IVAN

I didn’t like him. He was,

I thought, a braggart, always

going on about his big dairy

herd and how much money he’d

“dished out” to buy Royal Consort,

the prize bull he was so proud of.

When I got home from school,

he’d often be at the feed mill

where my dad worked and I’d

hear him bragging. I didn’t

like the way he ordered Dad around

as if he was the boss instead

of Mr. Cassel. I wished Dad would

tell him to shut his big fat mouth

and once, after he left, said so.

I remember how Dad gave a little

smile and told me that when

I grew up I’d understand.

“Rich people,” he said, “can say

anything they want to.” I said

I thought that wasn’t fair.

“Yes,” he said, “but anyhow there

is no law that says the rest of us

are required to pay attention.”

JOHN AND MARTHA

When we moved to the new neighborhood,
Mrs. Paige told my mother about them,
how every Saturday at four, they'd walk

to the edge of the woods where
their son was buried. He'd been killed,
she said, when his motorcycle ran off

the road. Their farm lay just behind
our house and we could see them climb
the little hill across the meadow,

hand in hand. As far was we could tell,
they never said a word, just walked,
and when they got there, bowed their heads.

I imagined that they prayed and cried,
but I was young and did not know
what grief was or what it does.

HOW WILL THEY LEARN

The kids came up from Carolina
on the bus. My job . . . to take them
through the houses built to simulate
a Third World village. We walked our
way to Mozambique and Tibet.

I'd forgot how almost-still-children
seventh graders are, still waking
to the world. More than half a century
separated us. When asked to name
what it was they most enjoyed about
where they lived, many said
"video games." They tried to understand
what life without a cell phone would be
like, and, I rather think, could not.

Some tried harder than others.
Hearing their questions, watching
their faces, gave me hope.

THE TWISTED TREE

The twisted tree that stood on the edge
of what was called Mason's Wood
-- who Mason was I never knew --
kept trying to tell me something.

Stunted yet strangely stately,
it would not let me pass,
demanded my observation every time,
compelled my contemplation.

Why, alone among its companions,
had its shape been bent,
its branches reaching out
at such odd angles?

Had its deformity been there
at its beginning? Or did
some calamity befall it,
whipped it, tore it, wrenched it?

Not all oaks grow tall and true:
was that its message? Some must
and can overcome batterings.

I am like you, it seemed to say.
You've had your share of shakings.
So have I.

LOVE LETTER

Dear Penny,

I'm writing this note to express how deeply I appreciate your patience, your devotion, your unconditional acceptance of me.

Lord knows I don't deserve it. How many times I have neglected you, taken you for granted, selfishly put my needs above yours. I have, much too often, spoken harshly, even shouted at you in anger. Preoccupied with my work or amusement, I have often kept your waiting. I confess that at times I have literally abandoned you for long stretches of time.

I am truly sorry for my thoughtlessness. I know I can never atone for my wrongdoing. Through it all, wonder of wonders, you still adore me. I see it in your eyes.

But how about this: let's go for a long walk, just the two of us.

I'll get the leash.

HARVEY

The barber shop in town occupied
the basement of The Union House,
a room that sat beneath its bar and grill.
From time to time he'd stumble
down the stairs lubricated well
and singing an off color song he must
have picked up in the war. He was
a cheerful drunk and seemed to welcome
all the friendly insults the barber tossed
his way. Some customers joined in.

I watched and listened, rapt.

What I remember most is the time
he stopped and stared at me
and broke into a grin, then fished
into his pocket and flipped me
a half dollar. I caught it, stared at it,
and did not know what to do.
"Say thank you, Mr. Cole"
my father said. I did and looked
the giver in the face. "I ushed to be boy
onect," he said. "That was long ago."
I saw his bloodshot eyes were wet.
He used a dirty sleeve to wipe his face
then turned around to leave.
"It's hot as hell in here," he said.
"I think I hear them callin' me upstairs."

COLLEGE:FRESHMAN YEAR

I'd learned enough of children's cruelty
to know that words can hurt, had done some
of it myself, not much but some. I believed
all that was kid stuff, something one
outgrows, like crying, which is why
I could not, at first, believe what I was
hearing, an upperclassman taunting
another student, telling him he was
a sorry excuse for a human being,
a worthless piece of crap. "It's true,
isn't it, Bernie?" he hissed. "It's all
true, and I'll tell you why -- because
you're a Jew, a goddamn stinking Jew."
What I didn't understand was why
Bernie sat there and took it, why he
didn't, at least, get up and walk away.
I didn't understand then, but now what
I understand even less, and remember
to my great shame, is that I just
sat there myself, mute.