Tag Archives: ending

Nod ‘morning’ when you get to Bodie


In praise - Bodie State Park, CA

 

They walked, they talked, they loved and they hated,
spread gossip—or at least listened. Grew up, fell down
and mostly, but not always, got right back up again.
Were pushed and were pulled, were driven and drove back,
were smacked and slapped down—often and hard—
but learned to keep their peace about it, or else.
Some bickered, some didn’t, some drank, some wouldn’t,
some forgave, most couldn’t, but they all cried and laughed
and got together on Sunday to sing His Grace Abounding,
with, on a good day, some extra for the heathens.

Barbers and butchers, buyers and sellers,
leeches—practiced with the bone saw, who’d as soon
kill you as look at you—barkeeps, gamblers,
gunslingers and whores: most came west
because of the War Between the States,
the rest because the best had fallen there.

But in that when—and here in this place—they all came together,
scrabbling for a life, sweating and crying,
birthing and dying, and no one now,
not one today to remember them, any of them,
not a soul to give them voice.
And yet here we all are
and here we all live,
together in this quiet, empty ghost town,
living on the edge of whenever.

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Bodie is a wild west ghost town in the Bodie Hills, which are east of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in Mono County, California. Located at an elevation of over 8,000 feet, the summers are dry and cool and the winters bitter cold, conditions that help keep the town remarkably well preserved. The reasons for its abandonment over the years are many, but all tied to gold and silver mining and the economic boom and bust of Victorian aged California. It is recognized by the U.S. Department of the Interior as a National Historic Landmark and by California as a California Historical Landmark designated as Bodie State Historic Park. The photograph is entitled In praise and is one of two sets of photographs about Bodie that you can find on the Book of Bokeh site, here and here.

Thank you for reading Ghost town. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.

As I noted above, for more photography, please visit the Book of Bokeh.

john

Photograph, poem and notes © 2014 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. The poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original written work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2014 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com. The photograph is not licensed for use or reproduction in any way, unless so granted in writing by the copyright owner.

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George Harrison’s 12 string Rickenbacker

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Fit once for merely banging around
it rests somewhere I suppose,
in some display, old, worn,
rubbed and cracked, perfect in every way.
Unable not to, in my mind’s eye, I reach out,
hitting the barrier of glass, if not memory:
and there—innocently enough—it cries, laughs,
is loud but strangely far away, one grand chime,
singing and running, happy once again, once more.
I can always, I thought, if I want, when I do,
be back there for an hour in a second.
But then?

It was a world, but it was just a world
and is a world now going, soon gone,
no regrets—well, some—but that gets you nowhere
so no, none. I smile as I reach out again,
soon gone. But not now, not today,
not yet, not gone.
Play on.

That opening chord and scene of The Beatles’ A Hard Day’s Night: what a perfect memory for that era.  (Not to mention the granddaddy prototype of all music videos!) If you don’t know it, check it out here on YouTube. It was made possible by George Harrison acquiring a unique sounding 12 string electric guitar, made by Rickenbacker. (In fact there were two, an early prototype and a full production model.) It is hard, today, to understand what a powerful and trend-setting effect it had on popular music. For one example: so impressed by the sound was a young musician, Roger McGuinn, that he bought one and founded the legendary 60’s band The Byrds around it.

Thank you for reading George Harrison’s 12 string Rickenbacker. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.

john

© 2013 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2013 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.

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When it was just a game

Where were you on the 28th of September, 1972
when with 34 seconds left, Henderson saved your soul?
Me, I found myself lost in the uproar,
desperate to join the catharsis that was
making the world perfect for one perfect second.
But try as I might I couldn’t join in,
I knew it was just a game after all.

Look at my hands,
so much has changed since then:
the right one aches in the morning
and the left one still bears the scar
of that ring, sworn upon once
and then sworn upon again,
but broken now and long since ended.

And Henderson? They say he found religion
and if so I am happy for him, I am.
And while I still don’t understand the uproar,
now I know it’s not just a game after all.
Is it Paul?

The game referred to in the poem is the final hockey game of the 1972 Canadian/Russian “Summit Series” tournament. For those interested, a full description of that event is included at the end of this post.

The Summit Series is, however, incidental to the poem. As an event it was famous and intense in its day but time has reduced it in importance and influence. My intent was to use it as a mirror to, and in contrast with, the end of my first marriage.

This is not revenge poetry—I have no ax to grind with my ex-wife. Our marriage was difficult, but equally so for each of us. The simple truth of it is that although we tried, we were just not meant to be life long companions. And from our marriage we have two sons we both love and with whom, even as we dissolved our union, we worked very hard to assure that this was about us, not them, and about our failings and not anything they did or did not do.

What did I learn? That marriage is not a game, to be fought with a sense of strategy in the hope to be the winner. But no matter the course of a marriage, ending one should be an occasion for sadness: so much promise, so much effort, so much pain—it’s inevitable that there should be some reflection and questioning.

Thank you for reading When hockey was just a game. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.

john

© 2013 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2013 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.

The Summit Series

In 1972, Canada had long been held at a disadvantage in international hockey tournaments as its best players were professionals in the National Hockey League and therefore ineligible to play at the World Championship and Olympic Games. As a result, Canadian and Soviet officials negotiated a first everm eight game September “Summit Series” in which any professional or amateur player could play. The series was a shock to the collective Canadian psyche; broad predictions of a Canadian sweep of the series were quickly proven wrong as the tournament began. The Russian team was good, fast and dogged; their goal tending  in particular, was superb. In the fifth game Paul Henderson scored to give Canada a 4 to 1 lead, but also suffered a concussion, although he was able to return. The heroics were for naught, however, as the Soviets came back to win that game. At that point they led the series 3-1-1 and appeared on the brink of taking the overall win. But Canada dug deep and after being toughened in a two game Swedish series en route to Russia, won the sixth and seventh games there, both on game winning goals by Paul Henderson.

The series by then, and in those cold, pre-detente days, had taken on a cultural sub-text: it was West vs East, democracy vs communism, the good guys against the bad, the elemental “us versus them.” It’s ridiculous now to think of the tournament in that fashion, but in 1972, that was what it had become. This difference was only magnified by the contrast of the game audiences: the Russians sitting quietly and watching intently, the few Canadian fans creating an almighty uproar that was almost loud enough to be heard “back home.” In the final, eighth game—Canada was essentially shut down to watch it live—the Soviets entered the third period leading with a 5 to 3 score. But goals by Phil Espisito and Yvan Cournoyer tied the game and the series. With only seconds left, Paul Henderson, after an initially blocked shot, came back from sliding into the rear boards and scored the winning goal, in a shot said to have caused all of Canada to simultaneously stand and scream out in one united roar. The good guys had won—barely—but they had won, and Paul Henderson was the undisputed hero of the tournament. Surprisingly—but perhaps not—the sudden fame was hard on Henderson, who struggled to keep his life and his family together. But eventually he did, becoming a born again Christian and finishing out his hockey career with distinction and going on in retirement from hockey to join the religious ministry.

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