Let There Be Light

It’s been so long — I think of writing you today.

Do you think of writing me? — And do you wonder what to say?

So many letters set out this way — Like little rafts at sea —

And we — Blind fishermen — Should Odysseus pass this way —

Would he know us by our hunger — Or our bravery?

Blind Fishermen. April 15, 2020. Poems, Notes, and Drawings. [ 705 ]

Call me silly, call me sentimental, but I’m still moved by these lines and am glad to say I wrote them. And, even more to the point, call me arrogant — for that’s every bit as true. Arrogant, and gloriously fallible, as was proven yesterday evening, when I went to the bedroom to turn on the little lamp atop my grandmother’s old sewing machine, not realizing it was already on until I’d turned it off and found myself in the dark. And so I turned it on again, then told my dear, darling bride what had happened, to which she responded with a refreshing breeze of gentle, understanding laughter.

Our eldest son was free from work yesterday. Much to our good fortune, he suggested we take a drive to the Beazell Memorial Forest, not far south from here and near the towns of Corvallis and Philomath. It’s a beautiful spot, with about five miles of trails, I think it is, which start alongside one of the most musical little creeks we’ve ever heard, under a canopy of mossy oaks, maples, and firs. The creek bears the name of Plunkett, after the family who settled there and built a sturdy house in 1875 — a house which still stands, though the windows, like the structure itself, are white-washed and visitors aren’t presently allowed inside. A picture of the many Plunketts young and old and their story is on a marker outside, the last Plunkett living on the site until 1960.

From there, after enjoying a few slices of an apple and an orange, our son drove us a few miles north on the Kings Valley Highway to see the Edwards Pioneer Cemetery. Founded in 1859, the tiny cemetery is situated on a hill, immediately adjacent to a slightly larger cemetery, called the Womer Cemetery, founded in 1903. It was drizzling quite heavily at the time, but that didn’t stop us from walking through the wet grass among the graves. Unless I’m mistaken, the Edwards cemetery had its tearful beginning with the burial of a day-old infant named Mary — at least we saw no grave older. A few markers near it were worn to nubs and scarcely noticeable in the grass, so it’s possible Mary had company that fateful year.

From there we wound our way home, past groves of firs and through more open grain land, kept sweet and green by the rain.

I’ll close this brief note with the words of Tennyson, which I happened on in my reading recently, and of which little Mary’s grave put me in mind:

Who knows whether Revelation be not itself a veil to hide the story of that Love which we could not look upon, without marring the sight and our onwards progress?

Are you well? I sincerely hope so.

[ 1936 ]