“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.”
John 4:18
The following is an excerpt from a letter April drafted on January 12, 2008:
“His name is Oliver Richardson. He never spoke to me, but in some way he was able to communicate without speaking. He conveyed his name to me silently, or I named him. I cannot explain it but I know it was his name. He was always upstairs in the chimney closet. To my knowledge this is where he dwells and he never ventures beyond that room. He hides behind the little crawl space door. Whenever I would go upstairs to play, he would cautiously peek out as if to see if it was safe. He emerged tentatively, looking around again, before he would settle beside me on the floor. He felt comforted by my presence. I know he did. In some ways we’d comforted each other. He never participated in my play. However, he did pick up the Little People and stared at them, fascinated. He would turn them around and around in his hands and he’d look at them from every angle. Whenever he left me, he would always go back inside the crawlspace into the eaves, as cautiously as he had emerged, first peering inside and then carefully looking back behind him, as if to avoid being followed. I know he was always hiding in there, so afraid of something. I’m not sure of what or more likely, whom. He never did disclose that to me. What he did share was the fearfulness that still embodied his existence. He has resided there a long time and I am sure he is still at the farm. He is all alone. He has been abandoned, forsaken long ago. I know in my heart that his short life was tragic. As a child myself, I could feel his fright, the pain he was in, and all I could do was keep him company. Because he had chosen me, I felt compelled to protect him. I told no one except Cathi and that was many years later. As I lost my own innocence, as my identity became altered with age, I too abandoned him. Over the years it has caused me sadness and regret. Nancy had, (without anyone’s permission), given all the closet toys to a needy family in the community. Her heart was in the right place but it broke my heart to come home one day and have all the objects from my childhood completely gone, as if they had never existed at all. I mourned that loss and never returned to the chimney closet. Nancy did not realize what she had done. While generously helping the living, she had inadvertently robbed her own sister of what remained of a childhood, and had in the process, deprived two lonely souls of the toys they both loved and shared. They were all Oliver had. I was all Oliver had and then I went away. I was lost to him and he was lost to me. When I was older and moved into the middle bedroom, he would often crack the closet door then peek in, just to let me know he was still there, and I would ignore him. As I grew even older, he would, at times, gaze into Nancy’s room from the same adjoining closet. We were rowdy teenagers then, doing things teenagers do. I would notice him occasionally watching me through a crack in the door. It was during these unwelcome visits his woeful countenance would transform into an expression of uncertainty, disapproval and disdain when I would fail to acknowledge him. None of my sisters could see him so I ignored him. I am not sure why. I think it was because he represented a time of my life that was lost. The age of innocence and time we shared together was one in which he was trapped, destined to remain forever, a time I’d wanted to keep but could never again recapture. I feel certain the lifetime of the boy I knew as Oliver Richardson was cut short by some kind of violence, abuse or neglect. The awful truth of his brief life was bad enough but the real tragedy is his eternal captivity. He remains a prisoner in a house which offers him nothing but fear, loneliness and isolation. I know the feeling and I know in my heart, he remains a victim of his own untimely death. I still mourn his loss and always will.”
April rarely speaks of Oliver now and has said all she intends to relate on the subject of a little boy lost. What troubles her most deeply is a belief that she abandoned him when she was all he had in this world or the next, adding insult to mortal injury resulting in immortality. One thing she readily admits; April loved Oliver Richardson. She still does, to such an extent she cannot heal a wound or relinquish the burden she has carried lifelong. His presence will haunt her forever, a profound pain which stays with a soul for eternity.
“If we have the opportunity to be generous with our hearts,
ourselves, we have no idea of the depth and
breadth of love’s reach.”
Margaret Cho
poetry and prose
“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.”
Carl Sandburg
Prose may read as poetry and poetry may at times appear as prose, though they are related only through marriage to the word. A poem is finite in form, deliberately so, utilizing specific language, thoughtfully chosen, composed to inspire a mood or to evoke a certain response from the reader. Whereas, a good book will transport the reader to another place, telling a story in its own time, poetry is timeless thus maintaining an infinite, ethereal quality, bearing its own singular gift of interpretation for every being whose eyes intermingle with its intrinsic meaning. Should the meaning remain elusive, all the more reason to revisit its words with purpose, seeking to discover what they reveal over time as we grow into them. The enticing pages of a book are the virtual destination: Elsewhere. The cherished poem provides a place to stay. While absorbing into the mind, its meaning flows naturally inward, as reflexive as reflective, there to expand inner space, over time. Evolving, as the desire for knowledge couples with a desire to share it, poetry integrates with mind. An intimate bond is established. Chapter and verse, a good book may stay with a reader forever but it does not become a part of the person in the same way a perfectly constructed poem can build a bridge in a human psyche. Unlike a fickle lover, a poem well-loved is destined to remain in heart. It will never leave you. What seems a mutual understanding develops with a natural flow, as each word mingles in tandem with the next, finding its own unique path, en route to the proper place in an ever-expanding consciousness, as the mind wraps itself around a galaxy within a universe. Such is the Nature of poetry.
Carolyn considered the reading of fine literature integral to the education process, the planting of seeds into fertile ground. She’d instilled a love of the written word in each of her children, expressing a visceral desire, a need for them to understand, in its highest form, literature as a mortal manifestation of the creative life force. Reading was an imperative, as a spiritual endeavor.
It took time to mentally and emotionally process what was happening in the farmhouse, to accept things as they were or try to comprehend why. The children were evolving, growing up, in the midst of the madness, wondering how they fit into the scheme of things. Unbeknownst to their mother, each of the girls was keeping a journal or composing music, writing down deep, dark words to describe their existence, expressing themselves in a wide variety of ways which would prove to be insightful and likewise therapeutic. If Carolyn didn’t realize what gifts her daughter’s possessed, she was presented with the evidence. Cindy approached her mother in the parlor, handing her a crinkled sheet of lined paper torn from a notebook. The presentation wasn’t flawless, but the words… perfect.
In the purest
sign of dusted madness
in common wisdom we sit
in sadness
with careless grief
we compel in badness
We can’t feel the anger
that walks beside us
we hide from pain which
often stalks us
we perform
wisely
as we tip our glasses
with our elegant style
life slips and passes.
Cindy Perron Age 12
Poetry is perfectly capable, by means neither staid nor static, but fluid, of transporting souls to the inner sanctum, the recesses of a subconscious mind, where the garden grows. Reading is consummate to mind-melding with the author, thereby traveling conjoined on a holy, enlightening journey. Carolyn practically worshipped the written word, instilling a love of fine literature in her offspring by wa
y of repetition. She would weave her favorite quotations in conversation where applicable or recite poetry or read aloud to the ladies on a regular basis. She would scrounge up the money to buy them whatever they wanted to read. Their house was filled with treasured books; volumes waiting to be discovered as her children matured: all of the classics. Trips to the library or a second-hand bookstore provided an endless array of thoughts or concepts to explore. The love of knowledge is the greatest gift any parent can bestow upon a child. It is a way of giving them the whole world. It is the means of growing the mind. Carolyn read aloud words her daughter wrote, haunting words which touched her heart, recognizing the underlying premise revealed. This garden was beginning to bear the fruits of her labor of love.
“The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming
of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.”
Allen Ginsberg
chants and incantations
“My soul is full of whispered song; / My blindness is my sight;
/ The shadows that I feared so long /
Are all alive with light.”
Alice Cary Dying Hymn
Words are powerful weapons and glorious gifts. Language is a marvelous invention, a wonder to behold. There’s intrinsic beauty in rhythmic repetition of a lyrical verse, to which human beings respond, as the infant will gravitate to her own mother’s heartbeat. Enchanting spells are cast when one is lost in mantra; whispering of words or shouting them to Heaven, it matters not. The sensation is identical, sometimes bordering on intense, an emotional (if not delirious) state-of-being. Described as transformative spiritual experience, an old-fashioned Southern revival routinely produces altered states of mind, one good example of the phenomenon. As cobras can be hypnotized, so too can a mere mortal succumb, becoming mesmerized by what one sees and hears, as a function of the senses. An old song from childhood transports us back to that precise time and place in which we heard it first. Peaceful prayers will calm a collection of spirits in rebellion and any good bombastic sermon will bring the faithful to their feet, drop them to the knees… stir them to the soul. As human beings tend to express our power in numbers, gathering in groups, we utter words in unison, that God Almighty force to be reckoned with, for good or evil intent. From dancing in trances to swooning in choirs or praying from pulpits, words cast en masse, cast a spell… like magic. A form of magic to be sure, as an illusionist draws an audience into the fold, compelling them to BELIEVE! Yet, there are times when it is not real at all, when their eyes deceive them. Just a trick of the trade: an illusionist, playing with fire and brimstone.
“Beseech thee, leave! Afore ye go, beware the flame, the fiery glow.
Was mistress once afore ye came and mistress here will be again.
Will drive ye out with fiery broom.
Will drive ye mad with death and gloom.
Was mistress once afore ye came and mistress here will be again.
Will drive ye mad with death and gloom.
Will drive ye into Satan’s tomb.
Thus has been spoken, thus has been read.
Take leave of this place or ye too will be dead.”
Woe be unto them. Though a few of the words have been lost to time and memory, an elaborate incantation chanted by spirits remains as haunting as it was on the fateful morning she first heard it, at dawn. Carolyn is unwilling to undergo further hypnosis to recapture it in full and who could blame her? An unnecessary sacrifice as far as her family is concerned; the ample impression left behind is sufficient, the essence of the message received. Interpretation is the key to comprehension. When Carolyn repeated these words to Roger, his initial response expressed as rage: “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She had found the statement to be rather self-evident: Get the hell out! The message began to take root in her consciousness. Granted, the words spoken were compelling, delivered in unison as an explicit threat indelibly imprinted on her mind. She heard menacing words describing her demise, the ominous intonations as sinister intimations: a promise of impending doom. This explicit warning was drummed in syncopation; incessant pounding of broomsticks on a hardwood floor left an impression. It played over again and again in her mind, tumbling about like two loose dice in a dangerous game of chance. It was not a game. No chance. A threat issued. A promise made.
***
The children were petrified. They would huddle together at night (usually in Andrea’s bed) to say their prayers, as one. It was comforting, especially to Cindy. This went on for several months. Andrea kept it simple, repeating the words she’d learned in catechism; a steadfast hope between sisters that they would be safe for the night and would wake to see the light of day, at dawn.
Now I lay me down to sleep ~ I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake ~ I pray the Lord my soul to take
Pretty morbid imagery by any standard; a lot for a child to absorb, though it brought each of them a sense of peace in the midst of turmoil and an anguish they’d been forced to endure. From the beginning an uncanny sense of their situation consumed Cindy. She was the one who sought assistance from the highest authority. Not for a moment of her life has she doubted the existence of God; a certain knowing, from experience. She would help her sisters seek refuge from evil spirits within the divine realm of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Bend and stretch . . . reach for the stars
there goes Jupiter . . . here comes Mars
Kids are naturally indoctrinated from birth to audibly recognize and verbally identify repetitious phrases. They absorb everything they are exposed to then respond in kind. It is how babies learn. Patterns they pick up become deeply rooted in their little brains then grow with them; an amazing feat for ones so young. Mary Mary quite contrary how does your garden grow? They’ll feel the rhythm of nursery rhymes from infancy, comforted by words which seem to go together, sung by their mothers late into the night. It all gets processed. Romper Room. Sesame Street. Everything has its impact teaching children in a series of repetitious phrases and then they go to church! Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee. There they learn to pray, in larger gatherings, to speak the word of God aloud, in one voice as worship of the deity, practicing the presence. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Dear Lord: a communiqué, one made not in solitude, as a private conversation, but by chanting sacred words as a cluster of souls lining pews like rosary beads.
Cindy was all too familiar with this ancient technique, having repeatedly heard many speak as one to announce the presence of seven dead soldiers in her bedroom wall. It was during these times she would’ve preferred to return to their inadequate house in the suburbs, back to the swing set they had been forced to leave behind. She’d prefer to be swinging on a star . . . at least there was nothing spooky or sad about that place. The child resented her childhood being interrupted. There she had been carefree. All of the girls have precious memories of swinging and singing together. When they were small the lyrics were as innocent a collection of words as the law allowed. It was long before the time when filth was a “normal” part of the language. On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed. It was a time of innocence, when children could be children, when along came a spider who sat down beside her was not the theme for a horror movie, but was instead, the simple rhyme to teach kids the facility with which language cooperates to please the senses. As they grew, twinkle twinkle little star how I wonder where you are evolved. Over time, from the influence of others in the neighborhood, the sweet song went street and became twinkle twinkle little bat how I wonda where you at? Up above the atmosphere drinking Narragansett beer? Of course, they had no idea what they were singing, until their mother intervened! The beer thing made them giggle. As for the rest of it, they were unaware of the social implications and racial undertone or its intended target; variations on the theme, nothing more. So, how did they learn those words? By repetition on a playground. Hocuspocusdomi
nocus a favorite magical word from a childhood hijacked by destiny or fate. But they have their undisturbed memories, as well.
In derby town in derby town the streets are made out of glass, and if you do not watch your step you’ll fall right on your hocus pocus dominocus so ask me no more questions . . . I’ll tell you no more lies . . . perhaps a moral message contained within the lyrics, though no one can recall. The song was long and elaborate; rather sophisticated for a simplistic genre. But then Mary Poppins came along. There was something about Mary… that name keeps poppin’ up! Enthralled by her character, the girls learned every word of the musical film, especially her splendid use of the super word; the calafragalistic one… a far cry from the time when there were ten in the bed and the little one said roll over . . . roll over . . . so they all rolled over and one fell out. From the rhymes designed to teach kids to count their toes… one piggy wiggy two piggy wiggy and the little one went wewewe all the way home, to a valid question posed: how does your garden grow? There are few answers in life but Mary knew how to grow her garden, with silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row . . . it became far more a matter of where. In Cumberland, Carolyn became quite contrary, seeking out an answer to one of life’s most pressing questions, where to raise her children. She was the one who wanted a place in the country, a sacred spot of earth on which to grow her garden. Once she found it she almost lost her family, questioning a possible loss of her mind.
House of Darkness House of Light Page 12