Howling from My Mountain

(Playing catchup of re-posting the "Draft Written to Blog: Clementine")

Clementine pushed the egg around in the grease. She hated runny yolks, so she fried it until the entire egg was hard. That’s how her grandma had always eaten them. Her daddy had liked his eggs runny and he’d take his fork and smash the yolk into the white, then he dip his toast or biscuit into it, swirl it around until it was soppy with egg, and take a hippopotamus bite. He'd say, "Eat up girl. You need meat on them bones."

After her egg was fried, Clementine grabbed a biscuit from the pan, smeared fresh-churned butter on it, and sat to eat her breakfast with a cup of black coffee. Her house was quiet, too quiet. Not the good quiet that includes all the critter noises and the wind sawing branches and the creek guggling, but the quiet that comes when too many voices have been talking in her head, swirling round and round, then hush with a sudden still. She knew that quiet meant only a pause, that moment of waiting before they all started up again, all the people she’d ever known, even the ones she’d rather forget, or even the ones that hurt too much to remember.

In that pause, in the eye of the storm in her brain, she chewed her food, slow slow; slow enough to delay the next thing she had to do. But soon, the plate was empty, her cup was empty, and it was time to rise and get ready. She rinsed her dishes, dried them, put them up. A cardinal called. A squirrel chattered.

A voice said, "Chil' you sick?"

"No'm," she answered. "I'm not sick."

"Then why you spitting up you breakfast this morning?"

"Just not agreeing at me, Grandma."

"Uh huh. That so."

 "Yes'm."

"You look peak-ed. You been look peak-ed. You sure you ain't got sum-thin' to tell you grandma?"

"No'm."

"Uh huh...Wale, I may be a old woman, but I ain't stupid. I got a potion to make that'll he'p.”

"No, grandma! I done need no potion..."

"Hesh up...let grandma he'p you..."

Clementine headed to her bathroom, took off her chore clothes, drew her bath, got her towel and washrag, climbed in the tub and sat as it filled. Her bones ached from the chores. Her young self  and her old self felt as if they were coming together in a rush, clashing together like wind against trees.

She cleaned herself in her claw-foot tub, the iron cold on her bare bottom. Stroking the washrag over her skin, she couldn’t believe that skin was hers. For it was wrinkled and spotty. Seemed only a little while ago her skin was smooth and tight. Even the color didn’t look right. Aaron always said her color wasn’t to be ashamed of, but to wonder about where it came from. Clementine smiled, scrubbed her feet, in between her toes, on the bottom. She always washed from head to feet, just as she was taught. The old lye soap was long replaced by Dove. She loved the smell of it, the creamy of it, how it slid easily over her skin, as if she was washing with cream instead of soap. She felt like a queen when she used the Dove and it was her secret pleasure. Once she knew better and wasn’t so stinky and dirty, Aaron said her skin smelled like sunshine after rain, he was so silly sometimes.

Her momma was as white as the biscuit innards she’d just eaten. Her daddy was like the toasted part at the top. Her grandma was like Clementine; their skin looked as if they’d been in the sun too long. When she was young, that was seen as a bad thing, to have skin that wasn’t milky-pale. Aaron hadn’t cared at all, and he’d stroked her skin and told her she was the color of the coffee he drank—milk and three spoons of sugar was how he took it.

Clementine dried off with the towel in her favorite color: Red. She’d splurged on that towel, same as she’d splurged on the Dove soap. It was her secret—big fluffy red towel and bars of fancy soap. When she had to wash the red towel, the old thin ones felt scratchy and mean. Next, she put on her panties and bra, then her slip, then she brushed her hair, put it back in the ponytail and into her bun. She went to the chiffirobe and took from the hanger her mourning dress. The black dress slithered over her body, and it felt as if she were being suffocated, even though the dress was loose on her. It scratched at her, binded her, choked her—she hated the dress, hated what it meant it was time to do. She slipped on her black lace up boots, and then last, her black gloves and hat. It was time.

It looked like rain, the clouds gathering. Clementine hoped it would rain, she hoped it soaked her through and through. She wanted to feel cleansed by the sky, she wanted the black dress to soak and cling. She wanted the sky to open and pour its contents upon her head. She wanted to have to swim to the spot. She wanted to wade through miles of water and mud. She wanted her boots to fill. She wanted—she wanted, that was just it. Clementine wanted. Maybe she wanted too much maybe that's why things had gone like they'd gone.

She walked to the spot. No rain. The sun peeked through the clouds, as if in apology. She bent down to her knees in the green grass surrounding the clearing. The little clearing had a few shoots growing and these Clementine pulled up. She straightened the cross, brushed away stray leaves. Finally, she lay upon the grave of the little one. Lay her body down, lay the left side of her face on the earth and whispered to the little one, told it about her morning, how the memories wouldn’t stay away, how they swirled and tossed and blew, how she didn’t want to remember, but she must. She kissed the ground, liking the taste of soil, the grit of it. She said, “You would surely be an old man now. You’d be a old man and I’d still be you momma. I’d be you old old momma and you still be my lil' one. You might say, ‘Momma, leave me be, I’m old. I know what to do.’ And I would say, ‘Hesh up, you still my boy. You still my baby and I can say what I want to.’”

Clementine kissed the earth again and lay there. Lay there until her bones hurt too bad to lay anymore, and still she lay there, long after the sun moved over her and behind her. Long she lay there, listening to the voices. She scream of a bobcat and she was back…

§

Clemmie listened to the howl of the wind. She wasn’t afraid. Much anyway. Before she’d gone to bed, Daddy said a storm was coming fierce, but then didn’t they live near by where it was named so? Mount Storm, with its lightening flashes blazing up the ridges to full light even in the darkest of nights. Clemmie’s momma didn’t like storms and always said she wanted to live in the valley, in a house that didn’t have woods all around it, one that she didn’t have to go down a mountain to get to town, and where she didn’t have to worry about a bear or a big cat or a wolf or some other creature bent on doing bad things to a human. Clemmie loved all the things her momma hated. She knew her momma was huddled up under the covers, with a pillow fast held to her head, probably crying, too. Clemmie never cried. It was silly.

A branch scraped against her windowpane and Clemmie rose from her soft bed to stare out into the night. She pretended Aaron had scratched at her window, calling to her. She imagined opening the window and there he’d be, wild looking, his hair stuck to his forehead, his lashes wet and clinging, he’d call her out to him, and she’d climb out the window, and they’d go running and laughing into the thrashing of the wind and rain, in the hot electric crash of lightening, and he’d kiss her, right on the lips and she wouldn’t be afraid of it, she’d take the kiss, taste the rain right from his mouth. She felt stubborn about it, mad that her age made these things impossible to her. She was old inside, had always been, that’s what her grandma said. Said, “Jest like me, ripe before you orter be.”

Blue-white flashes hit here, there, here, there. The sky boiled. Clemmie wondered if a tornado really was coming. Earlier, Daddy said tornados didn’t come to the mountains, but Clemmie’s grandma shook her head, said, “Them ternaders do too come to these here mountains. I seen ‘em, I been through it. One picked up my old dog and threw it five mile away. Din’t hurt it but one li’l scratchety place on its fore-paw. Yep, them ternaders come. They come.”

Daddy had answered, “You and them stories, Ma.” He laughed and touched his momma’s soft white hair.

“Huh. Ain’t no stories. If’n I ever were to lie, I’d go straight on away to hell. Huh.”

“Ain’t no hell, either, Ma. Made up stories is all them is.”

Grandma’s face had pinched in and folded inside out and then turned red and purple. She reached up and smacked Daddy on the back of his head. “Donchoo blaspheme! I ain’t raised you that-a-way.”

Daddy just winked at Clemmie and went on out the door to fasten things down for the storm. She wondered though, about the tornados and about hell and about God and Jesus and all. Clemmie wondered all kinds of things.

Right then, Clemmie most wondered what Aaron was doing. If he was staring out of his window at the same time she was staring out of hers. When the lightening touched the ground, maybe his eyes went wide then narrow, wide then narrow, again and again, like her's. He probably wasn’t thinking of her like she was thinking of him. He was fifteen and she was only twelve. He teased her all the time, tweaking her nose, pulling her hair, telling her she was dirty and stinky and girls shouldn’t be dirty and stinky. She pretended to be mad at him, since that made him tease her all the more, but really, inside, in the secret secret parts of herself that no one else ever saw, she loved him. 

When her momma wasn’t feeling bad with a headache and didn’t need Clemmie to stay with her, Clemmie got up extra early to finish her chores, then lit out through the woods, down the long trails to the holler, slipping through the fence, crawling through the tall grass, and then hiding behind the big stump where the tree had once stood giant-tall with a trunk as big around as five or six Clemmie’s surrounding it arm to arm. That tree had been struck by a bolt of lightening so big and so hot, it tore the tree into pieces and left but the stump. A perfect place for her to hide behind to watch Aaron.

If he ever was to see her hiding there, he never let on, and she liked that in him. But, more she liked how he’d take off his shirt and his skin would be shiny from sweat, and his muscles would move like she’s never seen muscles move before, not even in her daddy, and her daddy was the strongest man in the world. Aaron's hair was as dark as hers, and his eyes were darker. If she tried to look straight a-ways into his eyes, she’d feel a mite dizzy, as if she were falling into a dark pond that had no end, but where things swam unknown and mysterious, brushing up against her, knowing her in a way she didn’t know herself. Almost like when she swam in the hidden pond with all her clothes off, when no one was around to see her do it, and the water pressed against her. It made her shiver, from tip to toe.

Aaron worked the horse every day, and he was gentle with them, his big hands stroked them and they’d only flinch at first, just a little, as if flicking off a fly. He made clicking sounds as he led them round the little corral. They cocked their ears to him, even the wildest and meanest of horses gentled when they were with Aaron. People bought their animals to him when they were about to be done with them, and Aaron set them right so they wouldn’t be killed or sent off to who knows where bad animals go. It wasn’t just horses, but dogs and cows and bulls and mules and even wild things—all animals he had a touch with. The people would come fetch them back, their faces lit up with grins, slapping Aaron on the back and calling him special. She’d feel jealous when a girl would flutter their silly lashes at him, or stand too close, or tell him he sure was big and strong too handle such beasts—least that’s what that Mae-lynn always said. Mae-lynn was fourteen and she had things growing from her body that Clemmie didn’t have, and she wore dresses and ribbons that Clemmie didn’t wear. It made her face go hot just thinking about Mae-lynn’s pretty pale-white face compared next to Clemmie’s dirty darker face.

Clemmie left the window, her bones tired from the chores she’d done that day, but more from Momma's cries. Sometimes the headaches got so bad that Clemmie was afraid her momma’s head would crack wide open and spill all her brains out. Grandma’s potion helped a little, most times. Daddy wrung his hands, his face wrinkled up with worry—the only time Clemmie ever saw Daddy look weakened was when Momma was ailing that way. Clemmie climbed back into bed and hoped the storm would soon pass before first light, and hoped Momma would be better, so that she could make her way to her Aaron.

She’d soon be older, just a few more years and she’d be old enough. She could wait. She was patient. One day Aaron would turn around, and there she’d be, a woman, and he being a man, he’d know. He’d know just what she had been waiting for. She’d stare into those eyes and fall right on in, find out what all was swimming against her.

Right before she fell asleep, she heard the piercing cry and right then and there, she knew a tornado really was coming…

§

Clementine.

The old cabin had been pummeled by storms. It had never been painted any jaunty color like red or yellow, nor had it been stained in muted tones that suggest nature even if defying it by its protective film. The old cabin sat just as it had for one-hundred years, settled into the West Virginia soil with aching sighs, shifting, finding just the right spot with groans and cricks. If Clementine were to take a marble and set it at the front door, it would roll to the back door and out into her little yard. When her daddy built the cabin, he’d made sure the front door and back door were facing each other, like those shotgun houses. He liked how the wind came through and went out—so did the ghosts, Clementine’s grandma used to say. Clementine’s grandma liked to tell ghost stories. She said if houses were built with a way in, they best have a way quick out, and that’s why it was good Clemmie’s daddy built the cabin as he did.

She’d stayed in bed too long this morning. Her bones ached, especially the left shoulder bones, where long ago, when she was dewy fresh, she’d climbed a tree and that old cranky branch had split, then broken, and sent her falling to the hard ground. She’d felt the shoulder give, and set out a scream of pain before she even realized she’d set to screaming. Clementine didn’t like to cry then, and she won't cry any more, and was proud to tell anyone that she hasn’t cried since…well, since the little one. Clementine shook her head, no use thinking on those thoughts. Those thoughts just circle round and round until they get up speed and then became a tornado of memories she wasn't in the mood for.

Clementine eased out of bed, stretched her arms over her head and took deep breaths. Her grandma had done this all her living years, and those years had stretched on and on until she was one-hundred and three. The newspaper people and the television people came out and snapped pictures of her, there grinning with all her teeth—another thing she’d been proud of, those teeth. She’d hit Clemmie over the head many a times to remind her to brush up her teeth. Clementine was glad she’d listened, for her teeth were strong and hard as little pebbles.

The morning came cool, but spring sneaked up fast. Clementine had work to do. She feeds her critters before she fed herself. That’s how her grandma taught her son and that’s how her son did things and her son was Clementine’s daddy and Clementine’s daddy was always smart and right, even if he didn’t go but up to fifth grade, he knew how to do sums in his head real fast, and he knew how to read, and he knew things about the mountains and all the creatures that roamed around in them and so Clementine learned too and that’s how she did things and it was so and right and good. Clementine’s momma was another story, but that’s another thing she doesn’t want to think on, it's such a fine morning. Her momma was too delicate, too fine, too made for something else than hard mountain life.

Clementine washed her face and smoothed her hair back into a ponytail, then flipped it round in a bun. It was as long as it had been since she could ever remember, but it’d turned white, all the dark color drained away from root to tip. She took off her sleeping clothes and pulled on her morning chores dungarees and flannel shirt. Those clothes were his. His of the name she didn’t want to say, but it left her lips anyway, in a whisper, “Aaron…” The morning brought too many memories. She slipped on her boots, her hat.

She went out her front door, grabbed the bucket from the iron hook, and clucked to her chickens, “Tck tck tck, come on nasty things. Peck pecking at you own shit. Like you can’t even wait for me to come out here and feed you. Tck tck. Tck tck. You there, Rosie-Lou, you’ll be my Sunday supper.” She let out a cackle, and the birds pecked away, dumb as they were they didn’t care between the feed, their own waste, and dirt. They just pecked and squawked. Clementine set the bucket back onto the hook, and made her way to Beauty. She’d named all her horses Beauty, since he’d given her the first one. He was on her mind too much this morning. Then while she stroked Beauty, she accidentally let the memories come on, just blow on in, like through the front door to the back door, but instead of blowing right on through, both doors closed and shut in the memories, where they swirled around like the tornado…

§

It’s time to begin Clementine/Clemmie again. Just to remind: I’m writing a novel directly onto this blog, just as I would when writing one onto my word doc—that means I am writing it in Rough Draft, which means I am not editing or over-thinking; I am just writing. This is what I tell writers to do, this is what I taught in my little writing class last summer: Write, just write that first draft, let the words come willy nilly as they will, for there is always time for editing and rewriting, but if you stifle yourself, the voice will not emerge, the characters may stay mum a bit – and not let loose their secrets. Writing this way, as I always do, I can see the character unfolding, I don’t know what’s going to happen next: we are all experiencing this at the same time, it’s all a mystery—I don’t know the middle or the end and maybe not even the beginning, although I may keep the beginning, who knows? So, since it has been a while, and since I’ve had to break the chain of writing due to some events and some traveling and losing my good old dog, I thought I’d first put up Clementine from previous posts – meaning, I will put up a post a day from the beginning to where I stopped, from previous posts, to catch you up, if you are out there reading and/or interested; and if not, then that’s fine, too. This means you may have already read it—but as soon as I “catch up” I will write new material.

Also, either today or tomorrow, I’ll post those Oregon/airplane ride photos. I will be back later this afternoon to post a section of Clementine from the beginning (I can't put her up all at once, since it is near 10,000 words already - can you believe it?)

My talented writer friend, Angie Ledbetter, who lives in the swampity swamps of South Louisiana, and sees her world in wondrous ways, has taken my essay, “Golden Sparkled Dancer’s Cap,” and created this cool “visual Poetry” from it. She’s been doing this with other works, as well, and it’s fascinating and creative. I’ve put a copy of the image in my photos above—I hope you can read it, see it. Click on the image to enlarge it and it may be easier to see, however it is hard to read on the blog—you can’t get the words to see what she has done, what text she has highlighted to make a poem out of my essay, both visually and with my own words! 

I asked her what “visual poetry” is, or what she is calling this thing she’s doing, and this is what Angie explained:

"Visual poetry, concrete poetry, treated text, book arts...whatever you call it, it's addictive if nothing else. An amalgam of words and color, this form of poetry is also therapeutic for those who write in different styles and genres. Surprisingly, you don't have to have specific artistic ability to enjoy and create new meanings from book pages, magazine picture and random words, or whatever else grabs your attention and can be glued to a piece of paper. Visual poetry also satisfies the heart of those who love the very idea of recycling in any form.

This example, using Kat's Golden Sparkled Dancer's Cap brought to mind flashing colors and wild abandon, much like the author and short story. Although the story was originally printed in WNCW magazine and in Rose & Thorn Literary e-zine summer 2008 issue, it has now found its way to my Sharpie madness, and will soon be in the hands of many high school Advanced Literature students in Baton Rouge as an example of creating the fine personal essay. It's fascinating to see others' interpretation of a writer/poet's original work into new forms, and imagine all the new eyes who will see and enjoy it."

Here are the words she pulled from my essay to make the 'poem' in the image above:

Golden Sparkled Dancer's Cap

I slide the golden dancer's cap on my head
catch the light in the mirror
I lived in the identities heaped upon a person
the little girl with bare feet
that tries to look like everyone else
heavy cloaks to hide the fine mess I'm in

"For Sale, Woman, Cheap"
still dressing to hide from the world
a schizophrenic muddle

I disappeared
the dancer's cap tells me
I can start again

---

This little essay is somehow all over. It started in Western North Carolina Woman Magazine, then went to the summer issue of The Rose & Thorn Literary Ezine, then it was read by Adnan Mahmutovic and the reading is on The R&T Podcast site, and there are a few other things that may be happening with this essay—of course, among them, Angie Ledbetter’s artistic interpretation.

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I will soon return with more of Clementine. For those of you who haven’t been visiting, I am writing a novel draft right onto my blog—no editing, no over-thinking it, just writing it directly here and it shows up as it would be if I were writing a draft onto my word document. Clementine slips in and out of time—when she is called Clementine, she is an adult; when Clemmie, she is a young girl or woman.

(My old girl is still so greatly missed…my beautiful Kayla girl. After I spread my best canine friend’s ashes, I will know what is in this locked down box…the mystery will be revealed. Her ashes will fly in the wind, just as one day mine will fly in the wind.)

Hello. I am here. If you could feel this breeze I feel coming in the windows of our little log house. Can wind be soft -it’s like a soft gentle touch, yes..

I had a nightmare the other night and I woke and everything was dark, not just the dark of night, but I thought how our little log house had become so dark and so quiet. Kayla, Fat Dog, was a loud dog with her breathing and her toenails clicking and her yodeling talk to us and her barking—she filled the house with her noise and with her personality. Jake, Not Quite Fat Dog is a quiet dog. Oh, when he does bark or growl, it means business, but he rarely makes a sound other than some snoring when he sleeps. So, the little log house has been too too quiet. So quiet it is hurting my ears. The quiet is deafening. I can’t take the quiet anymore. I have to let in some noise….I hear the wind chimes. I hear the bird sing. I hear the red squirrel chatter. I hear the breeze rub the branch against the other branch. I hear the tapping of my keyboard. I hear a tourist head up the road. I hear the mailman leave us mail.