Motherless Children

Motherless children have a hard time
When their mother is gone
Motherless children have a hard time
When their mother is gone
Motherless children have a very hard time
All the weepin', all that cryin'
Motherless children have a hard time
When their mother is gone
---
These words are from a traditional blues classic that has been recorded by many contemporary artists right on back to the recording artist in the early 1900s. Alvin Youngblood Hart, Jimi Hendrix, Blind Willie Johnson, and many more. I think the byline goes to W. C. Handy.

This morning I was listening to version by the Steve Miller Band. I dug out my copy of his Anthology 1968-1972 CD the other day and was listening to it on the way to work yesterday morning. Remembering the county was oiling and gravelling the stretch of county road E between V and Houlton, I took the new four lane from New Richmond to Stillwater.

The Anthology CD covers the Steve Miller era that I enjoy most -- before the Joker era and big time success. I supposed it would be termed his psychedelic era. Had I been taking E to work, his Fly Like An Eagle would have work well, since I see the eagles by Twin Lakes every morning...

Anyways, the song Motherless Child was playing as I drove the portion of the road that went through the back part of the old Chabre golf course. The song brings a certain sadness to me as I'm always am reminded of my own Mother who passed away nearly 23 years ago. It's a mellow, soulful song that stirs up parts of my memories that don't settle back down as easy as they get stirred up.

As I approached the east side of Landing Hill, I noticed some small animal commotion up ahead on the right shoulder of the road. As I neared the commotion, I saw a dead adult raccoon on the shoulder of the road. Standing by her lifeless side were four young raccoons looking at her. Combined with the mood of the song, the emotions rising inside of me and the true-life trauma faced by four young raccoons, the words of the song struck a deep chord that is still reverberating through me as I type this.

The sadness I felt was too deep for tears or misty eyes. It's a sadness that comes from knowing and experiencing the facts of life. It's an understanding that the life of those four raccoons have change forever.

I thought of those raccoons on and off throughout the day at work. I wondered how long the raccoons would hold their wake. I wondered how long before the crows would scavaging the fresh roadkill. On my way home heading up the east side of Landing Hill, I hoped I didn't see the raccoons there. That would have broken my heart. They weren't.

Between me and four raccoons, we know that motherless children have a hard time. I hope those raccoons have forgotten all about yesterday's trauma and are gleefully enjoying the life in the woods along the St. Croix River. They can let me have that memory, whether I want it or not.

Pine Sap, Sawdust, Sweat & the 4th of July

Yard Work
by John Birkbeck

She's hot —
she's snappish
with the yard boy,
a 51-year-old Paisan
(her very own age),
who's high on her smell,
but too blitzed
on weed and coca
to snap under the matronisation
and nervous contempt that
she summons up for him
with brittle fingers snapping;
but her edgy calm
belies her inner volcano,
for she, too, grew up in Italy —
“Do you think you can
remember to weed the hostas?”
she snaps.
His own riper smell
seeps between their class divisions,
but both write sonnets
in the same two
languages.

---

One thing I've learned about long weekends is that often times getting back to work means a guy can rest. This will be one of those long weekends. Before 7 AM today, I was back finishing a tree trimming project that started on Sunday.

What I've learned about tree trimming is that it's like taking a sip out of a spitoon -- once you start it's hard to stop. The four trees I spent four hours trimming today were not even on the tree-trimming radar screen, when we started trimming Sunday morning. After the regular shade trees and a couple of pine trees along the driveway were done, my wife suggested we trim a couple of branches from one of the "cove pine trees." That led to a major trim job on that tree. Then, as I sat on steps sipping my water, I got the idea to trim the other four cove trees.

On so today, in the cool morning air, I once again began to smell the pine sap, get sawdust in my face and sweat in my eyes. I jokingly mentioned to the wife that Lincoln freed the slave nearly 150 years ago. She looked at me -- sweat dripping from every pore in my body -- and said the word of the slaves being freed hadn't reached her plantation yet and I'd better get back to work.

After showering and have lunch, I called my buddy out in the timber land of Oregon to catch up on things. I told him of my tree trimming and he wanted to know what kind of chainsaw I used. I said I used a pruning shears and a hand saw. He was disappointed. I told him I do have a small electric chainsaw that I inherited from my Dad. He said the sight of me tangled in the trees with 3,000 feet of power chord wasn't a good visual.

So it goes...my 4th of July memory for 2006.