Testing, Trilobytes and Eternity

Writing is easy. All you have to do is place a blank piece of paper on the table below your head. Stare at it until your head bleeds and the words fall where they should, perfectly formed on the page.

Gene Fowler (1890-1960) tried to say this, but he didn't produce enough blood to get it right. Either that or the paper moved. The above is my attempt at improving on his original thought. What follows is a recollection and a reflection.

The writing process is easier if you are in touch with what you need to say. For a life-long romantic, aging athlete, readerly, intuitive, hands-on artist, calligrapher and a guy that tries and fails to be sensitive and helpful – simply trying to live a connected life is enough of a source to provide plenty of subject matter.

I had the best teachers. I lived among storytellers and scientists and people freshly away from the two great wars and those who worked in coal mines and on the railroads. I knew their mothers and wives and families. They had seen many parts of the world. I understood why they had worked so hard to come back "home".


I also lived just a few yards from a huge deposit of trilobites. These creatures had lived so long ago that our houses were built on their fossils. They were so fragile and embedded in rotten shale that when touched they simply crumbled. But there were lots of them. A few could be collected.


When I could drive I learned that showing up at the closest college campus with a basket of these could get attention from cute, scholarly females in the science departments. At 16 I did like lasses who wore glasses and were interested in my rock collection. I guess that would be worth another post altogether. Or not.


Just a few yards from home was the New River. Despite its name, the New River is the 3rd oldest river in the world and it flows north, like the Nile and the Amazon. Its rocks were round – OLD. Its banks had been the habitat of ancient people – OLD. There were fault lines I could see along the river – huge walls of rock shooting vertically and we KNOW that sedimentation takes place horizontally - from the time of the formation of the New River Gorge – BEYOND OLD.


I was called, when I was just 10, to spend the night at the home of a cousin who had died. It was my first wake. I was there along with five of my cousins. We had only met at Memorial Day gatherings and funerals for the elders who had died.

On Memorial Days we gathered at the old family cemeteries and cleaned up the graves. Young kids did the gravel and stick clearing and moving, the women trimmed and planted flowers and the men drank and smoked.


On this occasion though, we little boys were to be pallbearers. We didn't know what A WAKE meant much, except a harsh bath and NO SLEEP.


Who could anyway? Our cousin's open casket was open right below our loft and our bare feet were dangling just above him. Were were living under every adult warning and curse that could be imagined – I MEAN imagined.


The next day we were fed, warned not to giggle, fart or do anything except to look solemn and take careful steps.


The funeral lasted forever. I think I began to understand what E – T – E – R – N – I – T – Y was as we all tried to remain awake and solemn and non-gaseous for 200 hours. [It seemed.]


When the preaching and praying was finally done and the grim looks and warnings about HELL given directly to each of us surviving boys (we kind of begrudged our blood who was beyond suffering this preaching) we carefully picked up his little body and the poplar casket and carried it to the grove of trees and its final destination. We paused, and each of us threw a fistful of dirt onto the casket and walked away. I know I heard some ethereal remains of pinto beans whistling between some relieved cheeks. Mine were not yet relaxed enough to allow for that pleasure.


Getting home, I really felt better, hearing the sound of the ancient river, walking along the steadfast rocks and knowing my cousin's soul was in a better place, even as his body rested with the trilobites. ©     Tim www.timjohnsonphoto.com