And That Worries Me

The past few Septembers have felt more like the waning days of August with highs in the 70s, sometimes more. Very few Canadian cool fronts have blown through, reminding us of the change of season, that the Autumnal Equinox has already come and gone.

I suspect this is the new normal, and should probably enjoy the lingering warmth since winter waits just around the corner. Instead, this weather makes me somewhat uneasy. Not unlike dancing on the Cliffs of Moher.



And That Worries Me


Toxic Algae Warning signs
sprouted around a city lake just today.

An upshot of flawless lawns,
fertilizer run-off, and warming summers.

But young boys no longer fish the rickety pier,
and no one wishes to swim slime-green waters

except the ducks and they can't read.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Who Will Note

Earlier this summer I traveled back to my hometown in South Dakota. My father came from a farm family of twelve siblings, and many a summer as a child I spent time on that farm with my Aunt and Uncles. None of the three married and all remained to work the land. Theirs was not an easy life but I always eagerly looked forward to spending time in the country with them. The days there were filled with freedom to roam and bounded by their love.



Who Will Note


two brothers and a sister
who farmed the 20th century in eastern Dakota?
Their dry-land crops and skinny livestock?
The Dust Bowl dirt that sifted over
their own childhoods?
The grasshoppers that once ate skivvies
and everything else off laundry lines?
The hollyhocks climbing a rickety trellis,
the tire swing in the side yard?
The tornado that repositioned their barn?
The rosaries prayed during fierce storms
on the midnight Plains?
The fat years with bumper yields of corn?
The annual table full of threshers
downing chicken and gravy, pies and coffee?
The small town bartending job worked weekends
when summer hail shredded the fields?
The pint of whiskey stashed in a bureau drawer?
The Sunday dinners crowded with siblings
and their offspring now moved to the city?

No prodigy of their own
nor flashy heroic deeds claim them.
Only their photos, fading in shoeboxes
of scattered nieces and nephews,
and three simple tombstones, side-by-side,
starting to list in a country graveyard
mark their presence on the prairie.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Photo Finish

The cool nights of autumn have definitely arrived and, for whatever reason, I find myself thinking of the past. Maybe it's the fleet of yellow school buses or the excitement of a new school year for so many kids. But mostly, I think, it's because my brother died a few Septembers ago. Whenever I see fields of soybeans turning yellow prior to harvest, I am reminded of him.

I have a photo of Steve taken a couple of months before he passed away, and it haunts me still. In my version of a perfect world that last image of him simply doesn't fit.



Photo Finish


I possess a picture of my brother
too painful to place in an album:

a once full face
now like an apple doll's,
collapsed inward

a weary smile
to oblige the photographer

a winter sweatshirt
worn over faded blue jeans
in mid-July heat.

Not wanting to stash it away
nor willing to expose it

I slipped it back into its envelope
and kept it on my table
as if Snapfish could refinish the photo,
recover a healthy image,
stem the flood threatening my eyes.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor

Videos

Back to the north woods for an extended weekend. It's good to get away from the electronic world for a while: no TV, no internet connection. The only video we watched, all of three or four minutes, came from a trail camera in the forest and a little gizmo set up in the cabin while we were away. You never know what you might see when it's played back.

The weather proved perfect, sunny and 70s in the daytime, thundershowers at night. OK, maybe too much with the rain. An inch and an half Sunday followed by three inches Monday night, making for a humid and soggy Tuesday morning. And the lake level keeps inching higher.



Videos


From a game camera fixed to a fir:
an image of you, checking the lens,
nary a bear or deer,
not even a flock of turkeys.

But from the pocket-promo inside:
daddy-long-legs sauntering away,
Asian beetles monstrous as sci-fi bugs,
creeping closer, body-blocking the aperture.

You don't hunt. I don't wish to watch
insects cavort on the counter. And the awe
from real time wildlife overshadows
any found on film.

The marketers had you clearly in their sights.



Marilyn Aschoff Mellor