UNCLE RUDE’S PLACE
In a dream, Trudi scolded me for not having written this
Poem on her Uncle Rude’s house before now.
She has always known, full-well, that I am a
Lazy country boy—and cannot be counted upon to put such
Words together, until the very last minute. She understands. I miss her so.
We live in her Uncle Rudolph Miller’s cabin,
And it’s a fine one. A hemlock slab-sided summer
Catskill cabin, with a Billy-be-damned fine fireplace,
Built with stones from our Woodland valley stream below.
In October, the fire is a necessity of life.
Rude put the whole thing together back in 1911.
He was an engineer and knew what he was about;
So, unlike the other cabin builders on our Panther Mountain,
The ones who’s places eventually tend to slip and slide down,
And have to be ratcheted and pulled back up with strong chains and such--
Uncle Rude’s place clings to the side of the mountain,
Impervious to wind, rain and storm, (knock wood),
I think of him, and I think of Trudi, and then again of her
Parents Paul and Alice. All dead now, but still in the valley,
Their pieces and memories all intact, in the heads of those who love them.
Critters live in Rude’s cabin along with us,
The boy’s escaped bait-crickets with their chirpity chirps,
And the goddam crapping mice of course. We kill some of them each year,
But eventually get tired of it. Last week I caught sight of
A black kitchen bat, and opened the door to let her escape into the night.
I hope Rude likes the imposition of small children upon his firm cabin floor,
For over the years a fecund bunch of us have supplied them. At present
There is Julia, and Griffin, and Adrian, and Katie Beth. All under 5 years
Of age, jumping and yelling and all loving Rudolph Miller’s place.
We all love Rudolph Miller’s place. Thank you Uncle Rude---.
Boreegard—
aka Mike O'Neil
2006
