There was snow last night,
not near so much as weather watchers had feared, not enough to bring out the village snow plow nor to lure me outside with my snowblower.
Going back to Curlew, Iowa, last October, I stopped for breakfast in Dodgeville, Wisconsin. The lilt of the talk in the restaurant, the sound of silverware on the table, of thick plates set down heavy. I was going to Iowa, I was headed back to my Curlew home, the restaurant in Dodgeville was not my destination yet it us like my destination. Ordinary folks at an ordinary breakfast in an ordinary place. Common people, common place. There are commonplaces that are holy, they reveal themselves in flashes, Dodgeville is not unlike Curlew. The sacred moments wink at me. I make note of them, it is my duty, I cannot do otherwise. It is a serious obsession, my vigilance, my need to write, my desire to speak for so many who may otherwise be lost in the fog of the mundane. My obsession does not mark me special; it is a gift, yes; it is also a burden, a duty I take seriously. You eat your breakfast; you leave your waitress a tip; you go on doing what you have to do.
The night's snow is very wet, ending slick like freezing rain. The air is mild by comparison. The village is very quiet, as if the world has ended. There is not telling where and when the hand of God will reach out for you. One's goodness must be a way of life.
The flag at the cemetery blows east to west, somewhat gently. Tires on the road sound like a molar being ground down with an old, slow drill. I have to pay attention to the road. A red, red fox could sneak across the white, white field and I would not see it.
At Five Corners where the youngsters were killed, the white cross - icicles hang off the cross bar. Two crows above the road fly east into the teeth of the morning.
I can just FEEL that restaurant only in my restaurant I can also smell the cigarette smoke, see the cigarette being held between the beefy fingers of the man with his empty plate before him, dried egg yolk and bits of hash browns. The cigarette smoke creates a haze in the air. He takes a puff of his cigarette, exhales and then makes that little sucking noise where there's food caught in his teeth. It was a long time ago.
Posted by: Sharon | February 08, 2007 at 10:06 PM
You know, Sharon, I started out commenting on other people's blogs, then the next step was getting my own. Your comments lead me to believe there is a blog in your future. Hmmm. What are you going to name it?
We can't save the universe by remembering it, but we can try....
Posted by: Tom Montag | February 12, 2007 at 05:27 AM