Last summer, area residents working together under the name “Citizen’s Climate Education – Mitchell County” hosted an environmental expo near Osage in North Iowa. At this gathering, Cedar Summerstock Theatre actors performed “Cedar River Anthology,” a series of seven free-verse poems I cobbled together for the occasion. (Yes indeed, I am familiar with the Robert Frost line about free verse being “like playing tennis without a net.”)
These fictional lines, intended to be realistic, are set in 2072, then fifty years into the future… now 49. The setting is a rural cemetery in Mitchell County, near where family members have lived for 170 years. The deceased tell their stories: lives cut short by the consequences of climate change – flood, drought, famine, etc. This speaking-from-the-grave motif is modeled after “Spoon River Anthology,” by Edgar Lee Masters, written more than a century ago.
Spoon River by Masters consists of 245 epitaphs in monologue form. (I somehow confined myself to seven.) A Masters biography notes, “They are spoken by residents of a confining small town like those Masters [knew from] his Illinois boyhood. Speakers tell of their hopes and ambitions and of their bitter, unrealized lives. These realistic poems proved controversial… for they contradicted the popular view of small towns as repositories of moral virtue and respectability.”
By nature, I’m an optimist; nevertheless, these are not optimistic stories. Dystopian endings allude to inevitable outcomes if our knowledge – specifically, knowledge about climate change – does not stimulate sustained action. But here’s where my optimism surfaces: It’s not too late. We can still act. We can make changes.
An expo presenter, former state senator Rob Hogg, sent me a post-performance email, “I saw young people perform Cedar River Anthology. It is exactly the type of artistic exploration we need about climate change. It goes into the future to see the damage we are doing to our own communities. If we can see and feel that damage – before it happens – I believe we will do more to protect our people and our future.”
In this post, I have sewn together these poems, first published serially last winter in the St. Ansgar Enterprise Journal. I’m posting it here on Memorial Day, knowing many readers will stop by a cemetery like the one near my home this weekend. I realize this post is significantly longer than you’re accustomed to seeing from me, with hopes that you’ll still find it worth reading. And ideally, you’ll also find it both thought-provoking and action-stimulating. --KM
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Gerald Wright
I have dim childhood memories / Of pulling ticks off Laddie’s ears / After walking in the woods next to Grandpa’s house. / But those ticks were pretty good size, / Then they’d swell up like little grey peas / After feasting on ol’ Laddie for a day or two. / These aren’t the kinds of ticks we’re talking about, / Not according to the people in Rochester, / And they seem to know what they’re talking about.
These ticks are small and rare. / It took them a long time to figure it out. / “Maybe this?” “No, the tests are negative.” “Maybe that?” “Negative again.” / I ask, “When is negative really a positive?” / And they mumbled something about tests getting us closer / To knowing what made me feel so punk. / But that dang tick isn’t supposed to be this far north. / Thirty years ago, it was barely in Arkansas – Southern Arkansas, at that! / Then Missouri, now Iowa. “Look out, Minnesota. It’s comin’ your way.”
And so was I… once a week to Mayo for 15 weeks. / Fourteen weeks of “we really don’t know yet…” / Then “we think it’s a tick… spread by squirrels and rabbits, maybe some birds.” / Knowing is good… I guess… healing would be even better. / Fifty-seven years old and I look like seventy-five. / But then, who cares? Laura kept saying, “For better, for worse…” / They decided it was in my blood, maybe dialysis would help. / But it didn’t. “Let’s try this.” “Let’s try that.” Tests and more tests. / Then it settled in my lungs; just standing up took my breath away.
Nobody wants to hear the details, Laura says. / Miserable, that’s what it was… and so was I. / Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t walk, then couldn’t stand. / Couldn’t seem to think straight… maybe that’s good / Since it meant I could be in denial… “yeah, I’ll get better, sure I will.” / But eventually, I knew. “I saw the movie; I know how it ends.” / A tick the size of a pinhead carried north by critters / Twenty miles a year for some fifty-plus years. / And neither I nor medical science could do a dang thing about it.
* * *
Gretchen Ferris
“Bomb cyclone,” I heard. / That was news to me. / I say a “rain bomb” / But that’s just my term. / What else can I say? / Rain, rain, and more rain. / Some eighteen inches. / Every thousand years?
Floods require time. / Most rain fell upstream. / We knew it would come / But did not know when. / Unprecedented! / Thank God for high ground. / Four days of hard rain. / And four days of flood.
“Fetch” has gotten old / And he wanted out. / Dogs always come back. / Somehow, not tonight. / So, I took a walk / And found him, marooned. / The bank there is steep; / He couldn’t climb up.
A slippery rock? / Maybe a big root? / It was getting dark; / I lost my footing. / The river was mad, / Muddy, fast moving. / Should’ve used more care. / I fell in head-first.
I’m a strong swimmer; / The current, stronger. / Didn’t see that stump… / Blunt force to the skull, / Listed as drowning. / Surfaced far downstream. / Floods are funny things. / Death is far less so.
* * *
Oliver Stevens
We knew we could hang in there for one year. / I thought maybe we might survive a second. / But no way we could endure a third.
We knew rain sometimes comes in cycles. / I thought maybe the corn would survive. / But no way those tender shoots could make it, / Day after day, week after week… record temps and no moisture.
We knew those rains in March and early April were a good sign. / I thought maybe this year would be different, better than last, and the awful one before that. / But no way did we think those rains would be it! / That there wouldn’t be any more…
We knew about crop insurance, sure. / I thought maybe it would be good to hedge our bets. / But no way did we have that kind of cash floating around, looking for a good place to land.
We knew Marlene had been crying. / I thought maybe she could shrug it off, like I used to. / But no way I could look her in the eye, knowing what I was thinking… / She could always read my mind.
We knew “Banker Bill” worked with me as long as he could. / I thought maybe I got a little extra time, knowing his wife and Marlene are cousins. / But no way I could twist his arm this time. / Can’t say as I blame him… he answers to somebody, too.
We knew the kids were catching on. / I thought maybe they could be strung along a bit longer, too. / But no way we could fool that daughter of mine… / She must be related to her mother.
We knew farming was a crapshoot. / I thought maybe about the gun. / But no way, in the final analysis… / It’s better for everybody for me to simply hang in there – in the barn.
* * *
Sharon Stepney
It sure was good to see everybody over the holidays. / But I don’t mind telling you, all that ho-ho-ho stuff sure tuckered me out. / Gatherings are lots of fun, even without Wendell. But I’m not a spring chicken anymore either. / That was always Wendell’s line: “I guess I’m not a spring chicken anymore.” / Well, he was right… and now he’s been gone for six years. / So, I can steal his line, even if I just say it to myself. / I’ve gotten pretty independent, living out on my dead-end road, all by myself. / Wendell would be rather proud of me.
Where was I… oh yes. So, come that week between Christmas and New Years / When we were doing all that family business: / Nieces and nephews. Great nieces and great nephews. And all those folks they married. / Too bad our Earl never married, but it would have taken a very special woman. / He’s been gone for four – well, come to think of it – almost five decades now. / I remember when the doctor told us, how was it he put it… ? / “Earl’s heart wasn’t quite right.” Well, it WAS right if you mean his heart for people. / But if you mean his heart for circulating his blood like it should, / Well, then the doctor WAS right because our Earl wasn’t quite right. / Wendell and me were just glad to have him around for 29 years.
Where was I… oh yes. / Those relatives of mine. Well, Wendell’s relatives really. / But after 58 years, who cares what branch of the tree we’re talking about? / They welcomed me. They fed me. They let me stay with them in their beautiful home. / And things got a little off schedule… / I’m not used to such excitement. / I took my pills along and MAY have taken an extra dose or two. / I wanted to be feeling as good as possible… / And I lost a couple of those pills down the drain when the bottle tipped over. / So, I used up some of January’s allotment even before I even opened my new calendar.
So now, come the end of January, I’m running a little low on my prescriptions. / It all comes right to my mailbox, maybe thirty yards outside my front door. / But then, no one planned on this storm, did they? Oh, we’ve had bad storms before. / But this polar vortex business… on and off for four days, then finally one day of sunshine. / Actually, more like a cold half-day… then two more days of just blowing. / We can’t call it a blizzard when it’s just blowing, can we? Forty… fifty miles an hour. / Boy, oh boy, it was blowing! Oh, I kept warm; my furnace works just fine. / Wendell and me bought a brand new furnace a couple years before he died.
It’s now been three days without one prescription, two days without the other. / Surely, I can make it a few days without my pills. / They send me three-months at a time and never been off schedule. / But this storm must have interrupted their lives, too. / I’m sure they’ll arrive soon. Probably tomorrow, you know, after the plow comes. / So, where was I. Oh, yes. / I know the mailman, Marvin, can’t make it up my road, / My quiet, tree-lined road is too narrow for those big plows that clear the highway. / So, they send out their little plow for roads like mine. / Or DON’T send them out, not when it’s still storming.
It’s now been four days without one prescription, three days without the other. / My third prescription, the one I don’t really need… / I’ve still got a lot of those dark-pink pills, wouldn’t you know! / Wait… is that the plow? Listen… no, it must have been an airplane. / I’m pretty sure I heard something.
Wendell always said it was the best thing about living out here. / Nothing but nature noises… right now, I’d settle for plow noises. / I suppose I could walk up to Frank’s house. / Oh, who am I kidding… the snow is just too deep. I’d never make it. / Come spring, I sure could. I did last September. But I’m not even going to try today. / Like my sister used to say (God rest her soul), “Sharon, it must be DRIFTING in the country.” / Well, I’m in the country. And it’s drifting, all right.
The plow, the mail, the pills… any day now, I’m sure. / I still feel pretty good. Maybe a bit dizzy, but that’s all. / Say, is that the plow? No, must have been furnace noises. / Okay, maybe a little ringing in my left ear. If I nap a bit, that usually takes care of it. / Five days without two medications, four days without the third. / That little twinge when I fed the cats, I think that’s gone now… must have twisted something. / I’m sure the plow will get here soon. Maybe tomorrow.
* * *
Gavin Wheeler
Was it fever? Was it poverty? Was it heat? / Mom said it was going to be hot today. Boy, was she right! / We needed a fresh start. Mom said that, too. / The house isn’t much… but it’s ours and we’re safe. / I heard Mom tell Grandpa it wasn’t a double-wide. / It was just a trailer house. / She called it a single-wide.
It’s better than living with Dad because he was mad all the time. / He paddled my bottom maybe five or six times, and yeah, it hurt… / But he hit Mom, too, and her eye got pretty swollen that one time. / Mom says we’ll get a window air conditioner, / Maybe this weekend when Uncle Pete brings it over or, like Mom says, / “When he gets his butt in gear.”
It’s hot in here, but Mom thought it would be even hotter outside. / I think yesterday set a record. One-hundred-and-nineteen. / Maybe a degree or two higher today. / Mom will be home soon unless she runs errands like she talked about. / She doesn’t think I should be here on my own / But I’ll be eight next month and, like Grandma says, I’m growing up fast.
Aunt Dee-Dee sounded pretty sick when she called this morning / And Mom told her I’d be just fine for one day hanging out by myself. / She’s gonna try to get off tomorrow / And maybe we can do something special. / I told her I could go to Kenny’s house today / But I forgot, they’re gone all week, traveling out west or something.
You know, I’m starting to feel kinda sick. / Probably just tired, I didn’t get much sleep last night. / I don’t take naps anymore but maybe if I rest for a while / I’ll feel better and Mom will be home. / Wait till I tell Mom I took a nap without her even telling me. / Maybe a half-hour…. she’ll be proud of me.
Boy, it’s hot in here; that must be why I’m so drowsy. / How could I know I’d never wake up? I’m only seven. / The young police officer said our house was an oven, / Like a car sitting out in the afternoon sun. / WAAAAY more than a hundred degrees. / Was it fever? … poverty? … heat? Maybe all of them.
* * *
Renee Harmon
You know, when I was a girl, this was all farmland. / My brother Tom and I would bike out here a couple times a year / To ride those beautiful horses Ben’s family had. / It never occurred to us the town would sprawl this far out. / But then, we were just kids, maybe 12 or 13.
That was in the last century, ’97 or ’98… so we’re talking a L-O-N-G time ago. / They tore out that handsome bridge a few years ago / And built this new one… I guess maybe I liked the old one better / But saying that makes me sound old, doesn’t it? / Maybe I am.
I talked the move over with Judy and she understood. / It’s still independent living… and if I ever need more care / It’s all right here, a hundred yards up the hill. / She probably feels a bit guilty… but she sure doesn’t / Need to move back here because of me.
Bob and Judy have their own family to consider / And they’re all settled in Ohio, even the grandkids. / I laughed when they said I should move out there. / We can all re-evaluate when they retire next year. / Maybe it means they’ll visit a bit more often.
I’m okay; I’m happy here; I’ll be fine. / I chose the unit closest to the river / Not realizing you can’t see the water from here. / Not after they built that big berm after last year’s horrible flood. / But Kay next door said you can hear the water with your windows open.
These independent units were the last to be built, / Maybe in the early 40s, / When it wasn’t considered a floodplain. / They did a nice job refurbishing things after the flood. / It’s almost like new.
A couple weeks after moving in, I just wasn’t feeling like myself. / Couldn’t quite catch my breath… I even told the nurse about it. / Eventually, Judy’s Bob wondered if it might be mold. / I told him he was remembering all that cheese we ate last Christmas. / We laughed… but turns out, he was right.
They say some folks are much more sensitive to mold than others. / Wouldn’t you know, I’m one of the sensitive ones! / Six weeks in my new home and feeling worse every day. / Administration said they’d move me when a new place opens up. / It just didn’t happen soon enough.
I was thinking maybe a decade here. / A nice place, close to the river, lots of room. / Mom lived to 95 and Dad made it to 93. / Martin died young, but then he never took care of himself. / I’ve been “flying solo” now for 26 years…
So, it seems I’ve joined a rather exclusive club… a “mold fatality”. / Serves me right, I guess… poo-pooing all of Judy’s concerns. / I said, “just old age catching up…” and she kept saying “it’s a silent killer, Mom!” / Turns out, she was right and I was wrong. / Dead wrong.
* * *
Ronald Andrews
I admit to counting down the days. / When I stop and think about it, / Until I enlisted, I’d never really been away from home / And certainly not for an extended time. / Still, I’m not complaining, we need to be here. / Stateside big-wigs call us “peace-keepers,” / Which sounds like we’re crossing guards or hall monitors. / They’re not here… and it’s stressful, to say the least.
Starvation makes people dangerous. / Parents want to feed their kids. / The “famine mob” here moved hundreds of miles / Across land devastated by drought. / They said maybe ten-thousand refugees… / More like two or three times that. / Hungry, angry, desperate … can’t say I blame ‘em. / It’s a bleak situation, to say the least.
They heard there might be food here / A mere five- or six-hundred miles west. / No one mentioned crossing a border / Into a country that didn’t want them. / So, Uncle Sam to the rescue. / Doing what we can to keep the lid on… / Which is about all we can do / Since there’s no food here either, to say the least.
Too much anger in too close quarters / Means we should expect a “flare-up” / Or an incident of some kind breaking out. / “Expect the unexpected,” they say… Lord knows, we try. / Obviously, he was angry, probably delirious. / I thought he said no food for seven days. / I tried to explain, but language was a barrier. / I sure didn’t expect the knife, to say the least.
One-hundred and thirteen days left, / You bet I was counting. / Modern medicine may have patched me up / But no real healthcare in this god-forsaken place. / So now I’ll get home early. / I never thought it would be in a box. / I tried to be careful, Mom and Dad, just like you said. / It wasn’t supposed to end like this, to say the least.
—
Proud member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative
Cedar River Anthology
Devastating and beautiful. Thank you for sharing this work. Rest in peace to all.