Finding Firewood in the Fiery Woods of Fall

 

Fred First of Fragments from Floyd recently challenged his readers to write a description of the smells that evoke autumn for them.  Fred himself penned a lovely piece and commenters also wrote vivid and poetic expressions of fall.  Colleen of Loose Leaf Notes later posted a wonderful fall poem that she wrote, inspired by Fred’s challenge.

At first I stalled, daunted by the task, but then decided to follow through on my recent pledge to not compare myself to everyone else but to go ahead and stick my creative neck out, even when I’m scared.  In the blog world, the writers I admire most are the ones who post their poetry, because I think there is no writing more personal.  In fact, for me, the only thing more intimidating than posting a poem would be to post a picture of myself!

But anyway, in the spirit of being bolder, here’s the poem I wrote (slightly edited).  I later realized that I’d gone off on a poetic tangent since my poem didn’t specifically address the sense of smell.  I apologize, Fred.  This is just what came out when I thought about how our woods smell in autumn.  It’s about my favorite fall chore—gathering firewood for the winter.

Sharp

The chainsaw sings a high keening dirge
For the deadwood it cuts sharp and clean.
Sharp and clean, the crisp autumn air
Burns my lungs as I carry,
Through the glory of
Blazing bright leaf fall,
The tree’s final gift to us
That will come alive again
In our woodstove as it
Burns bright in a blaze of glory
Saving us from the cutting of
The sharp winter wind.

A Shameless Plug

 

 Ariel, age 4

Yeah, this is a shameless plug.  I think it’s called nepotism.  But my daughter Ariel has so eloquently expressed my thoughts and feelings about elitist eggheads in this rant on her most excellent blog LuckyPennies that I’m letting her speak for me today.  Except for the fact that she says it better than I ever could.  And she’s only nineteen years old! 

And yeah, I know some people think you should affect a false modesty about your children—to look down demurely when folks compliment them.  Not me, buddy.  I’m so proud of both my kids that I could bust. Unabashedly proud.

I had an inkling that Ariel might be a writer someday when shortly after her fourth birthday, she tugged on my shirt and said, “I wrote a poem.”  Except she couldn’t write.  So she asked me to write it down for her.  I ceremoniously took out pencil and paper and wrote, while she dictated, with a serious look on her face:

In wintertime
The snow will fall
Like bright soft jewels
On hard ground.

Ariel-Age 4
 
She told me that was all and ran off to play.  Several days later, I asked her if she had written any more poems.  She said, rather primly, “Not at the moment.” 
 
So, Ariel, (aka LuckyPennies) I’m so glad you’re writing poetry again.  Please—keep it up.   In the words of Daddy: “You go, girl!”

A small, wobbly step into the blogosphere

Hi there.  If you’re reading this, that means that, against all odds (with all the other gazillion blogs you could have clicked on), you have clicked through to my humble little corner of the blogosphere.  Thank you.  I am most grateful.

Though I have been reading other folk’s blogs for a couple of years now, I’ve resisted the thought of having my own.  While I enjoyed reading about the minutia of the lives of people all over the world, I somehow couldn’t imagine that they’d be interested in mine.  I lead a quiet life here in the heart of Appalachia.  My idea of a big time is sitting on my porch watching fireflies (there are a gracious plenty here) or walking in autumn through the old abandoned apple orchard above our house and gathering those wormy, wizened apples that, though blemished, make very tasty apple bread. 

Really, though, what kept me, up to now, from starting my own blog was fear.  Just plain fear.  So many of the bloggers I read sound like professional writers.  Their ruminations on life are perfectly formed essays, whereas mine might sound more like something I wrote for my seventh grade English class.  And one thing I have noticed is that most bloggers seem to be middle and upper-middle class, college-educated people.  I am not.  I graduated high school and have worked as a library assistant, a secretary, and a janitor.  My husband is a carpenter.  We both love books and learning, but neither of us graduated from college.  It is rather intimidating to put your writing out there for all to see when the most advanced training you’ve had was how to write a ten-page term paper for your final twelfth-grade English project.  
 
Nevertheless, I want more than anything to be a writer.  Someday, I hope to take a college class in writing, but for now, I’ll make this blog my training ground.  Who knows, maybe my writing will get better.  Maybe someone will read my words and have suggestions for making them better.  Maybe I’ll gain confidence   Maybe I’ll make a friend.  I’ve already been fortunate enough to find kinship with one fellow reader and writer through just reading blogs.  (Hi, Wesley!)
 
Or maybe I’ll simply have a sense of accomplishment from overcoming my fear, from stepping out of my comfort zone, and from taking that one tentative, wobbly step towards the day when I feel like I can call myself a writer. 
 
So, if you’re still reading, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  I sure hope you keep reading.  I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.