Mature bald eagle near Visitor Center facing camera of Doc Ellen, DVM.
***
The Late Years Fifty-Seven November 24, 2019
Yesterday Tim did a lot of dog-drying.
He was determined to dry their muddy feet.
Sometimes successfully. The chickens
who sleep in the backyard were puzzled.
“What’s the point of drying feet? They
get wet again anyway.” Since I fell on
Tuesday, I don’t do much. Make the
meals, at least supper. And I wash the
dishes, make my bed. Baths will have
to wait until I can get out of the tub by
myself. I read my book a little. I renewed
them all since I couldn’t get them returned
on Thursday. I see better without my
glasses. The frames got bent. It’s hard
to believe I can do all the things I was
doing so easily on Monday. I will
heal. I’ll get my bounce back. I’ll learn
how to slow my pace even if I have to
use a cane to do it. Blasted things,
canes. I’m more likely to fall with
a cane than without it. Still, I try to
be sensible. I haven’t been this inactive
since 2017 when I fell in the road, running
from a speeding car. At least she didn’t
hit me. That was a comfort, though one
neighbor spread the word that she did.
This time hardly anyone knows. My
doctor worries. I worry, too. Will I be
okay? Will I truly recover?
Judy by Elisabeth Plattner June 1, 2019
The Late Years Fifty-Six November 17, 2019
Honor comes late but welcome.
The Veteran Feminists of America
have put me on their website. They
learned all my secrets. Most things
I did quietly. I didn’t waste energy
or time, but used the Zen wisdom
when you cut up meat: “Go for the
spaces between the bones.” It worked
every time. I told women their writing
was important, and I published them.
Mostly, I was ignored. Every once
in awhile a woman writes to thank
me for helping her. I didn’t receive
the big literary awards–the North
Carolina Award, the Literary Hall of
Fame, but the landscape changed.
I helped and published men, too,
but the major change in our literary
landscape in the seventies was how
so many women’s voices were now
being heard. I published them in
Black Sun/New Moon. I drew them to
a day-long meeting called “Tell Me A
Story That’s True.” I never had much
money but I found it to make new
things possible. A woman bought me
a tee shirt when I didn’t have the money
at the conference. We used Muriel
Ruykheiser’s words: “If one woman told the
whole story of her life, the world would
split open.” I hear the first crack.
Photo taken in 2017 when Judge Fox had ruled for us in court.
Things got more difficult later. Johnsie Tipton, first left, and John Cross, end of table on the right, died of cancer in late 2018 and 2019. Terica Luxton, of Lee County, also died in 2019.
The Late Years Fifty-Five November 10, 2019
Sunday morning. Time to write
a poem. What will it be today?
We’re back to cold. Where is my
fur-lined coat? Buried in a chair
where I threw all my winter gear.
We go from 70 to 27. Cold is no
excuse not to do my morning walk.
Then I need to take the dog out and
feed the hens. Inside we can be
cozy. Tim will light the woodstove.
Outside the rooster complains,
and daylight is slower than usual
to grace us with its presence. Sun
will warm even this cold beginning.
We live far enough south. We have
wood from friends and fatwood fire-
starters. Yesterday, when Deb’s
front tire went flat, I drove my
old truck to Clayton for our coal
ash meeting. It refused to go very
fast, but with Deb calling out the
directions, we got there. After
the meeting, my truck wouldn’t
start. I’d left my lights on. John,
parked next to us, said he had
jumper cables, so we got the engine
going and drove home. Deb left
to check the air in her spare,
which a man had put on, when
we drove into the RV park. Every
time we had a car problem,
someone helped us. Deb and I
called our day an adventure. It
seems more like a miracle. Is
there a message here? Someone
is looking after coal ash fighters
who won’t quit?
Judy sitting by the Haw River to write poems, 1992. Drawing by Mikhail Bazankov, 1938-2015. Cover of Beaver Soul, Russian edition, 1997.
***
The Late Years Fifty-Four November 3, 2019
We talked about the Muse. What
Jacques Maritain calls creative
intuition, and Joyce Cary, simply
intuition. Cary says it comes upon
the artist or poet like a discovery.
Virginia Woolf says it celebrates
its nuptials in peace. It’s like a
swan floating down the river.
Eliot says what we write joins
the tradition if it’s new and good,
and everything else shifts slightly
to accommodate the new discovery.
None of them, though helpful,
wrote their thoughts as a woman
poet might. For me it’s a question
“What shall I write about today?”
which W.B. Yeats posed to himself.
As soon as I ask, the answer flows
into my mind, a guide to follow,
word by word. My mind forgets
everything else, especially the
trivia: the new exercises I need
to do every day, whether my email
to the coal ash folks will reach them
all successfully, and the cold
outside, the time change–seven
has become six, with daylight
earlier, and nightly dark, too. All
my worries and problems take a
backseat or work their way into
the poem. As long as the words
in my mind don’t desert me, I can
live and write as a poet with a
sacred voice always there to
reassure and reward me,
no matter what.
