And it became a wood duck in the middle of Lick Creek, which looks a lot like a ditch in Tennessee. The idea is interesting though. How does one piece of alternate order reestablish the understanding so entirely?
In that moment, my world stopped around a male wood duck, about as a striking an animal as I know of. It is hard to see in the picture, testament to my poor framing and the way we, as humans, sense the world in a way that no medium but existence can transcend.
For those who may be unaware of the original, Wallace Stevens was a poet banker. He wrote this banger.1
Anecdote of a Jar
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was, upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer
wild.
The jar was round upon the
ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
The jar did not begin there for it had been around some time. My part started the evening before as we ventured to Fort Pillow State Park for a Pack 13 trip. The park covers some wonderful hills and bluffs that lead to rivers around. The air is good and one feels it.
We pitched camp and went abouting our ways. I went to go look at the lake.
It was really much nicer than that. Dinner time was coming about so to camp I went to eat cheese and meat and sauce out of a cup. It was super yummy; but first, Mr. John spoke about the hills because to be on the land is to know that they were the place of the worst of men’s evils. Space is a unique transmitter of history. When we let nature replace our past, it is eager to care for itself. We find a beautiful time of family and bonding in the tall woods. Cubmaster John noted that the trees and beyond welcomed the healing from sugar and smiles and so we should feel joy.
As perchance would have it, we had flags to retire which is a sacred ceremony. They had been left in my care by dear friends on their way out of town for this reason. I made it a point to get it done at the nearest convenient time because it doesn’t come along often.
The sun came up and I made coffee and my way to the lake to set a minnow trap out on a tree hanging over the water.
I managed to not fall and felt very clever about it when I looked down to spot a stubby bottle nestled between the leaves.
It made me recall the poem, Wallace Stevens, and Mr. Fricke.
Mr. Fricke was one of my dorm parents and my english teacher for my junior spring.
He was a very difficult man my freshman year. I could not understand why he was so mean. He held study hall on Monday nights and they were the worst. Carson, Jorge, and I sat in the kitchen with a dorm parent for two hours every school night. Most were cool. Mr. Fricke’s name rhymes far to easily with the obvious words to not be coincidence. There was no way around his disdain and the only thing to do was be quiet and be studying a book.
We made it through the year and when we came back, Mr. Fricke played football and watched mafia movies and ate pasta with us while being a terror to the next round of Class IV Faulkner Boys.
“I hate freshman.”
He answered when I asked about it one time as he gave me a ride into town. I forgot what errands we had went on, I believe they were some of his but I was at ease and he has made a subtle impact on my life and always in a positive way. Whenever I am reminded of him, I think of a decent man whom I wish I had tried to learn more from.
He’s also an exceptional teacher of literature and has a fondnes for Wallace Stevens. Wallace Stevens wrote a poem about a jar.
This jar, I felt, must be placed on a hill and so away it went. One asshole’s trash was headed to be a gesture of only intent.
That was completed which meant running around the hill until we packed up to continue my string of bad fishing luck.
He’s looking down a hole.
Grip stowed, we meandered south but not before stopping to talk to the woman who owns this place and admiring her collection of hornet’s nests. Her husband makes a tasty burger. For the sake of the story, and it may be true, this is also where the bottle and I parted ways.
If you don’t know the history of Fort Pillow, this is as good as any place to start.