Thursday, May 20, 2010

The House Not Yet Cold

House hunting in a small town is never easy.  The selection is always limited and when you’ve lived in the town before, you usually have an idea where you want to live and what you need, in a house. 
 
 four years before we had moved to Mississippi and now, with plans changed once more, we were back in town searching for another home.  It didn't take long for the search to begin trying my limited patience.  I wanted my "stuff".  If you've ever moved and had things in storage, you know what I mean.

One humorous friend suggested that we name our abode "Snowstorm" and pretend we were just vacationing, caught up in a snowstorm.

As fall seemed to fade with each painted leaf and the winds of winter whistled across the door of the northeast basement apartment we were renting I began to feel as if we might be there through the long dark, and cold, winter.  

Perhaps my friend was right, so I got out my calligraphy pen, leftover from yet another attempt to learn something new, and wrote the name on a piece of white cardboard, from the laundry, which had been folded up in my husband's white shirt.  I dutifully taped the newly made sign onto the door, knowing it would delight my clever friend, and resigned myself to the long cold winter at Snowstorm apartment.
 
Each time an acquaintance or friend learned of something available we would be informed that it was on the market. We settled in and things looked more and more like we would be waiting until spring time when children would be finishing up their school years and folks might be planning moves. 
 
One of my very dearest friends who was on into her eighties, and well-connected in our  town, belonging to almost every notable organization, had continued to be very diligent about keeping up with availabilities, always on the alert to find a house for us not too far from her. 

Then early one morning, just as I poured my first cup of coffee, the wall phone  by the pantry in the kitchen jangled me to attention

Known for her direct and somewhat curt, greetings, she did not disappoint me that morning with her familiar straightforward approach, as she launched right into her reason for calling. 

She excitedly proclaimed "Joy, Mary Lee just called.  The hearse just came for Miriam. I know you will like her house.    You should get over there and see it!"

-Joy S. Barefoot

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Wayfare Church (The Hole in the Stone)

Old southern tree moss

swayed gently, high above me.

The buff colored dirt

was pounded

around the worn stones.

There were names,

not unlike my own,

barely visible,

as the whole of the stones

seemed to fall away,

grain by gravelly grain.

My eyes traced the edge

of the stone,

hypnotized

by the hole in its edge.

Twins laid buried here

sharing a coffin.

Twins whose love for each other

robbed me of uncles

in that dark and

swampy river.

“My grandfather

made the double coffin.”

Pointing again,

she said “Your grandfather is here.”,

I knew the story.

That dark and swampy lake

had, again, robbed me,

swallowing up my grandfather

but there was no stone,

not even one with a hole in it.

Joy Stalvey Barefoot

June 4, 1990


Hull Street House

An old house on Hull Street

still holds the singing

of my birth,

hidden away

in cracks and crannies

of aging boards

and fresh paint,

where the cries

of agony and anguish,

in the process of my birthing,

lie buried beneath thick layers

of things like Sherwin Williams

or Dutch Girl Paint.

-Joy Stalvey Barefoot