As you can tell from the caption to the above photo, I’m not talking about my son Dylan Mark Munger or Duluth’s most famous native son, Robert Zimmerman. The title for this blog comes from my need, even when working on the “honey do” list while on vacation, to absorb the words of poets and writers who’ve gone before me and established themselves in the world. As you might have surmised from the past two weeks of book reviews on this site, I’ve been reading like a fiend during my time off. Yesterday, I finished River in the Wind a fine historical novel of Florida during the Seminole Indian Wars written by Edith Pope. My review of that novel will follow shortly. But the point is that throughout my two-week furlough from the litigation trenches, I’ve been hard at it, learning my craft as a writer by blogging, reading great and near-great books, and finally, listening to the voice of my favorite poet, Dylan Thomas.
Narrated by former American Poet Laureate, Billy Collins (who has recently been filling in for Garrison Keillor on “A Writer’s Almanac”) the Caedmon Collection I was listening to features 12 and 1/2 hours of Thomas reciting poetry, discussing writing, narrating some of the poet’s better-known short stories, and finally, participating in a live production of his stage play, “Under the Milkwood Tree”. One of my favorite tracks reveals the poet and others dissecting “In Country Heaven”, an unfinished epic poem that Dylan was working on when he died in November of 1953. The privilege of listening in while Dylan explains how he made word choices can’t be understated. But enough about Thomas. On to my part in the events of a few days’ past.
Clever of you. You caught the change in preposition from “with” to “to”. I’m not sure which is more appropriate. I mean, the drunken spirit of the Welshman was certainly “with” me as I crawled along on a cushion trying to keep paint from straying, But then again, he wasn’t there physically to assist me. He was, at best, an inactive partner in my enterprise; I was simply listening “to” his words as I crept across the cedar planks of our front porch. In any event, the first day I painted it was as hot as blazes and I caught a nice tan. There was enough breeze to keep the bugs off as I kept at it, diligent in my efforts, sweat pouring from my brow, from late morning into evening. Rene’ made me a nice lunch; a couple of tuna fish sandwiches, some cold grapes, chips, and a Hersey’s bar. Damn, that chocolate tasted good! After a brief respite in the shade, where my wife and I sat and talked over things that married couples talk over, it was back to a task that, every two years, is necessitated by the brutality of winter on flat, painted surfaces in northeastern Minnesota.
I should digress here a bit. Before I ever got to the painting part of the project, I had this exchange with my dear wife when she came home with two buckets of paint and new brushes.
“There’s a problem with the had rail on the left side of the steps.”
“How so?” I asked.
“The wood is rotting. It needs to be replaced.”
I glanced up from my cereal bowl and frowned. I wasn’t looking forward to painting for two days of my vacation, much less attempting carpentry beyond my ken.
“That’s the railing that collapsed last winter after the big storm,” I said confidently. “I put it back together. Put in some extra screws for good measure. It should hold up just fine.”
My wife’s face displayed the skepticism of a woman who’s listened to a husband’s excuses for the better part of four decades.
“It’s not very stable. I think it needs to be replaced.”
Of course, she was right. And despite family lore that declares I am incapable of admitting when I am mistaken, I told her so later that morning. Then I did my duty. I replaced the decaying railing (I’d saved a piece of cedar rail for just such a project) and re-anchored the other handrail just to be thorough.
The morning of the second day, Dylan and I were to tackle painting the back porch, a much less arduous task. The front porch is big but it’s not the porch’s flat surfaces that form the brunt of the work; it’s all the spars and the railings that take time. There are four sides to every post needing paint, along with a top and bottom rail. And it’s a job that requires being on a ladder in shrubbery to complete the outside surfaces. I didn’t count the number of spars I painted, but as I plugged along, it seemed as I finished one spar, another manifested. Despite my hallucinations, I finished the front porch before dark that first day. By 9:00am on the second day of my ordeal, I was back at it, stroking brown paint on the cedar spars of the back porch. And it wasn’t long before I had unwelcome company.
Why are there so many hornets buzzing my head?
If you’ve lived the country you’re bound to appreciate this feeling, more of a premonition than a realization.
Shit, there must be a nest under the back porch.
There’s a crawl space under the rear porch of our home. The day before, my wife had been under the porch putting away the hose and had banged her noggin on a wooden beam but hadn’t riled up the enemy. My mere presence, on the other hand, was taken by the guardians of the hive as a direct threat.
“There’s a hornet’s nest under the back porch,” I called out to Rene’ as she made coffee in the kitchen.
“Oh my,” she replied, “I was just under there and banged my head. I’m lucky they didn’t come after me.”
Armed with a can of Raid and the hose, I found the hive: a swirling intersection of nastiness the size of a volleyball tucked into a corner directly under where I’d been painting. I blasted the nest with insecticide and pummeled the pulpy mess with water. The insects’ home distintegrated. Angry yellow jackets threatened as I stepped back and let them have it with the Raid. The threat eliminated, I went back to painting. The rest of the job was completed without incident.
That evening, the furniture and log rack restored to the front porch, the back platform cordoned off to keep the new puppy and our three old dogs away, Jack and I settled into chairs on the south bank of the Cloquet River to fish.
Cool air kept the mosquitoes at bay. Kena, our new black Labrador pup, cavorted in tall grass. Jimi, the wiener dog, slept on a lounge chair. Over the next few hours, Jack and I pulled in two channel catfish (Jack’s was the biggest at 3 and 1/2 pounds) and four red horse suckers. The fish went back to the black water to live another day. Rene’ joined us in her jammies.
“The porches look really nice,” my wife said as fireflies emerged and blinked over our field.
“Thanks. You were right about that railing,” I reiterated.
There was nothing really more to say.
Peace.
Mark
Dylan Thomas: The Caedmon Collection is available on CD. ISBN 0-06-079083-0. You can order it through our local independent bookstore, Fitger’s at: http://www.fitgersbookstore.com/. You can also learn more about Dylan Thomas at: http://www.dylanthomas.com/. And if you ever find yourself in Ireland on vacation, don’t miss The Falls Hotel, which was once owned by Caitlin Thomas’s father (Caitlin was Dylan’s wife), Francis MacNamara, Jr.. The setting is exquisite and the food, quite good. Find out more at: http://www.fallshotel.ie/.