Narrative Poem: U.S. Inflation Accelerated to 8.5% in March, Hitting Four-Decade High {WSJ}

 

I was walking down the street with my dog Zeus.

Suddenly he turned around and bit me.

Only

he didn't really bite me.

Cuz I don't have a dog. I never had a dog.

But something bit me.

Cuz I'm limping around

and have fallen on hard times.

I took everything out of the bird feeder

and cooked it up for porridge.

I'm taking a class at the community college

on Dumpster Diving.

At work my boss tells us inflation

will put him out of business in six months.

At church the pastor passes the plate around

twice.

There is a cold wind blowing 

from the Federal Reserve.

It's inflating the tumbleweeds to

the size of elephants.

They roll over me,

leaving broken bones.

Shattered dreams.

Hopeless atrophy.

I have a bag of twigs and bark

that I'll trade you.

For anything.

Novel. The Old Funeral Home. Chapter Five. Part Two.

 

Monday. April 11. 2022. We got to the Rec Center just after 6 a.m. this

morning; Spent nearly two hours there. Now we're home and the Beloved

is anxious to get to work on our novel.

Part 2

Marriage. I had marriage on my mind every time I visited my Beloved at the old funeral home.

“Why did you want to get married Tim?”  the reader may ask.

“Because,” I reply, “I wanted to find the other half of the puzzle that is me.”

“Oh fiddlesticks,” the reader may perhaps snort in derision. “Now you are getting all Hallmark on us!”

But I must insist that I was born with an intense longing to attach myself to someone else. A human barnacle: that’s me.

I wanted to bond with my parents. Tried hard at it. But my dad was too prickly. And my mom was too chilly. I tried bonding, teaming up with, my siblings. But my sisters were girls. And as a small boy I knew intuitively that you can’t do very much with girls. They are too independent, like cats. I might have bonded well with my older brother Billy if I had been willing to go hunting with him. Or work on his jalopy in the garage with him. But I have never liked either blood or grease on my hands.

I thought for a while that I could team up with my best friend Wayne Matsuura. He lived across the street from me, and from fourth grade through high school our lives were pretty closely meshed.

“What do you want to do today?” I would ask him. 

If it were summer, invariably he would say “Let’s go fishing.”

“Wow!” I’d reply. “That’s what I was thinking about too!”

Boys who fish together should grow up to be men who fish together. Lifelong boon companions. But something happened to Wayne after high school. He discovered girls. And he dropped me like a hot briquette. 

So I was still searching for someone.  Someone in the shape I needed. Then I met Tim Holst at the Ringling Clown college. He baptized me into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And I followed him around like a puppy. Wherever he went I wanted to go as well. We both were first-of-May’s in The Greatest Show On Earth.

One day Holst took me aside for a serious talk.

“ Tork” he said “you gotta stop following me around so much. You should be getting ready to serve a mission.” 

“I don’t wanna go on a mission” I told him. “I’m having too much fun doing this.” I swept my arms around to indicate the tiger cages, concession stands, elephant tubs, and all the other wondrous paraphernalia of the big top.

But eventually I did go on an LDS mission. To Thailand. When I was being mustered out, my mission president, Harvey Brown. sat me down to say “Elder Torkildson, your mission is not over when you are released. You are still called to go out and find a wife to marry in the temple.” 

This was news to me. I thought i would simply go back to the circus and be a single solitary clown the rest of my life. But President Brown’s words acted like a profound catalyst on me.

A wife. A spouse. Yes. that is what I had been needing for all these lonely years – a help meet. It became clear. Marriage. Children. Harmony. Love. Completion.

So when I got to Williston I met my beloved and followed her up to the old funeral home in Tioga. It was because I knew that I needed her to become what I was meant to be.

“Hogwash!” the cynical reader exclaimed. “You have just been brainwashed by an authority/ father figure. It was actually hormones that were guiding your steps”

“ Phooey! I am made for love and companionship. Sex is secondary.”

(What a great way to start talking about the feelings of ‘I gotta get married’! Every young woman who goes to Ricks college – BYU-I was called that 50 years ago when I attended – or BYU in Provo has one major and several minors. The major is “marry an RM” the minor is either Elementary Ed or Early Childhood Education. 

When I became of age to think about going to college I had no desire what ever to do so. I wanted to stay on the farm and raise cattle and ride horse and play with the kitties all day. My mom had one ambition for every child in her brood. They had to go to Ricks college for at least one year. For many of us she had an idea of what she wanted us to study and possibly get a bachelor’s degree in. I had no idea what I wanted to do at that place. 

“Amy, I have the paperwork ready to send in and apply for your admission to Ricks,” Mom said one day in my senior year of high school. “You will want to be thinking about what you will study.” 

I looked at the floor and then out the window. I went out to the barn and sat with the kitties. When I came in after chores she asked if i had any ideas. I replied that I had none. 

Mom said, “I want you to become a teacher like your aunts and your grandmother”  I said, “I’ll do Special Ed before I’ll do Elementary Ed!”  She said, “Fine, you can do Special Ed.”  I had not even spoken to anyone who was handicapped before let alone have a relationship with someone with disabilities to even have a clue what I was getting myself into. 

Mom’s drive was so strong in her because of her own sadness. She is the oldest in her family of 6 siblings. She was born in 1934. In the middle of the depression. Her dad was a farmer on a homestead farm. Times were tough. By the time of  her graduation there wasn’t money for higher education. Mom wanted to be a history teacher. She loved the stories about all the English kings and queens. She was a good story teller herself. So was her dad. Her younger brother Alan went to the Army and got an education through them. He was very smart. By the time he was done he had learned over 40 languages and became an interpreter for the government. I learned about very smart people. They have a need to be creative and busy away from other people. He was musical too, like my mom and the rest of them. I knew one thing. I was not like him. 

Mom was smart though. She had learned typewriting skills in high school and got a job typing for an office of land surveyors. It was a traveling office and there was a team of girls typing for them. One memorable trip to Watford City Mom met a fellow. He was sweet on her and then went in the Army. He wrote to her a while and then stopped. It turned out that he was killed in the Korean war. She always remembered that sacrifice. One trip back home to White Earth she happened be out dancing with one of the Anderson brothers –  there were 5 – he was home on leave. His younger brother – also home on leave – came along after the dance to ride home. The radio was playing and a dancing tune came on so they stopped the car along the dirt road and Mom and the younger brother got out to dance. The rest is history as they say. Mom and Dad were married a few months later. November 1952. 

Mom’s younger sisters were able to each go to college. By the time they were old enough for schooling Grandpa had prospered well on the farm. The war made a difference in the price of grain and livestock so they were able to get the girls started. What that did for my mom was increase her desire to have all of us kids get the most education possible. We all had music lessons. We all went to the International Music Camp in Bottineau starting in 8th grade through high school. We all had dance or ballet lessons for three years anyway. And we all went to Ricks, except Berny -- he went to BYU only. Mom about had a conniption about it! But it was his choice and by the time it was his turn he was independent enough to do his own application with no input from Mom. Berny had been driving tractor and working on farms since he was 9 years old. I wish i was exaggerating but I’m not. Since the time he could choose his toys he chose trucks. 18 wheelers like his daddy drove. He chose tractors that could hitch things to the back and really move the dirt. When he was 4 he planted a patch of wheat in the back yard and it sprouted. He felt like the Little Red Hen when he said “Who will help me make my wheat into flour?” He became my brother who was prosperous.

Mom had put her skills to good use. She taught us every day. Each one was important. But then we were Norwegian blood too. That carries with it certain inhibitions that you don’t think about. You just do what needs to be done and go on with life. You don’t spend time being too happy or too sad or grieve about anything. You just do your stuff and keep going. The game shows were always a fake to me. People would be so jumped-up-and-down excited. I don’t recall doing that. Ever. Except when i got the job at Sun Valley, Idaho. The most I ever remember was being told that I should say “thank you” to somebody if they said something nice. I remember that in recitals for music and dance competitions that we got to hear applause but that was different. Feelings inside of me had been turned off for lots of things. It has been a great work to turn them on. 

When I went to Ricks college Mom told me what I was supposed to be doing every day. I had learned to keep a journal and I was good at a schedule in high school. The important thing that happened to me was that I began to feel the influence of the Spirit. I attended my meetings and was active in church and that had a more profound effect on me than I could have imagined. I wanted to get married. And that was all I wanted. I studied my class work and passed my exams. I worked hard and graduated. Went to BYU for more of the same. I went to Tioga to teach school and met Tim there. I was pretty sure that I wanted to get married but had no clue what it would be like except I wanted to be loved.)

The Haiku Pole.

 

We live in a small one-bedroom apartment in Provo, Utah. 

Sometimes my artistic delusions cannot be contained inside of it.

So I have taken to writing out haiku on index cards and tacking them to a wooden telephone pole down the street. The pole is at the corner of 200 North and 600 West.

So far no one has defaced or removed the haiku cards.

When I did the same thing on the door of our storage closet here in the building, the cards were often defaced and scribbled over with crude insults. Then the building management told me to remove them all. That incident left a sour taste in my mouth.

I wonder if there is a Provo city ordinance about posting on telephone poles?

I'll be keeping track of this pole's status, sending out updates as needed.

Photo Essay: Haiku: 春の木の山 The woodpile in spring

 

The woodpile in spring --

some kind of a bug wakes up;

it's hungry for blood.

The woodpile in spring --

pining for the snow and flame;

now a hollow gourd.

The woodpile in spring --

sorry, chips, you're not needed.

Seasonal layoff.

Rachel Wolfe of the Wall Street Journal: Peacocks and Crawfish.

 The first thing you'll hear from Rachel Wolfe upon meeting her is "You pronounce it Nyew Ah Lee-ans, ya'all . . ."

For she is a child of the South, born and bred and matriculated south of the Mason Dixon Line. Her parents dropped her off at a Winn-Dixie as a six-year-old child and left her to fend for herself for the next twenty years. She did just fine -- or, rather, 'jest fie-en.'

She peddled hush puppies to work her way through the Meddling Journalism School of Upper Sandusky, Ohio, where she received a Phi Beta Kapa bottle opener for her brilliant efforts on the school newspaper. She wrote a series of searing exposes on why the Dean of the school was not really named Dean at all, but Jerald. This blew the whole rotten academic structure sky high.

On her crawfish farm in Baton Down the Hatches, Louisiana, she likes to play badminton with live peacocks. In addition to her newspaper work, she is vice chairperson of the Milburn Drysdale Window Putty Association, which provides chaise longues to deserving young couch potatoes. 

At the Wall Street Journal she is celebrated for her incisive bedside manner. She will sit with a sick story for days on end, nursing it back to relevance with a combination of liver bitters and endless reruns of Ernest Saves Christmas.

She has received so many awards in the past few years that she now has an active eBay business selling them as paper weights. 

Her advice to young journalists just starting out is:  "A good editor will never stab you in the back -- only in the front!"

Haiku Photo Essay: 花びらが落ちる Blossom Petals Drop

 

Blossom petals drop --

it's a pretty lame season

for a baseball strike.

Blossom petals drop --

too good to be called litter;

snobbishness of spring.

Blossom petals drop --

covering the rusted car;

a budget paint job.

Novel. The Old Funeral Home. Chapter Five. Part One.

 

Novel. The Old Funeral Home. 

Chapter Five. Part One.

 

The Beloved with our KIA, somewhere in the wilds of

Idaho. Monday.  April 4. 2022.  Her 65th birthday.

 

 

Last Sunday, as we took a stroll through the park, taking advantage of a

break in the miserable weather, I turned to my beloved to ask what

she wanted to do for her birthday.

"I want" she said decidedly "to drive up to Sun Valley to see my tree."

The back story is soon told. While working in accounts receivable at

Sun Valley she would go out to a Japanese birch tree in the courtyard

to tell it all her secrets and sorrows. Now she wanted to know if the tree

was still there. If it had kept her secrets.(The place that I lived and

worked in was one building. It was the Sun Valley Resort hospital

building built in the 1940’s. There were 4 wings to the hospital.

It was used for the whole community, not just Sun Valley Resort.

In the late 60’s it was converted to an apartment facility and housed

the seasonal employees. There were also 3 – or more – out buildings

and many trees. 

During the day in spring and summer and early fall I would go outside

at lunch and put my hand on the Japanese Birch tree planted just outside

the front door of where I worked. I felt connected to that tree. I saw a

face in the bark. Talking outloud was not a thing because there were

plenty of people around. I did feel a great deal though. I thought many

things and in my heart felt that God and the tree were hearing my humble

reachings.

 When I was nearing the end of my stay in Sun Valley all the employees

were informed that there was a plan to tear it down and use the space

for something else. True to their word they broke ground for new

apartments. 

I watched the two new apartment buildings be built. They were

very nice. Spacious, secure, nice amenities i.e. laundry rooms,

cafeteria/ commons areas, workout room, vending machines of all

sorts on all floors – 4 or 5 – and the bunk beds were mega beds

with three tiers, two to a room.) 

Six hours (seven hours of actual time) up there in the car. Six

(seven) hours back. Twelve hours in the car. Together. With her

driving. Since I don't drive anymore. (fourteen of total time. It included

stopping for vehicle fuel, leg stretching and other relief.)

Be proud of me, reader. Pat me on the back. Include me in your will.

For the instant she made her request I shot right back: 

"Of course! We'll leave first thing tomorrow morning!" ( I was happy

that he even said that so quickly! I asked him if he really meant it

because I know that it is not easy for him to endure riding in a car.

Driving would be worse. We have not as yet spoken about Tim’s

reticence to drive. He did get a driver’s license when our first child

was 3 months old. We were in Bottineau ND. He got a job at a radio

station KBTO there. The manager told him that he would get a

$100 a month raise if he got a driver’s license. A few hours driving

in the fields and back roads of Bottineau, plus a couple drives to church

– we drove to Minot 65 miles one way – and he passed his drivers test

pretty easily. Parallel parking hangs up most folks so it was no surprise

that he didn’t do so hot with that but otherwise he was fine.  The only

other hang up was his tailbone. You might wonder how we got to the

hospital for the birth of the baby. You might wonder about the remote

place to live and driving when I was obviously in a condition that scares

most people for driving. I just did it. Tim was supportive. Always

asking if it was convenient for me. Those queries became fuel for fire.

Nothing about being a mom is convenient. Nor is it comfortable.

Not easy. Often frustrating. Yet there is always a choice to endure

it well and smile and be nice anyway. Still sometimes it’s a challenge

to do so.

Our first child was born in Tioga Hospital. The doctor in Bottineau

did not advise travel with the baby being due the first part of May.

I wanted to visit my parents since we had not been to see them

since we moved to Bottineau from Provo in November 1980.

It was a 4 hour drive to Tioga from there. The first week of May

came and went. I had quit working at the hospital as a nurse-aid.

The second week of May showed no signs of movement for

the birthing process. The third week was the same. I asked the

doctor if we might have miscalculated the due date. He said the baby

was small and so we might have. When I let him know that I wanted

to travel to Tioga he said that he didn’t advise it – which I said before –

and that if I went that I should know how to get to the hospital.

My parent’s lived just down the hill from the hospital. So the long

car ride and a nice family gathering with music and dancing did the trick

. Madel was born on Memorial day that year. Tim got a day or so off work

because he did not work that weekend. My little brother, a Junior in HS

drove Tim back to work and stayed in Bottineau, scoping out the pool

situation for lifeguard work a month from then. They came back to get me

2 weeks later. Carey stayed with us for a couple months.)

The next morning we were getting gas at the Maverik station in

Brigham City by 8:30 a.m.

Gray sleet washed across the windshield as we talked the miles away.

"If you could live anywhere you wanted, where would it be?" I asked her.

"Omaha" was the prompt answer.

I wanted to reply 'Can anything good come out of Omaha?'

But instead I mildly asked her to enumerate her reasons for wanting

to reside in the midst of the Corn Belt.

The following is not quite verbatim, but it gives an accurate idea

of her response:

"I felt closer to the earth there. My sister Julie and I would

sunbathe every day. There are good park trails to walk on.

An hour a day I walked. Each day. They have a wonderful zoo.

I made good friends at church. The Winter Quarters Visitor's

Center is there. I really connected with my sister Julie. There's a temple

and a Family History Center. The streets are laid out for easy driving.

And they have a lot of organic markets!" 

We lunched at the Perkins in Burley. Fish & chips. Shrimp.

Nothing but water to drink. But two pieces of pie. 

My coccyx ached. My feet began to swell. A headache

was creeping up my scalp like an ant up my ankle. But bravely

I smiled as I said to my Beloved:  "You know, if I'm not careful

I may wind up enjoying this trip."

Sidebar:

I mentioned earlier that one of the clowns in the baker's gag

where I injured my coccyx was Dougie Ashton. From Australia.

He liked to douse my face with soap suds at the gag's blow off.

This would wash off most of my makeup. By the time I got it back

on I would be late for the next production number -- and be fined.

So one day when he shoved the suds into my face I finished the gag,

went back to clown alley, and put his makeup on instead of my own.

It only took a minute. He did a Chaplin. He never put a bubble on me

after that.

 

To continue. In Sun Valley we stopped at Zions Bank so my Beloved

could say hello to an old friend. But the lady in question had been

gone for two weeks. 

The Japanese birch was also gone, as were the buildings around it. 

(I was expecting “the big eye roll” but he was very nice. I was sad

and amazed at the condition of the open city block of grass and trees.

It was tastefully done so you did not know that the buildings and many

old trees had been there at all. If it had not been raining I would have

wanted to get out and walk on the grass and around where the building

had been. I would have gauged where the tree used to stand. I would

have gauged where the office was in which I worked. And where I stayed

in a small 12X12 room. Mapping out on the lawn where the wings were

to the old hospital was in my mind but I didn’t. As we drove past I pointed

at things. But I don’t think he looked. He said uh-huh. And I drove to the

end of the parking lot. The street wound around to the inlet coves for the

tennis courts and lodges for guest stays. At the end of the street was

the Sun Valley City Hall. Turning was the only option. A left turn would

have taken us to the golf course and where Clint Eastwood's home

is but when I asked Tim if he wanted to see it he said, “if you want to see

it go ahead. I really don’t care one way or the other.” I turned right and

we left town. Still closing my grief over the loss of the place I lived and

worked and loved, driving in that valley was painful. No one can see any

remnant of my life there. It’s as if it didn’t exist.

 To see my friend Jill would have been the nicest thing but the other

teller was kind and said she would tell Jill I had stopped.) 

So we drove to Twin Falls to have lamb curry with Amy's sister Kathy

and her husband Steve. At the Little India Restaurant. Our treat.

Then we drove home in the deepening gloom. The Beloved had me

read jokes to her and then put videos on her portable DVD player to keep

her awake. We arrived back in Provo at 10:35 p.m. Weary. Aching.

And triumphant. 

My Beloved said she had gotten closure. And I . . .  I had conquered

my fear and dread of long painful boring car rides. I had remained,

if not chirpy, at least calm and reasonable.

Or my name isn't William Shakespoon.