Writers

Written after a week in Iowa City at the University of Iowa for a writer's workshop.

Writer’s Workshop

Dale sits across from me

in our Iowa City pow wow

deep in the wounds of the river.

He’s a mountain man Mark Twain

here for therapy

but, we all are.

The currents stop for him this week

his raft safely tethered.

Sherry’s next to me

trying to wean off her medication. 

If Sherry weren’t a writer,

she might be a trucker

with that kind of vocabulary.

Twelve souls scratch the wooden table

of our minds within this writing room. 

We search for words never put together before

and struggle.

But this isn’t Scrabble, 

this is the soul’s integrity

it reaches out beneath layers of skin 

toughened and hard-bitten till the first drop of ink hits the veins

of our loss, our memories, our hurt, our weaknesses.

I don’t want to know these people outside

of this room.

buy groceries with them

cash our checks or balance our debts.

I can’t sit with them in church 

can’t see their sins played out before me

can’t take their pain.

These mythical creatures---

These writers

Titans buried in the earth

Are best left suspended between the here

And the future now

And the place where memories script themselves on a long ride home.

German Girls

Big Mid-Western German Girls

My Scandinavian friends

don’t understand

us. 

Size 11 feet

no one under 175

weight spread out

broad shoulders.

No saunas for us---

we sweat without it,

winter cold

grandma, in just her housecoat,

grandpas big boots untied

putting out bird seed

in the feeder

for those that remain.

Wine made in basements for holidays,

but drink beer

unless medicine needed

whiskey in a small jelly glass.

Workers and drinkers,

Loud, hard laughs, face red

music playing

self taught musicians

crowded together in small houses

Saturday night,

Sunday morning coming soon.

Lutheran or Catholic

doesn’t matter,

raised the same

between brick and mortar----

prattled with discipline.

Big Mid-Western German Girls stand a foot taller in church

slump at dances,

work hard in fields,

in homes with husbands and babies

so next generations can have it better.    

Looking at those like myself in grandma’s photo box

black and white likeness shifting between my fingers

I imagine my kind’s past

and try to shape our future.   

Boxcar Willy

When I was younger more than anything I wanted to be Boxcar Willy.  I don’t remember how I was first exposed to who Willy was but I found him immediately appealing.  Boxcar Willy or Lecil Travis Martin was born alongside a railroad where he and his family lived.  He rose to stardom in the Country Music world when he took on the persona of a hobo living a life of freedom by riding the railroads throughout America.  He even had his own television show.  For me, he was appealing.  I imagined myself with bandanna wrapped belongings tied to a stick, venturing out into the world alone. 

                

He was a singer of stories---life experiences I had yet to encounter.  He was magical, he represented a world where rules didn't exist for everyone, a place where freedom was just a train whistle away.  I used to play in my backyard with the other neighbor kids and pretend to be famous.  Stephanie was always Blondie.  She only knew the “Call me” part of the famous song but she could do so with such conviction that we were always impressed.  One time she stole her mother’s satin jumpsuit and clogs which ended up being her best performance. 

                

Stacy was always Johnny Paycheck.  The only thing she really knew about him is from a record her dad kept in their panel-lined rec room next to his beer can collection.  She used to repeat, “Take this job and shove it” over and over again as we laughed.  Sometimes we chimed in loudly with the ‘shove it’ part feeling rebellious that we dared to say such things. 

               

I liked Boxcar Willy.  I might have shown Stephanie and Stacy my outfit that I wore when I played in my room alone, but they didn't know who he was, so I became Johnny Cash instead.  I held a stick like a guitar, have my back to audience and then I would turn around and say in my deepest voice, “Hello, my name is Johnny Cash.”

          

Boxcar Willy had the coolest name though.  He did whatever he wanted.  No parents said that this was wrong or this is right to Boxcar Willy.  When I was nine, I tried running away once in the spirit of Boxcar Willy.  I wasn't brave enough to go to the train tracks which were too many blocks away from what were my childhood parameters.  I decided that the park was a better option.  I took my mother’s train case filled with all of my white cotton underwear and tennis socks.  My freedom was short lived; no one came to find me, but the picnic tables in the park seemed lonely and without adventurous stories.  There was no journey scratched into its surface—no passing scenery---just the same as home. 

              

I have often wondered what happened to Boxcar Willy.  I imagine that in the reality we live in, his show was cancelled, record deals were eventually lost, and he had to move to Branson where most country music stars quietly exist with their families.