Okra in my garden after the Hurricane Irene in 2011
***
Flowers of the Heart Twenty-Two February 25, 2018
For Rhonda Whitley
What a mixture Rhonda is. She did make me angry
in the early period. She found me bossy and was
very sarcastic about this. But when I fell on the
road, she was here to make sure I was all right. She
ended up liking and forgiving me. She has
worked tirelessly for our coal ash group. As
treasurer, she co-chaired the fund-rising committee
with Sheila. We’ve had plate sales–fried fish,
hot dogs–and gospel sings. Some failed, but she
took those in stride. The most recent two had
to be canceled. First, they couldn’t find enough
help, and the Lions Club fish sale was the same day
as our planned chili supper. Now she usually calls
to celebrate some success we have in getting in
donations. Not long ago, one of our members
gave $1000. Sometimes, to share frustrtions,
but I’m no longer the one she’s angry at. She moved
here from Wisconsin, and only after settling in
with her horse and her dogs, did she learn of our
coal ash problem. Her response was to go to
work. She volunteered to be treasurer, which
turned out to be a lot more complex than she
realized. Lots of rules for non-profits handling money.
We have to get our financial information to our
parent organization, which gives us, as a chapter,
our non-profit status. When she was so angry, I
backed off, let her go her own way instead of
offering advice. Probably other people have
resented my bossiness, but she let me know.
She says now that I “pushed her buttons.” Back
then I said,”Would you like to be the chair?”
“Oh, no!” So now she keeps an eye on my
health; wants reports. When I told her I thought
some of my episodes were from stress, she said,
“Oh, no, not possible.” She was an ear, nose,
and throat doctor. A traffic accident forced her
to retire young, but she likes to help people when
they’re sick or must go to the emergency room.
When I succeed in pulling in more donations,
she praises me and even boasts of me to others.
I say, “I laid it on pretty thick” It was true. I told
my friends the coal ash dumping was demoralizing
us. She herself has been suffering back problems
and seeing a doctor–-as infrequently as possible.
She continues to do all she can, even in pain. She
was having a fight with her electric company,
which is also the one sending us coal ash. She
told them they were a terrible company, preying
on innocent people. They were threatening to
turn off her power. I suggested she not call them
names right now. She was waiting outside her
house, with her back hurting, in the rain, to
confront them and take photos, which she planned
to publicize. I urged her not to do that alone, but
call her neighbors and our coal ash lawyer, who
might have ideas. I said she could come here, if
they cut the power and sleep on my couch. She
said no. Anyway she was ready to cope with a
power outage, and she wanted to catch them in
the act. She did call the lawyer, who wasn’t in,
and the neighbors, who came over. The truck
never did come. The next morning the lawyer
returned her call and gave her a number for
the North Carolina Utilities Commission.
The woman who took the call successfully
intervened and extcnded the deadline so she
could resolve the issue wieth her electric
company. I have to smile. She has a hard head,
but such a passionate heart.
Coal Ash Mountains. We have these now in our community
***
Flowers of the Heart Twenty-One February 18, 2018
For Harold Taylor
Harold was the first person in Moncure to welcome me.
I had searched for a small house and land I could afford,
and the only one was here, and he was a neighbor. I had
learned this community was fighting against a low-level
nuclear dump, and I decided to buy the house and join
the fight. I went to the next meeting, which was held
next door in the Celestial Mason Lodge. He welcomed
me. They’d fought for ten years, and their numbers
had dwindled, but he and Mary MacDowell were still
fighting, and I helped. Mary told us that CP&L also
planned to store more nuclear waste at Shearon Harris
in their pools. That became the next battle once the dump
was given up. The trains carrying the waste came
through Moncure. Harold got me to work for Margaret
Pollard at the election in 2000. She was on the board
when we pushed to have the commissioners write to the
Attorney General to stop the waste trains coming
through Moncure. Margaret was wavering. Harold pressed
her on the phone. I spoke at the meeting and told how
our fire department had no idea what to do if a train
wrecked in Moncure. Our resolution passed. Then
we worked on air pollution, again with North Carolina
WARN to stop it. At first we hit a lot of resistance
in the community, but eventually we got through
when some North Carolina State students and their
professor came to Moncure to speak to the new
community group, Southeast Chatham Citizens
Advisory Council. A large community audience,
including several commissioner and sheriff
candidates, came to the meeting, and the statistics
were staggering. Our plant put in the air more
formaldehyde than any similar plant in the country.
People who lived near this Sierra Pine plant
were having more breathing illnesses than usual.
Our commissioners sent for the Department of
Air Quality to solve this. We also had help from
two experts on air quality: George Lucier and
Jane Gallagher. I remember the Sierra Pine Vice
President told me that formaldehyde dissipates
in the air so was not a problem. I began to learn
how corporate polluters defended themselves.
Harold and I attended SCCAC meetings, but
were given no real power. There were always
these fights against pollution. Over the years
Harold and I didn’t always agree, but as my
neighbor he often helped me, and once he
told me I was a leading citizen. He has been
in his quiet way from the beginning. The
black community listened to him. He pulled
my truck out of a ditch once, and to this day
he will help me if I ask. Sometimes he simply
mows along the front on or on the land i own
between my house and the lodge. After a
car accident in 2015, when a speeding car
rammed me from behind, my old truck
took the jolt better than I did. I got a ride
home with Chloe next door and called
Harold to help me retrieve the truck.
I had refused the rescue squad. He said,
Judy, you’d better go in and have it checked
out. I did. I was fine, but it was wise to find
out. The other driver’s insurance paid the
hospital bill. Sometimes, as now, when we
fight the coal ash dumping, life in our
community is not easy, and we get
discouraged, but I know Harold is there,
with a clear mind and a good heart.
Spider lilies, or Naked Ladies, among the bamboo grasses
***
Flowers of the Heart Twenty February 11, 2018
For Joanie McLean
Joanie is fragile some way, but tough
underneath. She came to me for help
with her poetry. She has worked at it
steadily for years–maybe ten years now.
She took my Proust class and was very
conscientious about reading and studying
the material each week. She has been
in many poetry groups, and last fall joined
my class on Monday night, which I do by
Skype. She has brought me kindling
off and on, and dried grasses in a vase.
She has changed her life in major ways,
left a more conservative back story, and
lives at a wetlands farm where she slides
as close to the natural world as she can
get, fearless where coyotes and other
prey-seeking creatures roam at night.
Then she takes them into poems, pushing
at that mysterious edge few of us dare
to encounter, between realities–animal
and spiritual. I find her cheerful and
accepting of human foibles, clear-eyed
when many people stagger as if blind-
folded. I asked her to comment on my
new poetry book, and she said what
I would have wanted her to say if I’d
known what it was. I didn’t know I
was facing my death there, but she did.
If you’ve ever been afraid to die, read
Judy Hogan’s "Those Eternally Linked
Lives." Here, in 30 deft poems, we are
carried along with Hogan as she
encounters loss, aging, and illness.
But she comes through it all with
such grace and humility, we are left
breathless with delight and hope.
Hogan clearly believes in poetry as
revelation: “The human spirit has
been here before. We know how
to die if we have to.” That was the
corner I turned, but I didn’t see it
until she named it. That’s what true
poets do. Like a will-o’-the-wisp,
she’s there, then gone, but something
evocative tells me she’ll be back,
maybe when I least expect it.
Snow goose image borrowed from the Cornell website on birds. See those black wingtips? I saw them on the Haw in the early 90s.
***
Flowers of the Heart Nineteen February 4, 2018
For Pete MacDowell
I knew Mary first. She worked for Chatham
County back in 1998, when we were still fighting
the low level nuclear dump. She brought Pete
to a party I had here, but it was when he took
my poetry class that I got to know him better.
About that time, in 2014, I published my
love song This River: An Epic Love Poem.
He was very enthusiastic and bought it for his
friends, one of whom was a Taoist, and wrote:
“This epic poem is a page turner. Think Romeo and
Juliet in the US and Russia in their 50s talking
through a translator. If you love the interior dialog
of Jane Austen, intense feelings searching for
clues from the other, with all that hope and
fear, this is it. But it is also a deep meditation on
our nature as a human species and our fundamental
relationship with other species. The two rivers,
at one level at least, are the Haw and the Volga.
Judy did most of her writing from the banks of
the Haw. Her feel for nature is transformative.
She has a deep Taoist understanding of our
link with nature.” Those words sang in my heart.
Not long after that, Pete retired from being a
strategist with North Carolina WARN, and
they moved to Alexandria, Virginia, to be near
their daughter and grandchild. Pete returned
to the poetry class, which we then did by
Skype. He led the way. Skype worked most
of the time, and we kept going, and pulled
in a few more poets: Katherine, Tracey, Joanie,
Clare. Pete wrote new poems every week,
lampooning Trump and other politicians’
reckless behavior in a democracy. He also
described the geese and ducks which came
to the pond behind his ground-floor apartment,
and his grandson’s antics. Sometimes he sang
of other loners he met in his neighborhood.
Once his mind had ranged wide, plotting
strategy that would teach Duke Energy
better manners. He’d always send me notes
of praise when I’d write caustic letters
to the editor. This year my newest poetry
book emerged. Pete waxed enthusiastic
again. “Judy, I am absolutely loving
Those Eternally Linked Lives. Please
send me three more. Thanks so much
for your guidance in poetry and life.”
Out of my love and the suffering
which accompanied it, I somehow
spoke to Pete and others, too. A
writer lives for such words. They
reassure and heal. They carve themselves
deep in the mind. So many risks, not
to mention agonies of doubt have their
confirmation: you did the right thing.
***
