Dear Bleaders,
It is going to storm here soon, it’s
not due until tonight, but the wind is already doing weird things to the leaves. I'm hoping my little garden withstands it. Here's a photo of my bean stalks yearning up the white fence I gave them, and in the background the first crop of tomatoes.
Here’s a great poem for you. It takes you
into something secret. It’s by Marilyn Nelson from her The Fields of
Praise: New and Selected Poems. She's also got a great new New and Selected called Faster Than Light.
Lonely Eagles
for
Daniel “Chappie” James, General USAF
and for the 332d Fighter Group
Being black in America
was the Original Catch,
so no one was surprised
by 22:
The segregated airstrips,
separate camps.
They did the jobs
they’d been trained to do.
Black ground crews kept them in the
air;
black flight surgeons kept them
alive;
the whole Group removed their
headgear
when another pilot died.
They were known by their names:
“Ace” and “Lucky,”
“Sky-hawk Johnny,” “Mr. Death.”
And by their positions and planes.
Red Leader to Yellow Wing-man,
do you copy?
If you could find a fresh egg
you bought it and hid it
in your dopp-kit or your boot
until you could eat it alone.
On the night before a mission
you gave a buddy
your hiding-places
as solemnly
as a man dictating
his will.
There’s a chocolate bar
in my Bible;
my whiskey bottle
is inside my bedroll.
In beat-up Flying Tigers
that had seen action in Burma,
they shot down three German jets.
They were the only outfit
in the American Air Corps
to sink a destroyer
with fighter planes.
Fighter planes with names
like “By Request.”
Sometimes the radios
didn’t even work.
They called themselves
“Hell from Heaven.”
This Spookwaffe.
My father’s old friends.
It was always
maximum effort:
A whole squadron
of brother-men
raced across the tarmac
and mounted their planes.
My tent-mate was a guy named Starks.
The funny thing about me and Starks
was that my air mattress leaked,
and Starks’ didn’t.
Every time we went up,
I gave my mattress to Starks
and put his on my cot.
One day we were strafing a train.
Strafing’s bad news:
you have to fly so low and slow
you’re a pretty clear target.
My other wing-man and I
exhausted our ammunition and got out.
I recognized Starks
by his red tail
and his rudder’s trim-tabs.
He couldn’t pull up his nose.
He dived into the train
and bought the farm.
I found his chocolate,
three eggs, and a full fifth
of his hoarded-up whiskey.
I used his mattress
for the rest of my tour.
It still bothers me, sometimes:
I was sleeping
on his breath.
-Marilyn Nelson
Chocolate bars, and
eggs, and whiskey turned into the substance of loss, to be taken in, to get
drunk on. Cherished. Sleeping on a dead man’s breath.
Stays with you.
Makes you look at your own chocolate and eggs and whiskey with smarter hands.
Okay, stay away from the lightening and count to the thunder.
As to all the good you're doing, keep it up.
Also, keep your chin up (though not out in the rain).
Regarding all that is awful: it might get better,
will very likely change. Don't kill yourself
and I shall return to encourage you again.
Love,
Jennifer