, TIN TO DUST............. OR, maybe not. These Cracker Jack real tin toy prizes may be awaiting archaeological digs, tin being more impervious to break-down than paper. The paint is what I worry about most.

Look at that Cracker Jack-eating boy! How very long did such a novelty remain at the forefront of a child's consciousness? Was it a brief moment on an ephemeral plaything stage, and then an unremitting curtain rang down on it? Was it soon forgotten, consigned to a junk dresser drawer? Of did it gather pocket lint for being carried around unexhibited for so long?

I would like to think the answers are no. I want to believe in the longevity of the popcorn-eating boy, whose jaws, eye and ear wobbled about when the master wiggled the magic lever. I want to believe in the long interest that toy enjoyed. That it got traded over and over, thus accumulating many more miles of use, more and more amusement, moving about in concentric or ever-widening circles. A seemingly endless giving of mirth and merriment, to several unrelated children.

Or let us speculate that the original prize-finder kept the candied popcorn-eating boy for himself and played it to death. Maybe his mother and father became irritated at the constancy and perpetuity the toy held with their child and said, Put that thing away!"

"RIGHT NOW!"

I want to think that when his mother abruptly reached for it, he popped it in his mouth. And swallowed it.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

THE MORE YOU EAT....AND REAL TIN PRIZES


Yes, real tin toys at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box.


Not paper decals or other paper derivatives, as now. Or even worse, plastic objects.

"When I was a boy,"...................I got real tin, REAL TIN! I had one of the spinners shown above. And it was real tin. Just before Cracker Jack discontinued tin prizes for the war effort (WW II) the "keep 'em flying!" spinner was minted and included in random boxes of the product, and man, if you were real lucky, you got a box with the spinner in it. It was cause for celebrating with the other kids if you got one at the bottom of your Cracker Jack(s).

Those spinners could be traded on the school yard for all sorts of special favors. Then, we were enmeshed in a world war, and tin was not used for amusement anymore. Tin suddenly was serious business. We collected and saved in fatter and fatter balls the tinfoil from gum wrappers. We also collected newspaper, rubber scrap, string, and milkweed pods for use as kapok in life jackets. Our parents initiated Victory gardens. Bandages were cut into strips from previously used clothing; mothers knitted sweaters.

When the druggist at the corner got a rare box of Fleers Double-Bubble gum, he rationed it out to us kids, with a limit of 5 pieces per customer at a penny a piece.

In THIS war, Americans were asked to make sacrifices, unlike today.

In our forced-Lenten-like deprivations, we made do.

Before the war, I had a real tin device I got in a box of Cracker Jack: a bird whistle. It was an L-shaped thing that you permissibly placed in your mouth - no mothers cautioned against swallowing it! - and experimented with your blown-breath and your tongue and lips until shrill bird sounds issued. It was possible for a good bird whistle-blower to call birds down from the trees. I saw it done.

One would have serious trouble doing that with a paper prize.

Saturday, February 2, 2008

What to do with old radish-bunching rubber bands?



FROM PUGET SOUND ATTORNEY BOB:


Dear Editor,
I read in the news about your doing a FULL SLEEVE of radish bunching rubber bands. WOW! Isn't that in Africa where they stretch necks by adding successive brass or gold bands? Be careful! Body alteration is tricky and sometimes fatal.


Bob

.....................................

Reply:

Bob,

Thanks for your concern. I am aware of the potential problems of doing a sleeve of rubber bands from my revered radish-bunching left-over bands. Be sure my aim is not any form of elongation. I am only aiming at a rainbow affect of multi-colored, very flexible, side-by-side "encirclements." The bands here have long since lost their elasticity. My blood should flow OK. If for some reason my arm muscles become larger and I see my hand turning blue, I will remove the bands forthwith! And, should you be wondering, injecting ink under the surface of my skin is just too indelible for me. However, it becomes less-so with the gathering years.

(The neck elongation thing is Burmese, not African, but I thought that at first, too.)

Ed. SR News

.......................................

NECK STRETCHING:

These types of body alterations were usually done as status symbols, and many cultures have done other similar types of body alterations. Once these alterations are done, there is no turning back. The bones, organs, and muscles that have been altered cannot support themselves naturally, and depend on the support of the device, such as the lotus shoe, corset, or neck rings. Removing these support systems cannot reduce the damage done, and in some cases is dangerous, as with the Padaung women of Burma.

Friday, February 1, 2008

Once more, Atty. Bob, Puget Sound









Former Radish buncher,

Attorney Bob of Puget Sound WA writes again to the raccoon news.

"Hey David! I must tell you that I have a new radish-related vocation temporarily, due to the down-turn out here in the legal industry. I am now harvesting and bunching seaweed for the upscale fresh markets on the Olympic Peninsula. If you look closely at the picture - I am in the center with the white shirt, and wearing, I hope you can tell, the famous bunching rubber bands as in the halcyon days of our former calling as radish bunchers.

I find that I am able to get away with true radish-bunching rubber bands, so far. None of the sandal-clad, Hawaiian-shirt wearing green market shoppers in Sequim or Port Angeles have said, "Say, THIS isn't a seaweed band, this is meant for radishes!"

All the best! and, still waiting for a band swap with you.

Bob

Answer:

Hi Bob,

Congratulations on the flexibility in seaweed vs radishes. Re the rubber band swap we spoke of, I find that I am unable to send a single radish band at present. I am working on a "sleeve" of radish bands and cannot spare a single one right now. In fact, I was going to ask you for some extras to help finish off my arm. Like your astute customer at the green market, I would know that I wore an inappropriate seaweed rubber band. Nothing against seaweed, mind!

Ed., Sewer Raccoon News

and the creekets, they wore red bandanas















zepata

Instalment 6


The expected storm arrives
Just before dawn
Zepata and Irena
Pull the tarp down upon them
It was either that or have it blown away
So high were the winds

The red-bandana clad creekets
had long ago retired to
their stow-away saddle bag
and if their legs had been
fine instruments
which in a way they were
the creekets would have put
them away
in velvet-lined music cases;
as it was, to the little mariachi band,
they just blew them off
like smoke from fired
pistols

This weather pattern was a frik
Zepata say to Irena
He nevair see one like
Cyclonic winds seem to blow
Around and around the mountain

A stream-rinsed red union suit
Hanging on a makeshift line blew off
Only to return fifteen minutes later
From the opposite direction
It had traveled around the mountain

Daylight slowly comes
But the rain and crying wind does not let up
El Dayo appears at their active
Bundle of tarp and he sounds
His battle call
Zepata and Irena look out from inside
Their waterproof canvas
Cocoon of rest and love

Raising himself again and again
On his powerful hind legs
Dayo gives a primeval battle cry
At the sky, daring it to strike
Him with lightning
His bulging eyes blazing

Zeus himself might refrain
From hurling a bolt at such a
Dreadnaught
For fear El Dayo would perhaps
catch it
In his frothing gaping mouth
And hurl it back

Zepata calls out to the drenched
Beast:
Issy Boy issy
Go get Mare
We liff in half an hour

Soon Dayo and Mare
stand waiting
And the terrible storm
Relents
Zepata checks the dynamite
Eet is try he proclaims
And with Irena breaks camp

Vowing never to forget that storm
And the jump-started Mexican saviour
Ponders its portent

Now mud is their greatest danger
It is too risky to ride
So Zepata and Irena walk
Beside their mounts
All morning they descend
In this way

In the early afternoon
They discover that the storm
Did not happen at the lower
Altitude
It had been a mountaintop
Electric cyclone only
Like nobody ever saw before

Zepata thinks it must
Have been a sight to see
From down below
And indeed the compadres
Had looked up from their campsite
And thought of Zepata and Irena
And offered prayers
for their safekeeping

The waters that had rushed
Down the mountain
Were torrential
And the air had taken on
A charged crispness
Following the high winds
That had swirled through
The compadres' tentative
repose

Zepata who was a simple Indian
with cause and effect
thought patterns at root
Divined the storm had been
Stirred by the pro-creative
Madness
Exhibited by humans and horses
In the night

After all, he mused
If a little Zepata or Irena
Was being conceived
Or a foal to match or even
Exceed Dayo and Mare's
Powerful exhuberances
Should it not storm?

These were all natural things
To the mind of Zepata
For himself he knew
That the inflammations
Stirred by Irena
and her surfeit of oil
Produced energy that not even
He, ZEPATA, could fully combust
Try as he might

He thought as he watched
Her riding ahead of him:
Here was an exciting fuel
That could never be burned
Completely

Irena possessed a life force
That commenced as female
Gateway of life physiology
That which every woman has
But in Irena's instance
A bellows of only guessed-at origin
Had blown her womanly propensities
Into a conflagration whose
Raging flames licked
The highest clouds and
Changed weather patterns

The Indians knew
The northern lights were caused
By a woman such as this

In the north, it was said,
there was such a woman
And in other parts
Of the world
Rainmakers, storm-causers
Interacting with mighty men
Their powers are released
This is what Zepata believed

How could he not believe it
As he watched Irena's
Buttocks ahead of him
Nudging and shunting
The hand-tooled saddle
He had rubbed to smoothness
himself
And presented to his Real Woman

It must be time for siesta
He mused
Irena felt his eyes upon her
And she smiled without turning



[dzd 7-23-98, revised 2-1-08]]