Nazar Look 2013-03

BAŞ KABÎMÎZDAON THE COVER Jack Peachum

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CONTRIBUTORSMEMBALAR DeepakBhadauria Manish SinghKay McCaffreyJack PeachumQHATom SheehanRoger SmithSusana Üseyn (Üseynova)

2florence earle coates

Who Walks the World with Soul Awake - Kím ayînîk ruhî man dúniyanî gezer

3sara teasdale

I Shall Not Care - Kaygîlanmam

4taner muratscythia minor-little crimea

Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XV)

6bhadauria manish singhgujarat, india

Three Questions demanding Answers. Can you?

10jack peachumvirginia, usa

InterviewCHET BAKER BROWN’S SUMMIT. N.C.DARWIN

18roger smithbritish columbia, canada

InterviewThe Days That Are Gone

24abay qunanbayuli

Book of Words (III) 26musa jalil

To a FriendThe Willow

28tom sheehanmassachusetts, usa

Tylen Brackus 38edmund spencer

Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (IX)

40susana üseyn (üseynova)crimea

Photoshop - Fallen Turkish Soldiers Commemorated in Aqyar

NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars

Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuş-mamuriyet meğmuwasî

ISSN: [email protected], Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEFBAŞ-NAŞIR

Taner Murat EDITORSNAŞIRLER

Emine ÓmerUyar PolatJason Stocks

COMPUTER GRAPHICSSAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ

Elif AbdulHakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila)

CREATIVE CONSULTANTSESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ

M. Islamov

Nazar Look 1www.nazar-look.com

2 Nazar Look www.nazar-look.com

Who Walks the World with Soul Awake Who walks the world with soul awakeFinds beauty everywhere;Though labor be his portion,Though sorrow be his share,He looks beyond obscuring clouds,Sure that the light is there! And if, the ills of mortal lifeGrown heavier to bear,Doubt come with its perplexitiesAnd whisper of despair,He turns with love to suffering men -And, lo! God, too, is there.

Kím ayînîk ruhî man dúniyanî gezer Kím ayînîk ruhî man dúniyanî gezerTabar tek letafet;Bolsa da der algan payîBolsa da hissesí zahmetĞarîktîr bulutnuñ artî,Eksílmiy emniyet. Bo óluwğí yaşam yamanlîgî daBek şektíríp ósse,Kararsîzîk man şaşîrtuwŞibîrdaşîp kelse,O kaytarar súygí zawallîga,Allah ta o yerde!


I Shall Not Care

When I am dead and over me bright April

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,

Tho' you should lean above me broken-hearted,

I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful

When rain bends down the bough,

And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted

Than you are now.

Kaygîlanmam Men ólgende, ğenazeme nuriy Nisan

Kaytîk ğawun şáşín kuydurganda

Ğîlay-ğîlay ústúm ğabîp ğúgúnmeseñ de

Kaygîlanmam şo arada.

Raát-raát ğatarman, yapraklî terektiy

Ğawun dalîn sarkîtkanda,

Men taa sessíz, men taa bek toñîlîrman,

Sen toñîlîp tursañ da bo anda.


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Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XV)

Şonîñ "Lay lili lililam"-larîna taağúplengen akasî alar:

- Kayîr-ola, Bodonğar, ğúregíñní bírewlerge kaptîrgansîñ mî, şo? - dep soradîlar.

- Yok. Kaydan? Ayhay... - dedí o.- Bo yakşî dúrkúní kaydan

úyrengensíñ? - dep soradîlar.- Ána, şo barîp beğereğek îrgîmîznîñ

bír oyînîdîr. - dedí, yarî awuz man.Oga ziyade îşanmadan, akasî alar bír-

bírsíne "Borîşka, borîşkadîr bonîñ ğúregí!" añlam taşîgan kóz attî.

Beş kardaş, bírkaş kîzmetşísí men bírlíkte Túyren Kambîrlarga yakîn tawnuñ íşíne barîp ğaşîndîlar.

Akşam ústí agînğî ğúklengen Bodonğar şîgîp kîmîz íşmege kettí. Óz ádetíne kelíşken ekíndí máállerínde barmay, "Men barganşîk kîmîzga árúw dalsîn şonlar" dep, kún batîp akşamnîñ karañgîsî túşiyatîrganda bardî. "Bo búgún zamansîz keldí, hergún şîgîp ketken wakîtlarînda keliyatîr. Bo kelúwnúñ bír sebebí bardîr" demedíler, şo îrknîñ kíşílerí.

Koranîñ ortasîna ot ğagîp bútún îrk toplaşîp turgan. Bazî erkeklerníñ kópten kade men ogîraşkanî şalt añlaşîldî. Bírtakîmî zúl-kútúk, sañkem bútún kún kúlúşúp, aşap íşkenler.

Her zaman bolganî gibí bo sefer de karawul yok. Bo awuzaşîklarnîñ atlarî, ğaylarî, mîzraklarî, kîlîşlarî sîrasîz tertípsíz atuwlî tura.

Bodonğar bútún bonlarnî kózden geşíríp añlagan soñ, ğuwurup ya şabîp kaşmak ğollarîn bír hesapka alîp geşírdí. Bondan ayîrî onlarnîñ kaysî istikametke

kaşmasî beklengenín añlaganda, ózlerín kaysî yaktan kelseler kárlí bolağagîn da hesapladî.

Başîna keliyatîrganlarîndan kabersíz îrknîñ ústúne túşúp beğermesí kolay eken.

"Búgún kóp otîrdîñ" ya "Búgún bír keş kaytayatîrsîñ" demedíler, kaytkanînda. Kaytuwî da, yakînda tereklíkníñ íşínde ğatîp ğaşînîp turgan akasî alarîna ğetíşíp, onlarga koşîlmak edí.

- Ne aytayîm? Bo akşam ústún bolağakmîz, şonday etíp kóríne. - dedí Bodonğar akasî alarîna, onlar man şalt-şalt kóríşíp vaziyetten kaber beríp.

Katkîldaw tertíbí yapîlawuydî. Hál kolaylîgîna şúkúr etíp, kesík bír duwa mîrîldandî. Ázírler!

- Seníñ aldda ketmeñ kerek, sen gene aldda ket! Sení kórseler taağúplenmezler. - dep, kadanga kíysetken soñ, Bodonğarnî bír dalga aldga itep ğíberdíler.

Degenlerín yaptî, aldda kettí. Agînğî sayîlmagan edí mí? Obírlerí de zaten, az artînda tabîla edíler, kîlîşlarî, mîzraklarî ázír.

Şo îrknî beş-on awuş wurganşîk beğeríp aldîlar. Ne bolganîn bírden-bírge abaylay almay kaldîlar. Kîlîş, súngí yeríne tayak man da kelgen bolsalar, şo îrknî gene ğeñeğek ekenler. Bír nazarda barîş súygen insanlar, obír nazarda ğálatlar. Soñgîlarnîñ wahşiylígí barîş súygúsí taşîganlarnî şalt ğeñer, şalt ğîgar.

Bodonğar alar konaknîñ ústúne túşkende, zawallîlarnîñ kóbísí kaberní añlamay kaldî. Obírsíleríne karasañ aynîk kóríngen bírsí koyan gibí kaşağak bolawuydî.

- Kîbîrdama, ezílírsíñ! - dep kîşkîrdîlar.

Toktamay karañgîlîkka ğugup kettí. Ğer kazgan tuyak awazlarîndan soñra:

- Toñîp kal! - dep bakîrgan bírewnúñ sesí keldí.

Obírlerí korsîn dep, tírísín otnîñ katîna súyreklep, ğanîn alawuydular.


Koyanday kaşağaklî boldî, koyanday ğan berdí. Bír dakka ewel kúlúşe-añlata turgan, ğaş bír kíşí.

- Kaşağak yeríñíz yok! Konagîñîz sîkî-sîkî saruwlî! - dep şîktî bír ğekírúw, yalmagan bír ğekírúw.

- Ğîgîlîñîz! Uzanîñîz! Herkez, şîrayî ğerge, toprak ğutsun! Awuşlar aşîk, ğerge ğabîşîk! - dep, bír atlî, ókíre-ókíre aralarînda oynap, akísleníp bel ya ayak ústí turganlarga atîn itep, ğîgîp salawuya. Bakîralar, şakîralar, apakaylar ğîlay. Bek bakîrganlarnîñ ğanîn awurtup, tîmdîrtalar:

- Sus! Súyekleríñní sîndîrîrman! - dep.

Bír átík, tora súngúlerí ğayranîp taşlangan yerge ózín atîp, bír súngúge ğabîşayatîr. Súngúge uzatîlgan kol ğetmedí, ğetkenşík kîlîş man uşurttular. Kolî ğerge túştí. Geñíş bír zaman brakmadîlar, bek kîşkîra. Şo kíşíníñ artîna ekí uşuwmak kadandî, moyînîna da kîlîş deñkledíler. Şo man, pîstî.

Bútún îrknîñ akayîn-apakayîn, ğaşîn-kartîn otnîñ katîna toplay-ğîga, yawaş-yawaş sesín de kesmege karay edíler. Şînğîrlarga atîldîlar. Ballar da ayîrî bír koraga alîngan soñ, sabaga kadar konak karawullay turdular. Erten şadîr-madîr, pala-pîrt, at, ógíz, koy, eşkí, mal-múlk, ne bolsa da, toplanîp, şînğîrlî kíşíler de şuwalday telegelerníñ íşíne atîlgan soñ, Túyren Kambîrlarîn artka taşlap kalabalîk kerwannî Onan Múrenníñ yokarsîna, úyleríne dogrîlttîlar.

Íş tamam.

Kesím 28Adañkan Úriyañgağin

Beş tane aka-kardaş añlaşîp, bír yerge

kelíp, omîz-omîzga beríp şo îrknî bakîrta-bakîrta beğergen soñra, beşewí de eríflí, aşayîtlî, kízmetşílí bolîp kaldîlar. Bútún

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kereklerí bír píşímge keldí, tabiy, tuwa bolîp.

Ğeñgí şikáarlarnîñ ogîrîn kóríp, oñîp şikáar paylaşağakta, hisseler ayîrîlganşîk Bodonğar, akasî alarîna:

- Akîlîma tagîlîp turgan bírşiy bar. Toktap turuñuz, başta bo meselege bír şáre tabayîk, soñra bólíşírmíz. - dedí.

Akasî alar bír-bírsíne karap kaldî. O da barîp yeşíl kózlí sarî biykeníñ kolîna ğabîşawuydî.

- Asîllîgîñ nedír, kím alardan bolatansîñ? - dep soradî başta ondan.

- Men Úriyañgay îrgîndanman, Adañka bólíkníñ kîzîman. - ğewapladî sarî biyke, "Kîsmetím ne eken?" dep túşúnúp, íşíne korkî kírgen yeşíl kózlerín akîytîp.

- Atîñ?- Atîm Adañkan Úriyañgağin. - dedí

kîskaayaklî.- Kel mínaw yakka, Adañkan

Úriyañgağin! - dep ayîrdî onî Bodonğar obír kullarnîñ arasîndan tartîp.

Kîskaayaklînîñ kolîndan tutup akasî alarnîñ aldîna şîktî.

- Mením bo biykení azatlatkîm kele, onî azat eteğekmen. - dep ayttî o, akalarîna karap.

- Ey, íním. Biyke kîtlîk mî? - dedí Belgúnútay akasî, ğîmşak bír ses men.

- Bíz kagîşîp ğanîmîznî otka attîk ta, íním. Brak sen ğeñíkní ğeñílúwún yapsîn. Brak sen beğerílgenní beğermesí men kalsîn. Brak sen kólení kólelígíne karay bersín - dedí o wakît Búgúnútay akasî da, aşaga karap.

- Yook, bolmaz. Paylaşmaganşîk, bólíşmegenşík, Adañkan Úriyañgağinní azat etmege bek ísteklímen. Boga da sízden razîlîk ístiymen. - dep turdî Bodonğar síptí sózníñ ústúnde.

(dewamî keleğekke)


bhadauria manish singh gujarat, india

Pho

to: D

eepa

k


Three Questions demanding Answers. Can you? (A Story on railway track- A Suppressed desire for equality)

I like many other educated Indians

living in metro cities believe that yes “India

is shining”. Women are competing with

males, rubbing the shoulders with males in

each and every field. And it may not be

exaggeration to say in some field they have

even surpassed males. Yes, women are

exploited even today in some corners of our

country but overall the entire picture is quite

good. But this belief is shattered after an

incident which I like to share with all of you.

It is on 3rd November 2011, I have gone to

attend an International Seminar at Pune,

while returning from Pune I met two south

Indian sisters. One of them must be in her

thirties and other in later twenties. They

were also traveling in the same coach with

me. A normal talk continued, I gave my

introduction and for sometime we talked.

The conversation took place in English as

they thought being a Gujarati I don’t know

Konkani. But let me tell you here I know

Konkani as I am brought up with lot of south

Indian friends in Ahmedabad. I retired to my

berth and closed my eyes. But I didn’t fell

sleep, sisters started talking and they were

unaware that I was listening and more

important; understanding what they were

talking about. They were talking about

marriage and married life. The elder sister

Kavya was explaining to the younger sister

Ananya about the importance of

compromises in relation and how the whole

life is all about making adjustment. Ananya

just asked, “Why it is always the woman

who has to make adjustment? Why? As if, it

is only woman, who needs relationship.”

Kavya explained, “whatever; one should

know how to adjust.” She told, “It is the

woman who has been given great amount of

patience and exceptional endurance”.

Ananya smiled and said mockingly,

“Patience, patience and patience first with

fathers, then brothers, husbands and lastly

her own child…..it never ends.” Kavya said,

“It is not good to generalize things all the

time.” Ananya said, “Come on Di, I am lucky

to have wonderful father and brother. I am

just talking about general scenario.” Kavya


said, “I know yar”. Then silence followed

for five minutes. Ananya broke the silence

abruptly saying, “But I will never ever

compromise with my three questions. It’s

my life whatever you say, Appa say or

Amma say, I will stick to them.” Kavya,

“what are you talking about, what three

questions?” .Yes friends those three

questions are like wake up call for us.

Returning to conversation. Ananya said,

“These three questions are for the one who

wants to marry me. The one has to answer

these questions for sure before asking me

anything.”

Kavya: May I know those questions.

Ananya: Sure, the first question,

1) If you expect me to treat your

parents as my own parents after marriage.

Can you do the same for me? Answer it

honestly.

Yes Di, a girl leaves behind her own

parents and overnight gets a whole new

family. And it is expected from every Indian

wife to treat her in-laws like her own

mother and father then why not same can

be expected from husband. On the other

hand husbands expect our parents to treat

them like gods. Why can’t they treat their

wives parents as their own?

2) Can you wait for me to get

comfortable with you before going for the

“Suhagrat” or Honey Moon?

Yes Di, I will ask this also, don’t look

me like this. All this Suhagrat and honey

moon, rubbish unless and until you are

comfortable with each other. If he is agree,

to wait for me to get comfortable, without

counting days, weeks and months. What

kind of custom it is? Two individuals who

are coming from two different worlds in to a

relationship have to indulge in such

relation immediately after marriage and

that is also on first night? If it is like this

then, why shouldn’t I call is rape?

3) If ever her mother or any other

relative does injustice to me, can he stand

by me, without any shame?

I am not asking him to fight with his

mother or relatives, but just to stand by my

side if any injustice happens to me.

Kavya remained speechless so did

I. Yes, what can be the reply for her all

questions. She was right on her part. And

when I see her as a father of a daughter


she is absolutely right.

It was a long back yet that incident

and those questions keep on haunting my

thoughts and compel me to muse. It has

become a minute piece of the bamboo fiber

which is embedded deep in the flesh on my

writing fingers and I am trying to pull it out

by sharing it. But those questions give rise

to another questions like, “How many of us

can stand such questions?” “How many of

us can answer these questions honestly?” I

wonder how many boys can handle such

questions and fulfill such aspirations of their

wives. And further how many girls have,

how many questions like this? And how

many of them would have dared to ask???

* * *


jack peachum virginia, usa


Interview

TM: Jack, were you born to write?

Jack Peachum: The question, “Were you born to write” is a loaded one. I’ve worked very hard to find a voice—my early work was merde. But: I do believe that all artists, writers, poets, etc., are “born to it”. The medium or the voice is elusive.

TM: Who is the first person who recognized your gift to write?

Jack Peachum: I had a tough time of it because I don’t come from a background where the arts were recognized or applauded. I was always the odd fellow—I had some encouragement from high school teachers, but not much—I was good at writing book reports and other papers for my fellow students in high school, so I wd/ have to say they first recognized my talents. And I won a contest from a literary magazine as a freshman in college—prior to that, the only real encouragement I got was from a Dr. Steele at George Washington University.

TM: Do you need the support of those around you to be a writer or can you go it alone?

Jack Peachum: I am a loner—an “Other”. Recall the remark of Sylvia Sydney about Beetlejuice: “He does not work well with others.”

TM: What is the responsibility of the writer?

Jack Peachum: The responsibility of the artist/ writer/ poet is to his art-- no one & nothing else.

TM: What's your biggest pleasure as an author?

Jack Peachum: My happiest most pleasurable moment as a writer is when it all comes together. Then I’m apt to get up & do a little dance around the room, singing, “It coheres! It coheres!”

TM: Poetry or prose?

Jack Peachum: Poetry. Prose is too hard. Although I’ve tried. I’ve written short stories, a novel. plays, essays—but poetry speaks to me & I know where I am in it.

TM: What or who inspires your poetry?

Jack Peachum: I’m an erudite s.o.b.—when I’m not writing, I’m


reading—all the time. I never learned to read—I just always did. My grandmother said, “If you read & enjoy it, you need never be alone.” Well, she was sometimes right. I study other people’s poetry, enjoy hearing it in my mind—& I’m something of a formalist—tho’ not an academic. I have to say, my inspiration comes from books & poetic history that stretches back to Sumerian Literature & classical Chinese poems. I’m influenced by Symbolism, Imagism, Chinese, French & Spanish poetry—Han Shan, Mallarme, Appolonaire, Browning, Hardy, Pound. Andrade—poetically, I suppose I’m a prostitute & a slut, I’ll sleep with anyone who’ll pay me-- & some who won’t!

But I also have a varied background myself—I’m a “job gypsy” And I draw on my own background & experiences. I’ve been a bookstore clerk, detective, gas-pump jockey. soldier, student, actor, model, etc. I think to write one must live, not the other way round.

And beautiful women—like my wife-- certainly help!

TM: Define love in the sweetest sense of the word.

Jack Peachum: Define love? That blissful moment of enchantment before the truth dawns on you.

TM: Do you find yourself thinking in poetic terms?

Jack Peachum: Always.

TM: Describe your writing routine.

Jack Peachum: For me—I am now retired—writing poetry is a full-time occupation. I arrive at the computer early & I work all day, sometimes into the night. I have no idea what I’m going to write when I begin, therefore the Muse is always at my side. This is generally 7 days a week with a little time off for a break—golf, sex, mealtime, bathroom breaks—all grist for the mill. Writing is a lonely occupation & my works are generally short—besides which, now that I’m old I feel that I’m running out of time. I’m also a lifelong insomniac—which sometimes helps.

TM: How would you describe the ambiance of your workspace?

Jack Peachum: Ambience? Well, I’m surrounded by my books and maybe a coffee cup. And my lovely elderly pit-bull Ellie is nearby!

TM: How many evaluations does your work go through before you are satisfied with it?

Jack Peachum: I’m never satisfied with my work—a slow process & I rewrite constantly, the same thing over & over, correcting & editing. Finally, I come to terms with the work—make peace with it— go on to something else. Valery: “Poems are never finished, only abandoned.” I have one poem—Our Pierrot In Autumn—which took nearly 30 years aborning!


TM: What is your cure for writer’s block?

Jack Peachum: Liquor. At least, it used to be until I got too old to drink that much!

TM: What is your biggest anxiety about your writing life?

Jack Peachum: Keats: “– fears that I may cease to be/ Ere my pen has gleaned my teeming brain!” That I won’t have time to finish– that I’ll never achieve the level of professional poetry I so desire, that my talents will never be recognized.

TM: Has writing helped you accept the past and move forward?

Jack Peachum: No. I become mired in the past– not my own, but other people’s, other times. Sometimes–often, I get stuck in a century long ago & I find it inconvenient to visit the present. A history buff?– well, maybe– maybe not. Rebecca West said, “It is sometimes very hard to tell the difference between history and the smell of skunk.” Writing doesn’t help– I’ve never found a place I really like or felt at home. But writing takes me out of myself– at least that part’s good.

TM: How do you feel about the aging process?

Jack Peachum: The aging process

sucks. And I must say: “Experience never taught me nothin’!”

TM: What is the worst job you have ever had?

Jack Peachum: Private detective! Twelve hours of sitting in a closed hot car in a motel parking lot all night watching a door & copying down tag numbers– with an old snuffling ex-policeman who’d been eating beans all day!

TM: Picture Clarksville in 20 characters or less.

Jack Peachum: A spot in the road.

TM: What are you working on now?

Jack Peachum: A kind of prose poetry that ain’t too pretty and ain’t too prosy– finding a balance in this material is difficult.


CHET BAKER (Amsterdam, 1988)For Ross LeCompte

Tumbling out of the half-open window–an accident, I swear-- passing the first floorand, “You’ll never make it as a musician, Chet!”an endless string of notes plays by my earone solo interlude strung out foreverreaching, reaching, for the ultimate chordmy sideman lost in a tinkle of piano keysthe percussion of the vibraphonethe twisted grin of the mad bassmanspitting out his teeth, learning to play againgive ‘em a half-smile, Chet, a half-smile the Goddess of Heroin gaping at meMy Funny Valentine, she sings cool, so cool, and the flugelhorn I play liftinginto the endless sky over Oklahomaabove the cotton fields and the dust bowl where my father sits with his crushed dreamsacoustic guitar on his lapthe big bright trombone he bought meresting in the pawn-shop windowtrumpet playing, yes, my horn risinginto California star-shine and the Okie night into a hundred drug deals gone bad sexual encounters in café bathroomsairports, shipping offices, train stationsmarriage, jailtime and the hell of withdrawal my mother holding to my arm-- and, uh-oh, here comes the sidewalk--

jack peachum virginia, usa


BROWN’S SUMMIT. N.C. An old man alone outdoors in March wind,he holds to hat and cane, makes for chimney-end– a lawn dappled by weak cold sunshine,daffodils line his path, flowers white and yellow,forsythia gold against green leaf– his destination– a chair in the warm chimney-corner,a place where wind won’t intrude, where one can dream and remember other springs.

jack peachumvirginia, usa


DARWIN I studied nature, regarded it with an awe

-- many a treasure took away and many a wonder saw–

but then one day, I looked behind the bright facade,

and found the grim unsmiling face of God.



roger smith british columbia, canada


Interview

TM: Roger, what is the purpose of the writer? Roger Smith: The purpose of the writer is to present issues in a way that stimulates debate and, hopefully, through that a better understanding of, and improvement in, the human condition. (Albert Camus was a major influence on me.) TM: Have those around you encouraged you to write? Roger Smith: Those closest to me, my wife and son, have certainly encouraged me. TM: Do you have other writers or artists in your family? Roger Smith: My son is developing his own writing, including a movie script which may be produced.

Roger was born in England and educated in the United Kingdom, the U.S., and Canada. He taught

English, Geography, and Environmental Studies in Canadian high schools, English, Philosophy,

and Art History at the Mazatlan campus of the Monterey Institute of Technology and Higher

Education in Mexico, and English at the Daqing Oilfield Oil Production Technology Institute in

Daqing, China.

He is the author of Preserving Our Pale Blue Dot, an environmental teaching resource, and

Darkness, my old friend, a novel with environmental themes. Roger lives on Vancouver Island on

Canada’s Pacific coast.

TM: How would you describe your work? Roger Smith: I write about themes which disturb and concern me, perhaps in the hope that others who read it will have solutions. TM: What is the writing process like for you? Roger Smith: I find the writing process is the most exhausting activity, but it is also the most rewarding. Much of the process does not involve writing words on a computer, but the continual development of ideas in my mind. TM: Where do you write? Roger Smith: I write in a room from which I can see the sky and trees and hear the birds and a squirrel which has taken up residence here. TM: What is your biggest pleasure as an author? Roger Smith: My biggest pleasure is completing a story or book and knowing


that I have created something which otherwise would never have existed. TM: Do your characters speak to you? Roger Smith: Once I begin with a character, there is a “dialogue” which helps the story develop. TM: How do you begin to write when you feel stuck? Roger Smith: When I “feel stuck” I’ll just start writing; the form will eventually evolve. TM: Has writing helped you accept the past and move forward? Roger Smith: Yes. The past has helped me develop an understanding of myself and, hopefully, others which helps me move forward. TM: Would you mortgage your house to buy your way onto a best-seller list? Roger Smith: No – I won’t try to buy my way anywhere. TM: What is the biggest obstacle you have ever had to overcome? Roger Smith: My biggest obstacle was believing I didn’t have a voice. Experiences which helped me overcome that included comments from my students, whether they were in Canada (including international students from Korea, Thailand, and China), Mexico, or China.

TM: When you are not writing, where would we most likely find you? Roger Smith: When I’m not writing I’m walking on the beach or in the trees with my dog. TM: What is the best advice you can give to a writer just starting out? Roger Smith: My best advice is that Hemingway gave: Write about what you know. TM: What do you think about the future of books? Roger Smith: I am often pessimistic, but I still hope that books will remain an important, essential element of all cultures. I believe there will always be the need for a way in which people can gain knowledge and understanding and reflect on critical issues other than the false, superficial excitement of popular culture as expressed on TV and in most movies. Books such as The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giono will always help us develop a greater appreciation of life and all it involves. TM: What is your current project? Roger Smith: I’m completing a book for middle school-age or older children set in the Amazon rainforest. It involves mythical creatures, magic, endangered species, extinctions, and a children’s crusade to save the Amazon rainforest.


The Days That Are Gone

Clarence watched the mushroom soup bubble in the pan, stirring it occasionally with the yellow plastic spoon he’d picked up on the street that morning. He’d been inside for more than half an hour, but he was still shivering, and his wet socks and boots had made his feet ache.

“Remember that story I was telling you about, Maggie?” he asked his wife. “The one in the newspaper? About finding the dead guy?”

He waited several moments for an answer, the steam from the soup fogging his glasses, before reminding her: “The guy was dead a long time. They found his skeleton…in bed.”

He stirred the soup again, lifting some out on his spoon and then letting it dribble back.

“How could that happen?...Well,” he continued without turning around, “seems he lived on his own. In a cabin. Miles from anywhere…. no one knew he was missing.

“How’d they find him? Hunters did. Got caught in a snowstorm. Must have been real bad. Guess they looked for shelter. But must

have been a shock.

“Made me think, Maggie…the cancer’s killing me, for sure. So I thought I’d go talk to someone in the ER. Just so someone else would know. They didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know.

“Will they remember?” He shrugged. “Not likely. Who’ll know I’m dead?” He paused, as if thinking, and then said, “Won’t be nobody.”

He chuckled. “Guess hunters won’t be comin’ in here.”

He switched off his single burner hot plate and picked up his bowl, examining its cracks and stains as if he were seeing them for the first time.

“Ever hear about the Greeks at school, Maggie?” he asked. “Seems some had only one bowl. One smashed his when he saw a poor kid drinking from his hands. This other Greek dropped his and it broke. It was all he had. Know what he did? Celebrated! He’d freed himself!”

He slowly stirred his soup. “Suppose they did teach us something at school,” he told Maggie. He paused, as if listening to something, and then said, “Not enough, you’re right. But I suppose some of it was worth it.”

He turned around, holding the bowl in front of him by two fingers, and then let the bowl fall to the floor and shatter. He looked down at the pieces for a moment, and then

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gently kicked them out of the way under his small table.

“They won’t be missed either,” he said quietly. “Sorry, Maggie…won’t be any bread for a few days. But the soup will do us, at least for now.”

He turned again, set the pot carefully on the wooden table, and then slumped down in his chair beside it, his room rumbling and shivering as a train roared by, the vibrations thumping through his feet. His lone light bulb flickered, the soup slopped, and then everything was quiet and still again.

“Want some soup, Maggie?” he asked. “Take turns?”

Clarence paused, listening for an answer, and then, his hand trembling, sucked some soup off his spoon, squeezing the gray liquid between his toothless gums before slowly swallowing it. As he enjoyed the smooth greasy warmth spreading in his throat he peered through the small window behind his table at the dark rain and a small bird huddled miserably on the thin window ledge trying to escape the downpour.

He tossed his spoon on the table, puffed gently over his soup to cool it, and then cradled the metal pot with both hands. He sipped the soup carefully and wiped his thin lips with his fingertips, but some still trickled down his chin. The gray liquid dribbled over his whiskers before hesitating on the tip of his chin, the drops inflating until they dripped on to his shirt over his belly.

“You’re such a pig, a big greasy pig,” someone snorted contemptuously. “You make me sick. You ruin every lunch.”

Clarence cringed, waiting for the inevitable kick under the table.

“I just wish you’d learn how to eat,” another voice snapped. “You’re a slob. And

they make us eat with you.”

Clarence lowered the pot carefully to the table, shaking his head.

“Was always the same, Maggie,” he said quietly. “Didn’t matter where I sat. They’d find me. Could never eat lunch. Then someone’d make us leave, and I’d throw it in the trash.”

He was hungry and cold, but now he couldn’t finish his soup. It was just another evil day at school.

His body vibrated as another train trundled by.

“Was the same in class, Maggie,” he continued. “Once the teacher had kids who couldn’t show their homework stand in front of the class. The ones with excuses…they’d forgot it, they were sick, whatever…they got to sit down.

“Then there was just me. I coulda lied, I know. But I didn’t. I told the truth. I said my dad didn’t have a job and there was no money to buy a scribbler.

“What’d the teacher do? Nothing. Just told me to sit down.” He paused, as if considering what he should say, and then said, “She looked embarrassed.”

He sat still, as if peering into the distance, and then he heard the soft sobbing.

“Mom?” he said. “That you? What’s wrong?...there’s no money? Sure, I know it’s Christmas, but we don’t want anything…”

Clarence looked up suddenly. “You’re there,” he said. “Didn’t see you.”

He was silent for a while, as if listening to something again.

Then he nodded, and said, “I know, I know, Dad. You didn’t have a chance. Like so


many others, right?”

He pushed the soup pot farther away.

“You never met him, did you Maggie?” he asked. He waited a moment, and then nodded.

“Was killed in the War. Had no reason to go. He’d never been given anything. Didn’t owe the country nothing.” He shrugged. “But I guess it was better than staying home.”

He nodded and smiled. “You’re right…I know the feeling. But there’s no war to go to. None that needs me, anyway…”

He hesitated for a moment as if he’d been interrupted, and then shook his head.

“He’s not here,” he said. “He’s never been here.

“Who? He means my grandfather. Never met him. Killed in France in World War One. No known grave…all we had were a few pages from the list of missing dead. Read it so much it fell apart. There were so many kids, Maggie…just 16, 17. Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Blown to pieces…”

He paused again and then said, “Sorry Dad. I never get to talk to him. Like I say, he doesn’t come here.”

Another train roared by and Clarence felt the vibrations from the floor through his body. Then he felt something gently nudge his leg, and he dropped his arm searching for his dog’s head to pet without looking down.

“Hi Danny,” he laughed. “Time for a walk?

“Danny always somehow makes me feel better, Maggie…he was my friend. I’d run home from school to meet him. He slept with me. He’d press against my legs. Made me feel good. I wasn’t alone.” He paused briefly, and then added quietly, “Is there a better feeling?

“OK, Danny” he murmured. “You comin’ too, Maggie? No? Be back soon then.”

And then they were once more romping through the trees in the park near their house, and even though it was raining they were headed straight for the beach.

But then the pain suddenly returned, and Clarence knew it was time to go home. He huddled down on his narrow bed and pulled the thin blanket up over his nose.

He could only dare peep over it at the two figures standing at the bottom of his bed, looking down at him, silhouetted by the coal fire behind them. The warmth of the fire was comforting, but its light made it impossible to see their expressions.

But Clarence knew one of the figures was his mother, and the other was the doctor. He wanted to speak but couldn’t.

“He’ll get better, won’t he?” he heard his mother ask the doctor, almost pleading.

The doctor shrugged. “If he makes it through the night, he’ll be OK.” he told her. “But…let’s just leave him sleeping. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

Sleeping? Clarence wondered. When he could see them both?

Although he was now so suddenly warm and relaxed, he wanted to pull the blanket higher…if only he could move…

Alnd then a train glided smoothly, silently by, the bird on the window ledge flew away, and everything was still.

* * *


Book of Words (III)

WORD SIX

According to a Kazakh proverb: «The source of success is unity, and of well-being — life».

Yet what kind of people are they who live in unity and how do they achieve such accord? The Kazakhs are quite ignorant on this score. They think that unity resides in the common ownership of livestock, chattels and food. If this were so, then what use wealth and what harm in poverty? Would it be worthwhile working hard to grow rich without first getting rid of one's kith and kin? No, unity ought to be in people's minds and not in communal wealtm. It is possible to unite people of different origin, religion and views simply by giving them an abundance of livestock. But achieving unity at the price of cattle — that's the beginning of moral decay. Brothers ought to live in amity not because one is dependent on another, but by each relying on his own skills and powers, and his own destiny. Otherwise they will forget God and find no worthy occupation, but will scheme and plot against each other. They will sink to recrimination and slander, they will cheat

and deceive. Then what kind of unity could there be?

«Life is the source of well-being...» What kind of life is meant here? Just existing in order to keep body and soul together? But even a dog is endowed with such an existence. He who treasures such a life, who is plagued by the fear of death, becomes an enemy to life everlasting. Fleeing for his life from the foe, he will be known as a coward; shirking work, he will pass for a ne'er-do-well, he will become an enemy of the good.

No, what the proverb refers to is another kind of life. One that keeps the soul alive and the mind clear. If your body is alive but your soul is dead, words of reason will not reach you, and you will be incapable of earning your living by honest work.

A loafer and a sycophant,A hanger-on and an impudent fellow, Valiant in his looks but craven in his heart, Has no sense of shame...

If you are like that, do not imagine

yourself to be alive. A righteous death will then be better than such an existence.


WORD SEVEN

Born into this world, an infant

inherits two essential needs. The first is for meat, drink and sleep. These are the requirements of the flesh, without which the body cannot be the house of the soul and will not grow in height and strength. The other is a craving for knowledge. A baby will grasp at brightly coloured objects, it will put them in its mouth, taste them and press them against its cheek. It will start at the sound of a pipe. Later, when a child hears the barking of a dog, the noises of animals, the laughter or weeping of people, it gets excited and asks about all that it sees and hears: «What's that? What's that for? Why is he doing that?» This is but the natural desire of the soul, the wish to see everything, hear everything and learn everything.

Without trying to fathom the mysteries of the universe, visible and invisible, without seeking an explanation for everything, one can never be what one should be — a human being. Otherwise, the spiritual life of a person will not differ from the existence of any other living creature.

From the very beginning God separated man from beast by breathing the soul into him. Why then, on growing up and gaining in wisdom, do we not seek to gratify our curiosity, which in childhood made us forget about food and sleep? Why do we not tread in the path of those who seek knowledge?

It behoves us to strive to broaden

our interests and Increase the wisdom that nourishes our souls. We should come to realise that spiritual virtues are far superior to bodily endowments, and so learn to subordinate our carnal desires to the dictates of our soul. But no, we have been loath to do that! Raving and croaking, we have not moved farther than the dunghill next to our village. Only in our childhood are we ruled by the soul. When we grew up and gained in strength, we rejected its dictates, we subjugated our soul to the body, and contemplated the things around us with our eyes, but not our minds; we do not trust the impulses of the soul. Satisfied with outward appearances, we make no attempt to uncover inner mysteries, in the vain belief that we shall lose nothing by such ignorance. To the counsel and advice of wise people, we reply: «You live by your own wits, mine are good enough for me.» Or: «We'd rather be poor in our own wits than rich in yours.» We are incapable of recognising their superiority and grasping the meaning of their words.There is not a flicker of fire in our bosom nor any faith in our soul. In what way, then, do we differ from animals if we perceive things only with our eyes? It seems that we were better in our childhood. We were human then, for we sought to learn as much as possible. But today we are worse than the beasts. An animal knows nothing and has no aim in life. We know nothing, but will argue until we are hoarse; defending our obtusity, we try to pass off our ignorance as knowledge.

(to be continued)


To a Friend With your group you went. I noted sadlyHow it dreary grew without you here.Do you think you'll miss your friend so badlyWhen it comes my time to disappear? We have so much undergone together,To each other bound in front-line strife!Would that we might nevermore be severed,Would we might together go through life. When the victory comes and we are going,You and I, back to our native homes,Will they care and kindness there be showing?How shall we be met?… Ah, dreams, ah dreams! We were oft within an ace of dying,Doubtless we'll again be thither called.Shall we recollect the old days' flying?Or with shot-torn breast in battle fall? If I'm, in the service of my country,To a soldier's grave sent by the foe,Will you grieve about your poet-comrade,When through old Kazan you wandering go? Blood and battle tied us to each other,That is why our bonds waxed from the start!Let us to the death back one anotherIf we're doomed one day to be apart. To her soldiers is our country looking,Sees how fire with fire returned will be,And we, too, a warrior's vow have takenThat we'll home return victoriously. 1941Translated by Jessie Davies


The Willow Near our home there's a willow growing,She's so happy the Spring is here.When I come in, or when I'm going,She bows her greeting to me. When I'm back home from my workI settle In the bluishness of her shade.Every evening I love to rest here'Midst the flowers' sweet cascade. By her willowy arms encircledAll too often my poems I rhyme,At such times in meditationTo my notes her head she inclines. When the willow was set in motionBy a gust of the springtime breeze,One light leaf that had come asunderFound the lines of my poem with ease. Willows, alas, have no means of talking,So she hoped that a wind would blowAnd the leaf that she'd sent in greetingHer affection clearly would show. * * * I keep glancing into the dim distance,Where at present my love sojourns,Every time as in thought and remembranceFor her beauty and sweetness I yearn. If a breeze from where it is morningWould come drifting close to those parts,If on its way as it passed my darlingIt would stir the strings of her heart, Or if en route it would drop before me,Like the willow tree's weightless leaf,From my sweetheart a tiny letter,Just a line, no matter how brief,

Then my heart would again remember,How unclouded and tender her gaze,How I yearn for her gentle friendship,How I've missed her throughout those days. * * * As in the shade of my own willow,From the hush of its fond embrace,Every evening strength I borrowTo forge through the oncoming days, So from her who is my beloved,From her love inspiration I draw,With the joy of living I kindle,Stamina and vitality draw. So as to work, to fight and to conquer,To traverse the life-span that's mine,Like fresh air I need her friendship,Need today and for all time. 'Tis to this, my great love and friendship,Whose great trust and strength will not fade,That I've ventured to write this poem,Here, beneath the willow tree's shade. * * * Near our home there's a willow growing,She's so happy the spring is here,She has come to love and respect me,She bows her greeting to me. March 1939. KazanTranslated by Lydia Kmetyuk


tom sheehan massachusetts, usa


Tylen Brackus

I will tell you at the outset that I have seen some puzzling and imponderable events or situations in my life. That life is now well into its ninth decade. Some of the circumstances were believable, some not; some I wanted to believe, some I didn’t. All of them, each instance, whether believable or not, had been caused or created or somehow set into motion by the attitude or action of generally distinctive and memorable men and women, whether for what they were or what they did, or, in some circumstances, what they did not do. Believe me, the chance of something not happening is oftentimes as much a story as that which happens. My wife Agnes was a woman such as I have spoken, and old acquaintance Tylen Brackus was such a man. As Agnes did things at her own swift command, Tylen also did things; he moved things at appropriate rate, though he was born into this life with but one fully useful arm, the other a mere shaft with a mere hand. His deformity was, as one might say of him, in miniature.

No god was he, nor was he

supernatural in talent. Tylen, to say the least, as can be said of most of us even on our best days, was vulnerable or suspect of vulnerability. Yet the man was equipped with an inordinate amount of energy, an energy that he simply had to call on. All he had to say was Giddy-up and it was there. And he was a loner by most standards.

Tylen, I was quite sure at this time, was in the morning’s mix. It was that kind of a day, and the October clouds were raggy and less than unique, filled with promise of the ominous sort, darker than usual, inertia buried in them, as if they were hanging there for a definite purpose. Out over Pressburn Hill the hidden sun presented a slightly silver edge on one long cloud that seemed to hover with a timid grace.

This is how it all happened: for the third day in a row, from my own little house out beyond the old woodworking plant, long closed and boarded up, I noted a plume of smoke, a feathery wisp of it tall and slender, rising flue-like above the trees. I was as far out of town as you can go before you are someplace else. I knew that there was nothing either civic or habitable over that way to demand what could be considered a hearth flue, but nevertheless I ran my mind about the


ground that crawled off slowly through trees to the top of Pressburn Hill, plotting the ascendant geography of the area. The small stream in there was very quiet, the near-silent way it lurked at tree roots, ambling along until deep winter took hold of it, which it usually did. The old abandoned rail line that once had brought material to the plant by the carload or took away products, now had sparsely visible portions turning to rust. And again I reminded myself: Nothing much out that way. There was only, suddenly coming to mind, that small cave in the hillside ledge, like a hole in the wall for a minor abode. Perhaps a fire might be there. It was not a known hangout area for a night really, not any place in there for displaced persons. Yet perhaps the smoke signaled a morning breakfast fire for a hungry itinerant, his throat dry and drawn in by the need for food. Or a hunter lost of a night. I thought the nights had become quite chill of late for any extended stay. I promised myself I’d check next time I went out there for mushrooms or on my constitutional.

I put the consideration to my Agnes, for fifty years a sounding board, a definitive conscience, and the tremble of a daily tuning fork of all things noisy or noticeable about us. “What do you make of that, Agnes?” I said, pointing from the porch out over the bank of

trees to the narrow lift of smoke, now as thin as cigarette smoke above the thickness of trees. Its blue tint, as well, was fading against the backdrop of Pressburn Hill.

Round and pleasant Agnes, whom on one occasion, and one only, I had called Aggie, and that occasion a full fifty years earlier, turned to me and said, with her soft mouth pursed in certainty, “That’s breakfast, Dewey. I can smell it.” Her smile was the morning edition and her yellow apron was still tied at her ample waist, herself but the matter of half an hour from our own breakfast. It went with her blue eyes, the yellow apron, for somewhere between the two they melded in a pleasantness that had wholly shaped my life. Colors became her, my Agnes, as well as did being ample and being direct. Warmth, the length of her body, as if bundled, had long been my night’s certainty.

On this late October morning Lyle Agersea had come up on my porch roughly at that moment, bringing his last vegetable gift of the year, a small squash out of his garden. And we talked about it, that thin thread of smoke, though we both knew he had come to see Agnes first hand for the day. In his own way he highly favored Agnes,


once having taken her to a picture show a half-century earlier. You’d have to say there was no quit in Lyle Agersea. He was as sturdy and as straight and as durable as his denim trousers, the both of them with patches, with worn spots, proud of their long and sure delivery, and time left in each. His smile was direct as he said, “I swear, Agnes, your coffee travels two acres of crusty ground quick as a boar down a rifle bead. It is memorable.”

Smooth and friendly Lyle could also have been the history teacher at the school, knowing a story or two about our neighbors. He could knock off a story the way some men could knock off shots of rye or bourbon, the bottle as handy as the grip of it, as well as the weekend. “Only thing out in that direction’d be the old freight car they left behind,” he said, pointing with his full arm and the cup of coffee at the end of it, and not a tinkle of sound from his steady hand in illustration of his good health. He thought about his words for a moment and then added, “When the mill closed, the tracks, at least most of them, were torn up for scrap metal. For the war, you know. Trees growed all around it now, like as can’t see it unless right up close. Them doors was welded shut. Some of the boys a few times tried to burn it

down, that old boxcar, but never got it full caught. How long since you been out there, Dewey?” Lyle had a way with questions, as well as storytelling.

I know objects, large or small, at times even huge ones, which are inactive for long periods of time, seem to sift or disappear into background. Inertia itself might take them out of a visible realm. They fade, lose their contours and identities, become patchwork on the near horizon. Deserted, forgotten, out of touch, they become like old grave sights where family lines at last falter and die out. For me, the abandoned freight car was such a thing.

Lyle didn’t wait my answer. His face was lively as ever; clean-shaved, a pinkness on the high cheekbones and wide brow, his eyes bouncing like aggies in a game, popping here and there. “What I’m thinking about this morning, Dewey,” he said, putting that old smile up for Agnes’s second cup of coffee, “is that Tylen’s due in town pretty damn soon. First good snow does it. Don’t nobody know where he hurries off to in the spring, ever since Comerford Mabel up and died on him. What, been ten years now? Lonely is what gets you lonely. Sure can say that about Tylen. And clockwork too. First good snow


brings him in. It might be a month of cold running up before it, but it’s the first snow does it.”

“Ever think about that?” My curiosity had spoken.

“Hell, it’s like he’s leaving no footprints behind him. Always comes in during the storm, takes up a place with old Betty Marlin or Elder John, whomsoever’s got a spare room. And no trail back into wherever he come from.”

“He never looks none the worse for wear,” I said, remembering how Tylen climbed up out of the grade one or two years earlier, waved as he walked past the house and into town, the little bundle of his Matilda wagging off his shoulder like some Aussie going down the road, casual is as casual does.

“What’s that man do of a summer, you think, the way he finally comes into town, gets his room, showers, changes clothes like he don’t want any trail dust falling from him, giving away his long-hidden abode? He don’t waste any time finding a woman spend time with, go to a picture show, have a meal. Saw him get drunk only once and was the first night he was without Comerford Mabel. Man

has a different clock and a different paddle, far as I can see. Bill Barley at the gas station said he once stayed inside Elder John’s house without coming outside the whole month of December. That’s as near hibernating as any of us can get.”

Lyle kept lighting up when Agnes poured, and kept talking. “He gets his grub every week or so at Molly’s store, when he comes to town, looking none the worse for wear. He don’t look much beat up or worn down for being out there in the woods. Would think he’d show some of that. But just slips away at night like he wasn’t here in the first place, that neat pack on his back, the good hand holding his cudgel, the other tucked in his armpit like always. None of the youngsters ever come across him while hunting or fishing. Never see an old fire or any kind of sign. Like he might just keep going off into the next county, halfway out being halfway in someplace else. I’d almost pay to know.” He stared hard into the cup like he was reading the remnants of coffee grounds.

When the pot was empty and the squash set on the kitchen counter, as though a promise had been made it would sure to be used before the day was over, Lyle cut off his


visit. In his mottled dungarees and heavy denim patchwork jacket he crossed the field the way he had come, the same way to and fro as every one of his frequent visits, turning once at the big tree to wave back at Agnes, who would always wait to wave back. Now that’s what I call a fifty-year romance, Lyle having no quit in him.

So later that morning, menial chores done, I told Agnes I’d be taking a spin off through the trees and would be home by lunchtime. My own good old denim jacket was snug and stood well against the small breeze coming down the way from Pressburn Hill, and I carried a good stick for balance and for knocking at things.

Fifteen minutes later I came across the old freight car nearly buried under the overhang of leaves and limbs from a cluster of willows and an occasional pine tree. Long ago, after the car was abandoned, the locks on the doors were welded shut and up one side I could see where the young arsonists had tried to torch it; the black scars of that fated attempt lay a dull patina on the surface of the wooden car, which, in its younger days, must have been a sour-looking maroon; the drab remnants of that color showed in corners less touched by the

weather, dabs of maroon an artist had left.

The name of the rail line the car was originally birthed to, no longer visible, came out of my memory; I could hear the steam whistle, feel the ground chug and tremble, see the old legend saunter past the crossing in its spastic fashion near my youthful home, humping, banging, out on the road, out on the free road: The Nickel Plate Road. It sang out that name, that tune; The Nickel Plate Road! The Nickel Plate Road! Long ago I had savored its adventurous title, tossed it through my teeth again and again, day after day, night after dreams, and heard it in the back of my mind, along with the quickened menu of The Route of the Phoebe Snow, The Old Lackawanna, The Mississippi and the Yazoo Valley, The Boston & Maine, Grand Trunk Western, Delaware Lackawanna and Western, New York, New Haven and Hartford, Rock Island (oh, good old Rock Island), Bangor and Aroostock (potato cars for a mile, it seemed), and the singing again, the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe.

As a youngster I had been mesmerized, hypnotized, sent off on dreamy adventures by the names posted in great letters on the sides of freight cars and coal cars, and those little houses like shanties on


wheels riding the end of trains sometimes 200 cars long, where railroad men ate and slept and spent much of their lives crisscrossing America, watching America grow. Freight cars on the move. Tankers and coal gondolas on the move. Great steam engines, puffing, shaking, and beating it down the rails. The joy of seeing other places used to fluster me with its richness, the sudden flare of its warmth totally numbing me to the bones. Not yet subsided, the call of the open road, I swear still making its call on me with the fact of this abandoned boxcar.

Now, before me, dreams gone down the road, the old boxcar seemed to sag; rust had touched its great wheels and mild but honest decay crawled about its face, inertia having painted it anew. About it too, as much a part of its identity as the old legend, a slight acidic smell, that of ash or old fire, as if the light flames the boys had introduced to its sides had permanently touched the air. The thin memories of smoke I smelled– my grandfather’s pipe filled with cut Edgeworth tobacco, an orange campfire into which my friends and I had tossed potatoes waiting the delicious blackness, the iron monger’s stove at the dump where my grandfather worked --- even as the wind began to blow, leaves at temperament beginning their endless and

haphazard flights into the wind and with the wind, and then a very fine snow started to fall. The ground, quickly, with sudden charm and celerity, accepted whiteness and wind and my homeward path.

For three long and interminable days, clouds permanently in place above us, it snowed. It snowed that finely-particled snow so easy in its promise, so dreadful in its fate, that had driven me home from the side of the old Nickel Plate Road freight car. And we did not see Lyle for a week, until he and the sun showed up one morning, both frisky, bright, boding chatter as he walked up the road.

“Agnes,” he said, the lightness on his face and in his eyes, him brimming with a week’s worth of news and no-news, “I swear I could smell your coffee clean acrost the field, clean as gunshot on opening day. I swear, Agnes, it was that clean.”

The bowl of his hand accepted her cup as he added his choice bit of news, him practically jumpy all the time with wanting to tell it: “and Tylen not yet showed his face. Not showed a minute’s worth! Down to Molly’s they been talking ‘bout a search party going out there, wherever the hell he be, and hauling his bottom back in here before he


freezes himself altogether.”

A week later Tylen Brackus still had not showed up at Molly’s store or at Elder’s place.

You have to hand it to Lyle. He got the energy going in them, pulled the crowd of men together, the sheriff but a paid hand at that and a little put back in his place by Lyle’s energy, got them pushing at themselves. “Think of being out there, the snow putting you in your place, freezing your little ass off, and only one hand to help yourself. If he needs us, old Tylen must be sitting beside himself with worry and we have to get out there.”

So we went, some only as far as they dared to go. Some only as far as the tree line on Pressburn Hill, the snow too much to contend with. Some not being such good friends to the one-armed man. The younger guys cutting away on skis, snowmobiles, one or two on horseback. Rag tag as you can imagine a small town muster.

And there, under the willows, under the remnant pines, out along the backside of the closed woodworking plant, the slight and slender file of smoke issued from one corner

of the Nickel Plate Road boxcar. The small army halted as they eyed the smoky residue patina left over from the young arsonists. The welded joints still secured the doors, each great span easily seen as not having been moved in this recent lifetime.

Molly’s husband Clocker said it must be on fire and none too soon as far as he was concerned, everybody knowing his boy Charlie was one of the group which had set that last match. “No way in or out of that car, boys,” he said. “It’ll burn for sure this time.”

The snow was drifted high against one side of the freight car, and we were about to pass by, leaving it to smolder or whatever it was at, when I knocked at the side of the car with my cudgel.

A weak knock came back.

“What the hell!” Lyle said, as I knocked again. The weak knock came back.

“Someone’s in there, boys. Must be old Tylen.”

“How in hell could he get in?” said Clocker, trying to push against the huge door. “Didn’t go this way. Try the other side.” A few of the boys trudged to the other side and


came back. “Didn’t get in that way either.”

They buzzed a spell, the lot of them, snowmobile engines shut down, two horses mouth-clasped, and in a moment, when wonder and concern was hitting at them, the weak knock came again.

“Jeezus, God!” Albert Binworthy, the old submarine sailor let out. “Sounds like the Squalus out there off Portsmouth, down a couple a hundred feet and the boys banging out the last message. Jeezus, God!” A chill hit the back of my neck like the edge of a blade.

The weak tapping came again. It hit me suddenly that if it was Tylen, there was a way in. I slipped under the end of the car, snow going up my sleeves, down my neck, my eyes searching for an opening, a way in.

I saw a twist of black conductor wire tight up against one of the great axles, and saw where it went through a hole drilled in the bottom of the car. It was electrified I knew. It looked like Tylen’s work more and more. I crawled a bit further. I heard Lyle yell out, “You all right down under there, Dewey? You all right?”

The weak tapping came again for a

moment. Then all I could hear was the whisper of wind as it tried my neck for openers, as it came the length of the freight car and brought the total chill with it. “Dewey,” Lyle yelled again, “Agnes be well pissed off at you if you mess up down there.” The silence came then as all paid attention again to what Lyle was saying.

It was the shape of it that caught my eye. The squareness of it. The right angles of it. The lines of it. A trap door of sorts cut up into the floor of the car. I pushed at it. At first there was minimal resistance, then a wisp of air hit at my face, and the whole section slowly lifted away heavy as a slab of granite. I stood up, my head and shoulders passing up into the body of the abandoned freight car. Light hit me. A bulb glowed. The tapping came again. I saw the small rosy redness of an iron stove. I saw two chairs. I saw a radio dial. I saw a cord of wood piled against one end of the boxcar. I saw a full size bed in the other end of the freight car, and the crude and deformed hand of Tylen Brackus pointing his stick at me, and him saying, “Is that you, Dewey? Damn it, boy, I knew you’d get here. Got myself in a poke of trouble. Broke my arm week or more ago I guess. Couldn’t lift the trap door to get out of here once I got in here, seems like it’s been a long haul for me


now.” He fell back on the bed, finally letting himself go, knowing that help was now at hand. I think he fell asleep.

With some difficulty we got him out of the car and onto Nate Murphy’s snowmobile for a quick ride to Doc Fenton’s office beside Molly’s store.

It was all reconstruction after that. How he dismantled each unit that would not pass through the trap door, all of it done under the car itself. The bed. The stove. The crates he used for books and storing stuff. We’d found a radio. A fan. Knew how he tapped into the old electric wire circuit by the mill and laid a line all down the old track bed. Wonder hit us at how we had not seen anything amiss, had not a clue, and piece by piece little insights, forgotten little twists, began to come to light as the whole episode brought itself together. Misplaced or lost or junked articles came back into memory. The radio was Bit Murray’s, thrown out at the landfill, as well as Fred Lewis’s old Franklin stove. Paul Lavelle swore the bed was his honeymoon bed last seen at the backside of his barn. He’d completely forgotten it under weed and brush. Everybody had a take about one or more of the furnishings.

To this day, long after Tylen, one snowy night at Elder John’s, chased Comerford Mabel all the way home, it’s always been the picture of him with the one good arm and that one twisted little arm and the twisted little hand, perhaps in darkness under the freight car but hardly in distress, taking things apart for their last transport, for there was the night, later on, that the car went up in flames, the fire fully caught and naught but the wheels and axles and steel framework left.

And I was seeing it all, all the marvelously imponderable things of life in all its makeup: Lyle hit by lightning one day crossing the field, just after his old girlfriend set the last cup of coffee in the cup of his hands; and Molly’s husband Clocker breaking his neck after falling down the stairs with his arms loaded with dishes, and Doc Fenton lost in a snowstorm and found frozen after a tough delivery of a newborn, and that utterly silent morning when my ample and round and direct Agnes was not warm against me for the first time in our lives together. Just like I had seen Tylen Brackus, at night, under the freight car, working at those terrible odds he always faced up to.

* * *


Travels in Circassia, Krim Tartary, &c. (IX)

LETTER V.

LEAVE PEST FOR GALATZ - THE PANNONIA STEAM-BOAT - PASSENGERS - COUNT

ESTERHAZY - BUFFALOES - ASPECT OF THE COUNTRY - PETERWARDEIN, THE GIBRALTAR

OF THE DANUBE - MILITARY CORDON OF AUSTRIA - FLOURISHING STATE OF THE COLONY - COSTUME OF THE PEOPLE.

The directors of the steam navigation having decided on despatching a new steam-boat down the Danube to Galatz, for the purpose of ascertaining how far it was practicable, from the great height the water had attained, to cross the dangerous cataract called the Iron Gate, I resolved to make one of her passengers on the somewhat hazardous expedition; for though various works are in progress to facilitate this object, yet steam navigation had not hitherto been attempted on that part of the river.

The Pannonia is a pretty little fiat-bottomed boat, of thirty-six horse power; its form and interior arrangements being similar to those running between London and Gravesend. She is commanded by a well-behaved Venetian, Giovanni Clician. The accommodation was excellent, so tar as regarded a ladies' cabin, and

a large saloon furnished with divans, the whole kept remarkably clean; but there being no regular berths, the sofas performed the duty of beds, and the traveller is much inconvenienced while performing his toilet. The same censure is also applicable to this boat as to the Nador, with respect to refreshments, which were considered by the passengers as too high-priced for a country where provisions may be purchased at a lower rate than in any other part of Europe. The stranger, however, has the advantage of being able to resort to a fixed tariff, in which the price of every article has been regulated by the directors of the steam navigation company.

We had but few passengers on board, and these were principally Hungarian noblemen on their way to the fashionable bath Mehadia, in the Banate. I was much pleased to find among them my old friend Count Francis Esterhazy; there were also several Austrian dragoon officers, proceeding to join their regiments in lower Hungary. I was equally surprised and gratified on discovering one of them to be an Englishman, Lieutenant Isaacson; from whom I learned that several of our countrymen since the peace had entered the Austrian array as cadets, where it appears their services are highly prized, and meet with every encouragement.

The scenery, after leaving Pest, was neither interesting nor striking, consisting principally of immense plains, upon which herds of cattle, including great numbers of buffaloes, were feeding, apparently to their hearts' content, the herbage being most luxuriant. I cannot but think that the latter would be an acquisition to the farmer in England, and would


find themselves quite at home while w^allowing in the fens of Lincolnshire. Count Esterhazy, himself a great landed proprietor, informed me their flesh, while young, was quite equal to the best veal, and their milk infinitely richer than that of the cow: besides, from their great strength, they would be found very serviceable in performing agricultural labours.

Water-mills, islands covered with foliage, a few straggling villages of the peasants, together with the primitive vessels of the Danube boatmen, lent their aid in giving some variety to the landscape; while numerous flocks of wild fowl rent the air with their piercing cries, and the very eagles, unaccustomed to being disturbed by man in this half-deserted country, approached our vessel almost within pistol-shot.

At Apatin, the Danube forms a considerable curve; when, after swelling into a foaming surge. and being increased by the accession of the Drave, the turbulent stream, with a loud roar, bore us quickly forward to Erdod. This little town is supposed to be the spot where the ancient Teutoburjjum once stood, on account of the number of Roman antiquities found in the neighbourhood. It is pleasantly situated on a small peninsula of hills covered with vineyards, and rendered still more picturesque by a venerable castle belonging to the family of the Counts Palffy. Here also commences the extensive province of Sclavonia. Shortly after passing another ruin, called Scharengrad, a range of fine picturesque hills relieve the plain from its almost unvarying uniformity, which continued improving in beauty till we arrived at Beges, a town belonging to Count Brunswick, a short distance from

Peterwardein, the Gibraltar of the Danube, where we cast anchor for the night.

Peterwardein, or, as the Hungarians call it, Petervara-Varadin, is said to have been honoured by being the birth-place of Peter the Hermit, of crusade-preaching memory. The fortress, from being situated on an isolated hill, is most formidable as a military position, sweeping every approach by land or water: it is also so extensive, as to be capable of receiving a garrison of ten thousand men. The town is united with Neusatz, on the opposite bank, by a well constructed bridge of boats, containing together a population of about twenty thousand. Peterwardein is one of the most important stations of the military cordon established by Austria to protect her provinces in this part of the empire from the predatory incursions of the Turks, and the entrance of the plague. This admirable cordon extends from the Bocca di Cattaro, in lower Dalmatia on the Adriatic, to the Bukovina on the frontiers of Poland; traversing the provinces of Croatia, Sclavonia, Hungary, and Transylvania: being a distance of four hundred and fifty-five leagues, inhabited by a population of nearly one million two hundred thousand, who hold their lands, rights, and privileges on the express condition of performing military service in defence of the frontiers. To this every man is liable, from the age of eighteen to fifty; after which time, for the next ten years, they have to perform the duties usually intrusted to superannuated soldiers.

(to be continued)

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