A Lazy Drift on the August New

The New River, whose headwaters lie in my part of the Appalachian Mountains, is often considered the oldest river on the continent and even the second oldest river in the world—though not all experts agree. So how did it get its ironic name? No one knows for sure. In any case, I wrote this piece at an August writing workshop at New River State Park a couple of years ago as I reminisced about the many canoe excursions the Gnome and I have shared along this wild and scenic river.


A Lazy Drift Down the August New 

Ducklings huddle in bank cuts 
resisting parents’ push into the current;
two deer take a soothing afternoon sip 
cooling stick-thin legs in mountain-icy water.

Holsteins wade across shallows 
to greener pastures, perhaps,
and a Great-Blue stands majestically, 
its sharp eyes ever watchful for a tasty fish dinner.

I bump across rocks and glide over riffles,
the sun dappling my legs and arms,
my bottom as chilled as drinks in the cooler;
I wave to splashing children and paddling picnickers.

Trees bear witness to beavers’ work 
as swallowtails float above;
sticks of an osprey nest 
rest on a boulder ledge.

Thirsty gray-green leaves 
and occasional yellows and reds 
flutter down and drift along 
beside me.

River’s edge is plastered with signs of autumn—
seed-popping touch-me-nots vie for space
with sunny goldenrod and mauvy Joe-Pye weed;
citrine coneflowers fill every cranny.

Clouds playing across the mountains
produce ever-changing panoramas of light and dark
as they cast reflections of blinding white
on the emerald river surface.

Floating downstream 
in the late summer quiet
I am lost in the flow of this river 
of calming mindfulness. 

Our sturdy Coleman canoe saw us through many rocky river rides.

Native coneflower

Orange spotted touch-me-not. Juice from the stems can be used to treat poison ivy,
which usually grows in the same vicinity.
Goldenrod–not the culprit some allergy sufferers think.
Cloud shadows.
A portion of the New River. Photo by Eric T Gunther, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0,
via Wikimedia Commons

The Best of Times

Second day, seventh month, nineteen and seventy-nine
our family of four arrived for the first time 
on our newly-bought mountain land, ours now for keeps.

Massive meadows of nodding daisies greeted us,
the first of many magical moments
in July of ’79.

Like the morning when clouds made a foamy sea of white,
blue mountain peaks peeking through like islands.
Our hearts stood still at the impossible beauty of it.

Like our discovery of wild strawberries and highbush blueberries, 
scrumptious snacks and desserts made all the better 
because they were ours. All ours.

We slept on the ground, cooked over a campfire,
drank water from a not-so-nearby spring,
made an outdoor privy surrounded by blooming rhododendron.

In that 1979 July
we bathed in the frigid waters of a babbling brook,
our skulls numbed senseless by the cold.

Our music came courtesy of birds and insects,
our entertainment from read-aloud stories by lantern light,
homemade crossword puzzles, and imagination.

Formerly housebound cats found freedom to roam;
proud hunters dropped field mice at our feet
and occasionally a grasshopper.

We chopped trees and cleared ground,
created designs, drew up plans,
and sought official permissions.

We built our forever home with our own hands—
ours and our children’s—
the only ones at work.

Now the children are long grown and gone
and the cats have found their final resting place
on our daisy-covered hillside.

Now the sounds of grandchildren 
laughing in summertime, finding their own magic on our mountain,
bring smiles and happy memories of early days.

Conveniences these days are modern—
and convenient—
living on the diagonal.

But July of nineteen and seventy-nine?
It was the best of times
and the best of times. 
When the daisies–along with a scattering of black-eyed Susans–come back each summer, we smile at the memories of our first July on the diagonal.
Sheer magic.
The children entertained themselves with campfire embers and private jokes.
Could anything taste better than fresh-picked wild mountain strawberries?

Our grasshopper-catching cat joins the Gnome for a well-deserved nap.
We all pitch in to build our home, early on by cutting and placing stakes to lay out foundation. ,

After digging and building the foundation walls, all by hand, it’s time to fill concrete in the top course of blocks to make a bond beam..
It’s hard to beat flowering rhododendron for outhouse walls.
With brute strength the Gnome pushes one of the posts in place.

I’m nailing exterior sheathing over the post and beam wall structure.
Years pass and our first grandchild gets to share the joys of living on the diagonal at the first of many grandparents’ camps.

Bustin’ Out All Over

Every leaf is fresh and lush 
and green in June
apricot-colored azaleas
set Appalachian hills on fire 
and electric-red firepinks
dot rocky mountain roadsides

The last bell of the year has rung
as raucous youngsters race 
from school yards into back yards
to prance through sprinklers 
and blow iridescent bubbles
in barefoot abandon 

Summer is young in June and full of promise
newly planted gardens grow
plump succulent strawberries 
ooze red juices from eager lips
country fields are hectic
with hay mowing and baling

Wrens sing happy songs in sunshine
Synchronous fireflies dance in the dark 
to the music of June’s night insects
the air is sweet with the scent
of the milkweed and honeysuckle
that suckle trembling butterflies

Who would want 
to live 
in a world 
without lavish June?
Wren fledglings prepare for their first flight.
Eastern tiger swallowtail alights on foliage.
Flame azaleas are native to the Appalachian region of the US.
Firepink found at Mammoth Cave National Park. Public domain photo courtesy of National Park Service.

A Very Merry Month

(This is part of my series of monthly poems. I am painfully aware that all is not merry in May, particularly this year, and that May ends with a commemoration of Americans who died in war, including members of my own family. This poem is not meant to disregard or disrespect any of that. In fact, this May has been quite difficult for me personally: I was faced with the senseless and untimely death of a long-time acquaintance and the physical pain and limitations caused by shoulder and neck issues—a trial of aging. But this poem has another intent: to celebrate the glories Nature gives us in May and the excitement that naturally fills the air this time of year.)

The Very Merry Month of May

May Day, May poles, Mother’s Day
mark the month of May
proms and graduations abound
flowers burst forth in
explosions of color—
pink and purple rhododendrons
sensuous irises in every hue
cheery cherry blossoms and more.

Lilacs perfume the world
with scentful blossoms
and native magnolias 
sprinkle the woods 
with creamy white
each spring rain 
makes Nature’s palette 
more vibrant.

Mountains are transformed
as winter’s browns and grays
are replaced by
countless shades of green
undulating and billowing 
up the hillsides
like fluffy viridescent clouds 

Once again 
finally again
the earth is verdant
fragrant breezes
embrace us
our eyes behold
a world of color

May is the quintessence
of spring
a time that feels 
like summer
—only better

Spring fever 
wafts through the air 
as youthful energy 
and enthusiasm
bounce off the walls
like echoes

May is when
love effloresces
as exuberantly
as the season’s blossoms
May is a rush—
A time when
we can’t keep up
with our own emotions

May is for bird trills 
nestbuilding and
frolicking wildlife
who also know
May is a time 
of rebirth 
and rejoicing.

If ever 
there was a time 
to seize the day
it is a magic
day in May

Nothing can compare
to the days of May
a month for 
living
laughing
loving

Poppies add exotic color and patterns to May.
Bearded iris
Rhododendron in its full May glory

JANUS

JANUS*	

One tick of the clock
exactly the same 
as the one before
the one after
Tick Tock Tick Tock

Still, we imbue it with awesome power
this moment between
between the night before, the day after
or any other moment in time
Tick Tock Tick Tock

A new year, we think
a new beginning
"I resolve . . ."
we thrive on contrived ritual
Tick Tock Tick Tock

This month we live
in the dark season
yet it lightens
minute by imperceptible minute
tempting us to look toward spring

But wait!
Let’s not lose this priceless moment
this mysterious, palpable present 
for the not-yet-here unknown future
Tick Tock Tick Tock

Long January—the quiet season
a time for flannel, books, a cup of tea
a time for introspection and self-learning
a calm month 
a time to refresh the spirit

May I forget the clock
gaze out the window
at untrampled snow
breathe in, breathe out  
may I delight in my own renewal
			
			

* Janus, the Roman god, protector of gates and doorways.
Janus is depicted with two faces, one looking to the past, the other to the future. 

The Heart of Dixie: A Holiday Story

(My annual holiday story, originally published 12/21/2017)

A little preface may be called for here. Way back in the last century—in the mid-70s—our local chapter of the National Organization for Women (NOW) established a number of consciousness-raising groups. Those of us who were interested were randomly assigned to one group or another.

C-R meetings were safe spaces where women could share our deepest secrets, questions, fears, and issues as women. Initially, C-R groups were meant to be a mass-organizing tool for broad political action, but consciousness raising quickly became a form of political action in its own right.

At C-R gatherings, our sense of isolation imploded as we each discovered our individual experiences were anything but unique, anything but small. As we discussed problems and events from our own lives, our stories became a tool for change. We gained strength and courage to take on systemic, structural sexism wherever it existed—sometimes in our own heads. It’s an on-going process, but one where we learned that indeed the personal is political, a truth we still see in today’s various human rights struggles. And though C-R groups were sometimes pooh-poohed as nothing more than group navel gazing, those who benefited from the institution of sexism soon found the results a power to be reckoned with.

*****

We were eight or nine in number, almost all strangers when our Consciousness-Raising group had been formed. In our short time together, we’d tackled all manner of topics, from workplace discrimination to deeply personal and painful issues to women’s health care to daily gender-based slights. It didn’t take long to bond. We were tight.

Dixie volunteered to host our December meeting, more a holiday celebration than a discussion of feminist politics. We had agreed in advance that, in lieu of tangible gifts, we’d each read a favored poem or essay—any subject. I chose Rod McKuen’s “A Cat Named Sloopy.”

It was an appropriate selection on several levels. I’d always been a cat lover and was owned by two of them at the time. And at our very first group meeting, one of the members observed that I reminded her of a cat with my easy movements and my quiet, sensitive manner.

After the rest of us had read our pieces, it was Dixie’s turn. Instead of pulling out a book, she asked to be excused for a minute. When she returned, she was wearing a big grin and carrying a basket full of small, white gift boxes. Cries of “Oh, Dixie” and the like filled the room. The rest of us had followed our mutual agreement—why was she giving out presents?

But, for reasons of her own, Dixie needed to bring an offering. And it was obvious from the pleased exclamations and laughter as we opened our little boxes and pulled out identical items that what she chose was perfect.

Dixie gave us each an egg. More accurately stated, she gave us each an eggshell, an egg whose contents had been carefully blown out. With red ink, Dixie had drawn facial features on each egg and encircled each one with a fat piece of red yarn tied into a bow at its narrowed top. An ornament hook was stuck into the bow’s knot. My name was written on the back of my egg.

It had to have been a tedious, time-consuming process, likely with more than a few failed attempts. It was a gift of thoughtfulness and love. Dixie found a clever, personal expression of our shared womanhood—the very essence of our relationship.

That was almost forty-five years ago. I still have my egg. The ink has faded, yet it’s an unrivaled possession, safely stored with other treasured holiday ornaments and always ready to play a starring role when it’s brought out for special occasions. In the intervening years, I’ve given a few of my own.

dixie egg

My prized vintage egg from Dixie

My egg reminds me of more than that heady time and those extraordinary women. It reminds me of change, of the unexpected. My egg has traveled with me across two states; through a wild adventure of leaving behind almost everything I knew to hand-build a home with my soulmate; it’s been with me through child-rearing, a career, and now my life’s vintage chapter.

My fragile, yet enduring, egg is a symbol of the strength of perseverance, courage, and tenacity. It symbolizes the power of knowledge and community of spirit. It symbolizes friendship and freedom of thought. It symbolizes time and all the experience that accompanies it. And it epitomizes the exquisite purity of giving from the heart.

Wherever you are today, dear Dixie, thank you for breaking the rules, thank you for your generous heart, and thank you for opening mine a little wider.

Thanks Giving

Fleeting fall, first snow
quiet sleepy gray
November is
autumn’s final fling

A month almost forgotten
when robins and cedar waxwings
last birds of fall
forage leftover berries
before winter’s famine

Leathery leaves drift 
on windless days 
to carpet the earth
a portent of white drifts to come

November means feasting
contentment
grace and comfort
giving thanks 
for food, family, friends

A time of remembrance
for war’s end
and hope for peace

November is a state of mind

		--Carole Coates
		   November 2021 

Thirteen Ways

Every once in a while, I share something inspired by a prompt from one of my writing groups. Recently, we were challenged to compose a poem using the title of the Wallace Stevens poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Crow,” but inserting a noun other than crow (and writing in our own style). As usual, we were given five or ten minutes to complete the task. I composed a list poem using an image which has been close to my heart from my earliest days. (Sorry, I seem unable to set the poem to single space.)

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Mountain Brook

rushing water splashing over fallen boulders

minnows in shallows, trout in deeper water

salmon jumping upstream

sunbathers wading to a rocky slab

picnickers eating Vienna sausage and saltines midstream

mica-sprinkled sand under still, clear pools

glinting sunbeams

liquid life

sticks floating like tiny kayaks

soggy sneakers

frogs, algae, and water bugs

miniature lacy waterfalls

quiet water flowing over moss-covered stones

This Is a Wonderful Day

Maya Angelou said, “This is a wonderful day. I’ve never seen this day before. In these days of still limited social activities, days can sometimes feel that they merely bleed into each other. I read a recent magazine article in which the author wrote of this very feeling, asking, “Is it Tuesday or November?”

I understand that sentiment, but it can be dangerous, so I set my mind to considering what makes each day special and unique. Everyone’s experience is different, of course, but my thoughts led me to this essay.

I never know what I’ll wake up to on our ridge. A bank of south-facing, shade-free windows greets my sleepy eyes. Will the sky be cornflower blue or gravel gray? Or will I be enshrouded by pea-soup fog so thick an unknowing person would have no idea our home is surrounded by mountains?

Will the Fraser Firs, planted so long ago as a Christmas tree crop—forgotten until they grew into sixty-foot giants—wave in the breeze as if they are dancing a graceful waltz , or will they be as still as the rocky peaks behind them? Will their branches be spring green or will they be laden with snow or frosted with ice? Will the maple leaves be green, crimson, or gone?

Will rabbits, turkey, deer, or even a bear be wandering across our meadow? Will daisies be in bloom or wild blueberries ready to become pie? Are mushrooms, chickweed, or purslane ripe for foraging? Will daffodils smile their sunny faces at me?

Will spiders have woven gossamer webs on fences? Will garden tomatoes be ready to harvest? Will robins and cedar waxwings be feasting on mountain ash berries? Will hummingbirds flutter at us through the window asking, “Well, I’ve returned, so where’s my nectar?”

Will caterpillars become butterflies today? Will hawks circle overhead as they gather to migrate? Will neighborhood crows hold a cacophonous caucus in the woods? Will I encounter a red salamander or a spade-footed toad on my morning walk? Will Jack-in-the pulpit or trillium be in bloom today?

As I begin to contemplate the never-ending possibilities awaiting me each day, I realize how important it is for me to remember this is a wonderful day. I have never seen this day before.

A few of the scenes, many of them surprises, that have greeted my sometimes weary eyes.

I’ve never seen a rainbow so low nor right in front of our mountain.
This walking stick hopped on for a free ride.
Rime ice can make for glorious scenes.
Seeing valley fog from above is pure magic.
Seen on a snowy winter day
One of the best thing about living in the mountains is the sight of native flame azaleas in June.

WINTIRFYLLITH

Now that October has come and gone–how did it happen so quickly?–here is a poem I wrote to try to capture the fullness of the tenth month of our calendar.

This image has an empty alt attribute; its file name is dscf5999.jpg
WINTIRFYLLITH* 


Golden leaf coins cascade
like heaven’s manna;
night skies sparkle
In October’s crisp air.

Sandals and shorts give way
to socks and sweats,
iced tea to hot cocoa,
salads to creamy soups.

October is county fairs
midway carnies competing for cash
Ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds
cotton candy and caramel corn.

Shelves lined with glass jars
brim with summer’s vibrance
waiting to fill
winter-chilled tummies

October is bonfires,
football and camping
hotdogs and marshmallows
roasting on open flames

hootenannies and folksongs,
hand-holding lovers
blanketed on hayrides
under harvest moon;

pumpkin patches and corn mazes
sourwood honey, sweet-sour pomes
haunted house frights
and woolly worm races.

Chattering chipmunks
and scurrying squirrels
clamp tiny jaws 
’round walnuts and pecans.

Candy corn adorns 
store shelves;
ghostly creatures
embellish roofs and yards.

Smoky-sweet leaf scents 
crunched by boot-clad wanderers
perfume October air,
feed forest floors.


Costumed spirits and ghouls
crawl Halloween streets
crammed with spooky décor 
for tooth-decaying treats.

October is crow caws
craft fairs and beer fests
frosty mornings, hillside mists
a foggy Hunter’s Moon.

October is a mellow month
like cat paws and clover,
more night than day
readying us for winter’s shivers.

		--Carole Coates
		   October, 2021




*Wintirfyllith: Anglo-Saxon word for October meaning the fullness of winter, because the first full moon of winter comes in October.