Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Jeff Street Brute Award

Jeff Street Brute Award
Originally uploaded by paynehollow
This is the name of Jeff Street's mighty man:

Vernon-the-log-slayer; he raised his forearm against eight hundred logs, which he slew in one encounter.

As one of the mighty folk, he was with Cindy the Strong and David the Bearded when they taunted the cabin gathered at Tom Billim for battle.

When other movers of Jeff Street retreated, Vernon stood his ground and struck down the logs till his hand grew tired and froze to the lever. The LORD brought about a great victory that day.

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

Mayhem of the Mad Farmer...

Youth Group
Originally uploaded by paynehollow
Each year, our youth group from church goes to a camp called UniDiversity. A good time is generally had by all.

This year, my son and I were picking up his supplies for the camp and he requested getting a case or two of Red Bull energy drinks. "Sure!" says I.

Well, apparently, mixing youth, caffeinated energy drinks and a long road trip is a poor idea. Or so I've been informed. Our lovely pastor and youth minister - chaperones for the trip - thought I'd lost my mind to do such a thing to them.

Upon arriving in North Carolina, the group spent some time with displaced Jeff Streeters, Greg and Terry. Greg penned the following poem in my honor.

He did a really great job of mimicking Wendell Berry AND of skewering a thoughtless dad. Check it out:

Mayhem of the Mad Farmer
for Dan Trabue

by Greg Yost

with apologies, I'm sure, to Wendell

His mind a hay wagon overburdened, axles bending under load.
Women in loose cotton (O Tanya!), herons,
That son of a bitch, Jayber Crow.
Too much! The cord binding reckoning to reason frays...

The tractor runs full throttle through the fence, shattering morning
The red bull tramples dawn's sweet clover.
Calves bawl.
Sown in caffeine, the fields bring forth their chatty harvest, bitter on
the tongues of the aged.

The Farmer's mind is dark, heedless of that pain. Hollow.
Journal of his mischief as yet unread.

Then a homecoming of friends. Where is a sequoia in which to hide?
This Farmer is standing in deep humus.
His stammered denial ("Why, I am not knowing too high a commuter")
Falls like dead seed on ruined ground.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy a woman satisfied to bear a child across
state lines?
Will this disturb the sleep of a woman near to sleep?

The dusty barn, grapes swelling on the vine,
Pigs in the farmyard, the laughter of old men who have known hard
Cool breezes promising needed rain and the rich soil gathering it in.
Children, dogs, canning jars, draft horses, bees, and pickup trucks.
These and other rural things now bestow their gentle earthly wisdom,
alas, too late:

Watch your back, Farmer. Payback is hell.