Voting booth muse

Bob Dylan is often referred to as "the poet laureate of rock and roll."

Robert Wrigley, one of Idaho's true poet laureates, lives and writes not far from the rugged beauty that inspires many of the submissions received by The Press Writers Corner.

In honor of the election day that has just come and gone, and as we head toward another day of voting in May, we offer a tiny glimpse of the prolific Wrigley's work.

In early November 2006, Wrigley read a poem about the experience of voting on PBS NewsHour's Poetry Series. Before launching into his verse, Wrigley shared a slice of his life "in the woods on Moscow Mountain," a few miles from the University of Idaho where Wrigley is the director of the Master of Fine Arts program in creative writing.

"The other morning on our daily walk my dog and I ran into a bull moose, which was exciting but not uncommon. As a matter of fact, I'd guess there may be nearly as many deer, elk, and moose in Latah County as there are people," Wrigley said. "This poem is about the experience of voting. When I vote, I vote at the Latah County Fair building, the same building that just a couple of months earlier held prize-winning pumpkins and rhubarb pies."

Wrigley's voting experience inspired the following poem.

PARTISAN

I wasn't paying attention to the task at hand, I guess.

I'd angled forward to watch the beautiful young mother

three booths left shift her pink swaddled infant

arm to arm and her standing toddler boy from one deft and patient hand to the other.

She caught me at my stare and smiled. She must have

noticed we wore the same good

quixotic candidate's hopeless campaign pin.

But just then, the citizen I'd been waiting for

rushed from the voting booth

like a rodeo bull from its Friday night catch pen,

and so close was I, he clapped me exactly

in the nose with his balding pate, and snorted.

I was silent as the blood burbled out,

and he was already barreling off toward

the sky blue and newly-fettered confines of the dark republic we'd become.

So covering my face with a red bandanna,

I stepped in and pulled the curtain closed. I'd been thinking

of a split ticket, for some reason, though now,

out of simple pique or pure American patriotism,

I voted, yet again, a straight ticket. So there I was then,

outside, seeming to myself at least

a hero in the contact sport of democracy, my fellow voters making room

to let me pass my bloody way among them, but I didn't move.

Instead, I looked to where the beautiful young mother,

my good comrade, had been. It was her toddler boy I spotted first,

slapping the blue curtain behind her back and forth,

his baby sister cupped on mother's left forearm like a football.

She had the boy's hips locked between her knees to prevent escape.

He was a little prisoner, but happy to be there.

"Mommy!" he yelled, throwing the curtain back, and "Mommy!"

throwing it closed again. A campaign slogan, it sounded like,

from a little man enjoying the best the nation could offer

and offering his own in return. "Mommy!"

he shouted,"Mommy!" His vote.

Wrigley's work has been published in many literary journals and collections, and his numerous writing awards and honors include fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Idaho State Commission on the Arts, and the Guggenheim Foundation. He was Idaho's official writer-in-residence from 1987 to 1988.

And now, Press Writers Corner presents more poems and stories by our very own North Idaho writers.

"OLD FAITHFUL"

THE FRENCH GULCH BEAR

By John Eisler, Kingston

I live in an historic location up French Gulch in Kingston, Idaho. The original owner shared almost two hundred acres with his two brothers. The house I own (with the friendly cooperation of the bank) belonged to Oscar Johnson. Oscar originally operated a dairy. Over time he changed from milking cows to killing them and operating a widely known and well-respected meat processing operation. Even decades later, when someone asks where I live, all I need say is, "I live on the Oscar Johnson place."

The responses are immediate. Almost as quickly they say, "My folks used to get their beef there." Some other responses are, "I used to get my beef there." That response usually comes from a senior citizen. The third response is, "Oscar processed my deer, elk, or moose." This comment depended on the game they had taken.

Oscar was a wise businessman and he served his customers well. Many of those folks that commented would also say, "I cut meat there." or, "My mom wrapped meat for Oscar."

You have to remember that Idaho is a mostly rural environment and years ago that was an even truer statement. Bears were a common sight. If you know anything about bears you know that they're voracious eaters. Public Television often runs specials depicting bears that break into vehicles and homes in search of food. Oscar was frequently troubled by bears coming onto his property to eat the hides from slaughtered cows that he hoped to sell to a tannery. To stop this pillaging, Oscar would take the assorted fat scraps from the processed beef and walk across French Gulch Road and dump it on the hillside. The bears would eat the scraps and leave his hides alone.

Many families that lived in the Silver Valley would plan an outing on Sundays to come see the bears eating the scraps laid out on the hillside by Oscar.

Bears like all animals, humans included, are creatures of habit. Bears not unlike many humans are also inclined to go the easiest way. There was one particular bear, "Old Faithful," that staked out a space on the hillside. He would show up about an hour prior to Oscar walking across the road and sit directly above a bare spot where Oscar dumped one of his meat scrap boxes. Oscar would walk up the hill to the bare spot and "Old Faithful" would sit quietly until Oscar dumped his meal. Oscar would go back to the processing shop for additional scraps and take those to two other spots on the hill. The other bears would amble down and occasionally engage in roughhouse play to claim their bounty. "Old Faithful" would finish his meal and walk off into the woods.

In spring, he was the first bear to show up for Oscar's scraps and as summer turned to fall, he was the last bear there prior to going into hibernation.

It's a privilege to inhabit this historical home and hear the tales of times gone by. This tale was told to me by an older fellow named, "Claude."

Claude went on to say, "I was just a little nipper and I would go to watch them kill the cows. Oscar always did the actual butchering. They would yank a cow up on the meat rail. Oscar would cut out the heart and then the liver. He would hand them to me and say,

"Take these to your Ma." My little arms would be full of the still warm heart and liver. I would arrive home all bloody from carrying the meat to my Mother. Oscar knew that we needed help with groceries and his gruff manner covered the true kindness in his heart. As I got older, I had a part-time job helping with the butchering. Even then I would go outside and watch "Old Faithful" when Oscar took him his afternoon meal.

LIMERICKS

An elegant lass from Manhattan

Liked to dress in fine silks and satin

She wanted to dine

With an old friend of mine

'Til I told her he ate with his hat on

There was a fine park called McEuen

Which was going to rack and to ruin

Then along came a team

In their eyes was a gleam

We'll show them we know what we're doin'

A saucy young miss from Post Falls

Got dozens and dozens of phone calls

She said I don't care

If people do stare

I keep my old boy friends in mothballs

A fisherman out on the lake

Said this is a sweet piece of cake

His boat roared on by

Catching fish on the fly

But nobody cared for the wake

- Philip Membury

NO MATTER

No matter what you think of yourself

you will always be my clever, beautiful girl;

no matter what you feel inside, the hurt and pain

you will always have me, to make it better again;

no matter how lonely you think you are

you will always feel my shadow near you, I care;

no matter how dark you feel inside

you will find the sun shining on you, with pride;

Remember you came into my life to brighten it up

and in the meantime to drive insane your Pap.

Don't you ever forget I am your Mama,

I love you and always will, even with all the drama. . .

- Giuliana Palmas, Post Falls

Send your Press Writers Corner submissions to Maureen Dolan, mdolan@cdapress.com.

We prefer e-mail submissions, and we ask that you limit the length of your stories and poems. Please include your hometown with your submission.

You can send hard-copies by mail to Maureen Dolan at The Press, 201 Second St., Coeur d'Alene, ID 83814.