A Fragile Strength: Reposted As I Teach "The Scarlet Ibis" For the First Time in Years.

Beyond the Gray: A Personal Reflection on Being True
by Karen Scalf on Saturday, October 17, 2009 at 1:49pm


A friend sent me a thoughtful card in the mail today. It has a blue guitar on the front with a couplet from a Wallace Steven's poem that goes,

"Things as they are

Are changed upon the blue guitar."

As my birthday grows near, I reflect, as I do annually, on where I've been, where I'm going and how I can be a better person and truer to my calling. I'm already immersed, no doubt, in my calling. It is a blend of passion and mind, the wonderful combination of music, words, image and the language and movement of nature. I am further immeshed in the deep connection between flora, fauna and our sustenance. I haven't gotten rich from my calling ,but I live everyday knowing I am drawn to observe, reflect, and capture the words, sounds, aromas, and sights revolving through me and all around me.
A couple of recent avian sightings have given me pause to consider these thoughts. A few days ago, a little bird I had never seen before flew into my second floor study window and fell to the first floor roof, stunned. It's greenish yellow color and small body intrigued me while its misfortune troubled me. I lifted my window screen and gently sat the bird upright with a yard stick. It sat for several minutes, alive, but unmoving. I began to cluck and chat in some form of bird language I did not previously know I possessed. It probably wondered why a gigantic crow was yelling at it. Before long, the little creature opened its eyes and moved its head from side to side, taking in its surroundings. As I continued my bird chatter, it looked up at me several times with a bright yellow-ringed eye. Then it flew to the birch tree and perched on a high limb and I was happy for its survival.
After searching my field guide, I am hoping it was a Bachman's Warbler, the "rarest North American songbird." (Peterson Field Guides: Eastern Birds, 242). Or it may have been a Yellow Throated Vireo, not as rare, but still a brand new sight to me.
I was reminded of one of my favorite stories as both a student and a teacher of 9th grade literature, "The Scarlet Ibis." In this moving and lyrical short story, a young boy nicknamed Doodle is born with a weak heart and lies scrunched up in a doodle-like position for much of his early years. His older brother gave him the nick-name and tells the story as he recalls his own youth. Doodle grows into a thoughtful and sentimental boy, as one is like to when faced with physical challenges in childhood. He does not fit in because he cannot run across the fields and jump in the creeks like his older brother. His brother keeps pushing him to, though.

One evening during supper, a big redish-pink bird lands on the roof and then falls to the ground outside their window. Doodle is amazed and shocked by the bird's rare and magnificent beauty. The bird has perhaps been blown off course during migration and is out of place...you get the parallel symbolism...Doodle rushes from the table against his parents wishes and finds the bird dead. He is compelled to give it a proper burial, even though his condition makes it dangerous for him to exert himself that much.


One day during a thunderstorm, Doodle and his brother are out in the fields away from the house, and his brother convinces him to run across the fields home. It is too much for Doodle's weak heart, and he dies from the exertion. It sounds terrifically morbid and predictable, but I tell you it is not. You must read if for yourself. It is a sad, compelling and beautiful depiction of the vagaries and injustices of youth.


This long-winded review brings me back to my rare songbird sighting. "My" bird lived, and, in the process of its temporary blinding, made me realize that while, "being different" has often caused me problems in this life, perhaps that is exactly what I need to be focusing on now. How can I use my divergent thoughts and ideas to affect people in a positive way?


My second avian image of the week is focused upon a bird of an altogether common feather. In fact, this bird commoner is so ubiquitous as to be considered obnoxious by many. I am referring to the pigeon. A flock of twenty or more showed up at the feeder today. My neighbor and I must have put out food at the same time, so they eagerly flew in for the all-the-seeds-you-can-crack-for-free-buffet. While many South and Central Americans eat this bird and many North Americans would prefer to shoot it on sight and dispose of it, I enjoy observing it. Perhaps it is a sentimental viewing as I am reminded of Juli Andrews playing Mary Poppins singing with the bag woman feeding the pigeons in the square. "Feed the birds/tuppins a day/tuppins, tuppins/tuppins a day..."
Pigeons are birds, too. The carrier pigeon was used up and run into extinction. Now his cousins flock to the city and are run out of town by any number of means from imported city falcon predators to electric clappers and plastic owls on rooftops.
Anyway, I still enjoy observing them. They are magnificent in their varied iridescent coats. Have you ever noticed? A rainbow of color explosion lies just beneath the commonly perceived grayness of their feathers. They also perform an intricate mating dance that is a joy to behold. Stick around sometime for their gracefulness before you run them off.

Today, one lone member of the flock kept returning and grazing and flying just a little bit out of rhythm with the rest of her crew. (Yes, I have to run them off from time to time when the pigeon party gets too big because my neighbor on the other side complains). The lone pigeon didn't stand out from the rest of them because of physical characteristics, but because she chose her own rhythm. You get the drift.
I close with this thought gleaned from watching a flock of pigeons; It's not so much how we are generally perceived, but how we choose to interact with others and how we decide to act alone as we navigate through this world.
Then, we can simply reflect on it, or we may be compelled to create something from it. From gray to light to the indigo of midnight, "Things as they are, Are changed upon the blue guitar."
May you find music, magic and great flavors in your backyard or wherever you are,

Karen



















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Karen Scalf Maybe I'll start a podcast or a blog. Which? Both? What's the best forum for essays and assorted creative ventures these days? How will I tied all these ideas and creations together?

October 18, 2009 at 6:29am

Karen Scalf tie

October 18, 2009 at 6:39am

Karen Scalf Why didn't I make this my main page? This page that is supposedly linked to my main fb page is annoying because it's like a "secret" page. Maybe I should start all over from scratch??

October 18, 2009 at 6:50am

Audrey Ball I remember reading "The Scarlet Ibis"...I cried.

October 18, 2009 at 3:17pm

Karen Scalf Yes, that story stays with you. How are you doing Audrey? Writing any satire this year?

October 19, 2009 at 4:56pm

Audrey Ball I've been through a lot emotionally in the past month or so (in a good way), so my writing has changed as well. Instead of satire, everything I write turns into a huge sappy mess. It feels so unnatural.



I suppose eventually my sappy side a...nd my not-so-sappy side will find common ground, where both can be comfortable with what I'm writing. Until then, I'll be cringing at all of the emotions on the paper. Woohoo!!



How have you been?See More

October 19, 2009 at 6:03pm

Karen Scalf Whoohoo! Audrey Ball is a sappy writer! ;) Yes, I have confidence that your sappy and sarcastic will come together as snazzy:) Me, I'm meandering a bit, but in hopes of another interesting job before too long. Meanwhile, I've finally settled into serious writing mode. Not all my writing is serious, but it is seriously happening on a pretty regular basis.

October 20, 2009 at 6:52am

Audrey Ball It's hard to be sarcastic at all about this stuff, which makes it even weirder...I'm totally serious, and there's no sarcasm to protect me. Serious Scalf writing...sounds dangerous! Haha.

October 26, 2009 at 10:24pm

Denn Tackett It does indeed sounds bit dangerous! Ha

November 13, 2009 at 4:49pm

Karen Scalf Danger is in the eye of the beholder...

November 18, 2009 at 10:40am

Denn Tackett ‎;) I hope all is well in Scalf world!

November 24, 2009 at 11:19am



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Grandma's Ashes

     As I rose this morning, I heard a gentle summer rain falling.  I thought of Grandma and how she enjoyed a good rain or a cloudy day.  I went outside and stood in the eaves of the front porch, listened to the rain music, inhaled the fragrant yesterdays,  and gazed at the Zebra Grass standing sentry in the corner of the flower garden.  She gave me a small start from her Zebra Grass on Mother's Day 6 years ago and now it is the highlight of my flower garden, while her purple Asters grace the other corner.
     Yesterday we planted her ashes by the stone bench and the Dogwood tree on the family plot at Corinth, the cemetery outside of Corbin, KY where most of my people are laid to rest.  It is serene there in the rolling meadows hugged by the Cumberland Mountains. The serenity helped me through the Memorial Service she planned for us to carry out, an intimate family gathering the day after we all celebrated the next great-granddaughter to come at my cousin's baby shower.  There we delighted in the joy of the current 7 great-grandchildren. The shower was planned already and my mother and aunt decided it best this way, with family all together, to honor the cycle of our time on this Earth.
     Grandma's memorial soothed us and brought us tears.  "Yesterday," by the Beatles began the service, and I wasn't sure I would make it through the eulogy she had requested I prepare.  "Mood Indigo," by Duke Ellington followed as I gazed up to the mountains, "from whence came my help,"  then rose to pay tribute to the matriarch.  I stood in front of my family, eyes scrunched and watering, stumbled through the opening lines, but then found it in me to read it.  We laughed and cried through the eulogy, nephew Billy's tribute and the rest of the readings. The music especially affected me, in both her careful choosing and in the feelings it evoked.
     "Always," a song penned by Irving Berlin, comforted us.  Our collective sorrow shuddered when Eddy Arnold began singing, "Make the World Go Away."  Some nodded to memories when Elvis crooned, "Are You Lonesome Tonight?"  And just before a snippet from Thoreau about resting among the pines, we were filled with longing and joy through the Cox Family's rendition of, "On the Far Side Banks of Jordan."

     We embarked from Corinth down the Falls Road to the Dry Land Bridge to scatter the rest of Grandma's ashes.  She requested this in a place rich with family and ancient history.  In the cradle of the valley between two mountain peaks, we took turns rushing onto the road between speeding cars to send her to her resting place beneath the pines.

                                           (Photo by Anna Cummins Smith, July 17, 2011)

We had enjoyed family picnics here, had heard the stories of how her father (my great-grandfather) took a Model T down to Cumberland Falls before the bridge, an adventurous trip that took two days.  We had journeyed as a family here through the generations, first my grandmother and grandfather, back when you could still walk behind the falls and swim below them.  Then my mother, aunt and uncle, to sunbathe on the rocks above the falls.  Then my generation to see how high the water was, to seek out the elusive moon bow, to walk to Lover's Leap, to rent a cabin.
     My grandmother was the first person in my family to request being cremated and I believe that's how I shall go.  It seems best to me, to go back to the earth in a place alive with joyful memories.  We travelled the road we had travelled many times with her,  then stopped to rest and set her free in the heart of the foothills of the Cumberlands.  We basked in the power of the moving waters of Cumberland Falls,

and enjoyed a family meal in her honor at DuPont Lodge, overlooking the gentle curve of the Cumberland River as it wound through the green hills from where we came.

 I leave you with the song she requested at her service, "The Far Banks of Jordan," by the Cox Family.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZwxL9ekKtbU

(Photo by Susan Scalf, July 16, 2011)

Gentle Dog, Go Gently

   One week ago today, I discovered that our dog Allie, age 10, had a large mass in her abdomen.  I had taken her to the vet because off and on for about a week,  she had been lethargic and not eating much.  I expected perhaps an infection or some arthritis that medicine would help.  I never could have imagined that 2 days later, she would be gone.  That's the same day the pink peonies bloomed.

   When the vet called me back in and brought the X-rays, my very being grew heavy as she told me the mass filled up a big portion of Allie's abdomen and that her white blood count was quite high.  I could barely speak, but I agreed with her that immediate exploratory surgery was the best option. Either it would be benign and removable, giving Allie a good shot at her normal life expectancy of about 15 years, or it wouldn't.  The vet thoroughly covered all scenarios and asked apologetically--if, that when she operated, she found it inoperable and malignant--would I prefer to have Allie euthanized while she was already under?  I immediately said, "Yes."  I discussed it soon after with CJ, who agreed completely.

   For the next two days, CJ and I twisted our way though the tangled emotions of denial, hope, dejection, love and uncertainty.  Yes, this is about a dog.  A willing and joyful companion who never complained and who travelled with us just about everywhere.  Dog love runs mighty deep.  

   On Friday morning, we both took her in for surgery.  We had sort of said goodbye the night before, but not really--we didn't want to be too morbid without knowing for sure the outcome.  CJ and I got down on our bellies under the dining room table, one of Allie's favorite spots, looked her in the eye and talked to her.  C told her that whatever happened, it was OK, and I reminded her that here was the very spot she and I had first met 7 years ago.  The next 7 years with Allie made a loyal, life-long dog lover out of me.  

   The two of us had spent lots of time together these last two years, while I struggled to recover from losing my job.  We had an unspoken understanding and rhythm between us.  She followed me back and forth, upstairs and down, throughout the house everyday as I went about my chores and writing.  She was rarely more than a few feet from me.  We also took frequent walks in the park.  I knew when she was thirsty or hungry.  Saw the simple joy she felt rolling in the grass or following a scent trail.  She was part Aussie and part Beagle.  An Australian Beagle we called her. What a great mix. Why oh why couldn't I see her changing and growing terminally ill?  I think because she really did not show her symptoms until a month ago, and then only briefly.  Dogs stay loyal and happy.  That's what makes them so lovable.  

     Thirty-six hours after learning unexpectedly that she had a big tumor, I got the call from the vet's assistant. She said it was too big to remove and was completely attached to the pancreas, and did I wish to have her euthanized?  "Yes,"  I said again, as my being fell like stone into the pit of my stomach, into my calves.  I hung up, stunned. So was a friend who had dropped by for a cup of coffee. She left shortly, but gave me a hug with her condolences.   Then I started wailing.  CJ called me a few minutes later from work to ask with a hopeful tone if I had heard anything.  I could barely speak and she had nothing to say when I told her it was all bad news.  I sat in my chair for hours that day, immobilized by grief.  A short while after she put Allie to sleep, the vet called me to let me know the specifics.  It was a warm gesture and comforted me for a few minutes.  That evening, with poor CJ still at work, I began to wonder how much longer I could cry alone.  A few minutes later, the door bell rang.  My neighbor and two of my friends joined me with a bottle of wine.  And finally, when C got home, she began to wail because Allie was not there to greet her at the door. We had a toast and told stories of Allie.  We all laughed and cried, but felt a little better.  Yes, over a dog.
   Allie's cancer had completely surrounded her kidney and had begun wrapping around her intestines.  An insidious and rapid killer.  It was the best choice to let her go peacefully before it ruptured or cut off her kidney or intestinal functions completely.  We were humane to our sweet companion. 

     Still, we mourned and will be sad for many days to come. We will miss her forever.  That song, "Mr Bojangles," kept ringing in my head with the line, "His dog up and died, up and died, and after fifty years he still grieves..." We questioned our ignorance of her condition, looked for answers.  Where did we go wrong?  The vet assured us that it would have been undetectable to anyone, that it was a rare,  life-ending condition, no matter when we would have found it.   That we didn't do anything to cause it.  That she lived a good life and was probably in some discomfort the last months, but not serious pain.  That she had been happy until the end.  That's all anyone could ask for.  

   As the shock wears off, the emptiness remains. Yet, the house is still filled with the animal presence of our cats.  Allie helped raise the youngest one who now searches for her. They both used to rise up and growl, then go flying down the steps together when the door bell rang.  Now I don't know when the mail carrier has come, either.  But I do know that one day another gentle spirited canine will catch our eyes and hearts and find a home with us.  Maybe it will even have a little bit of Allie dog in it.  If we could be that lucky.