Grandpa Gilpin's Chair

Grandpa Gilpin’s Chair

I grasp the arms

of the sturdy old chair,

remember your stories of him,

how he sat there by the window

of the house in Enfield.

He would read to you

from the Springfield paper

that arrived on the train,

report the feats of Walter Johnson

and the Washington Senators.

A practiced weaver,

he interlaced stories

of the mother who taught him to read,

the child lost in the well,

the loom in their house in Armagh.

I know him only

through your stories

and this chair 

whose solid frame invites me now 

to sit awhile and remember. 

Back Yard Drama

There is an ongoing drama in my yard--a sort of soap opera that I watch from the window by my breakfast table.

I slept a bit late this morning, so as I tuned into the story, it was already going on. The house

sparrows and the hairy woodpecker were already working busily at the perches on the sunflower seed feeder when a dark shadow zoomed in from the north. Before I even noticed its approach, every one of the birds flew off to their secret places. The shadow, it turns out, was nothing but a very chubby pigeon. He’s a new character on the scene. He usually hangs out on the roof line of the taller houses on Powell. What brought him here? Was he just trying to intimidate the smaller avians, or was he unaware of their presence. After he scouted around the grass and found nothing of interest, he flew off,

The next character on the scene was a black squirrel. The gray squirrels are regular visitors and provide the comic relief to our drama. They are in constant action. Whether chasing each other in circles around the trunk of the tulip tree or running along the ridge of the garage roof, then jumping into the hydrangea, they never cease to entertain. But the black one is new. In fact, black squirrels are not indigenous to the region, but were brought here from Michigan in the 1940s as a gift to Stanley Beveridge, the founder of Stanley Park in Westfield, so became a feature there, but now have spread out through Western Massachusetts.

Should we be suspicious of this alien? What’s he really up to? Was he the one that scared away the cardinal family who nested in the hydrangea this summer and have since disappeared?

Or did they just move to a classier neighborhood? We’ll have to keep our eye on that one.

Just now a gray squirrel has found a favorite spot on the hydrangea that was carved out by the woodpecker--a small hole just the right size to store a peanut or a few sunflower seeds. The hole grows larger with each peck and retrieval. How much can the old bush take?

Most of the drama happens offstage, and that is the mystery of it. It keeps us guessing.

Tune in tomorrow to see whether the long, dark, and handsome black squirrel turns out to be a hero or a villain? Or who will retrieve the treats in the hydrangea first, the titmouse or the squirrel? And will the cardinals return?

Rest in Peace - A Piece of Family History

Maryann and William John Gilpin outside
their home in Enfield, Massachusetts

Many of the stories my mother passed down to me were stories passed down to her from her grandfather. After her mother died when she was five, she moved around from one relative to another, but the home she spoke of most fondly was that with her paternal grandparents in Enfield, Massachusetts.

William John and Maryann Bannister Gilpin had settled there with their family after emigrating from County Armagh, Northern Ireland. There they had been linen weavers. A loom was set up in the house, and every member of the family took part in the making of this fine fabric made from the flax plants that grew nearby. 

Life was not easy. Though they all worked hard to create this beautiful material, it ended up on the tables and in the closets of the wealthier people in the area, but William John did not complain. He took most things in his stride, accepting what he saw as God's will.

But tragedy can test one's faith.. One day as he returned from a trip to the village, he saw Maryann coming out to greet him, carrying something in her arms. As he got closer, he saw that it was the tiny body of their son, William John, his namesake. Through her tears Maryann explained that he had fallen in a well, and by the time he was rescued, it was too late to save him.

William John was overcome with grief, yet he knew it was his responsibility to give the child a Christian burial, and having no money to buy a fancy casket, he fashioned a small box from wood he had salvaged and buried the child quietly in a corner of the church cemetery. Then every morning before the sun came up he would return to the small plot and say a prayer.

About a month later when he came to the cemetery one morning he found the plot had been dug up and the small coffin containing his child lay on a mound of dirt. He realized immediately that the grave had been appropriated for the casket of a town official who had died, a member of one of the wealthy families who bought the fine linen that his family had weaved.

When he arrived back home later than usual, he explained to Maryann what had happened. She  was distraught thinking of her child discarded so thoughtlessly, but then he explained he had taken their son and buried him again "somewhere where only God and I know." Presumably he continued to pray over his son in his new resting place for the years that they were to remain in Northern Ireland.

Swift River Company Mill

Their relocation began after Jim, their oldest son, fell in love with Sarah Hickland, and Sarah's family sailed to the United States and settled in Enfield, Massachusetts. Jim soon boarded a ship and followed her there where he proved to Mr. Smith of the woolen mill that he was a skilled weaver. Once Mr. Smith saw what Jim could do, he agreed to send for the rest of the family and there they settled in the Smiths' Village section of Enfield. 

William John Gilpin Home

And it was to their small home in the Smiths' Village years later that my mother was to come after her mother died. Her cousin, Uncle Jim's daughter, Ruth Vivian lived nearby, and she soon made many friends. Her grandmother was a great cook and taught her to make Irish delicacies like champ and potato bread.

She went to elementary school there, and then began high school at Belchertown High School, but when her father got a job in Springfield, she and her sister Gertrude were able to be with him, so they moved back to the city. 

Not long after they moved back, her grandmother and then her grandfather died. They returned to Enfield for the funeral and the burial in the church cemetery there. Watching her grandfather's coffin being lowered into the ground, she remembered his story of the child he buried so long ago, and she wondered if he were still resting in peace.

Neither her grandfather nor her grandmother were to rest in peace very long for it had been decided that the Swift River Valley--home to the towns of Enfield, Dana, Greenwich, and Prescott--was to be flooded to create Quabbin Reservoir that would provide water for the city of Boston. 

Vera Gilpin Schneeloch
at the Gilpin marker
Quabbin Park Cemetery

Soon all that had been of these four towns was razed, moved, or destroyed. This included those interred in the cemeteries. A new cemetery was created on the other side of Route 9, and all the graves were disinterred and buried again in the new Quabbin Park Cemetery.

So William John and Maryann who had endured the trauma of having their son disinterred and reburied were themselves disinterred and reburied. 

At least now there is a marker with their names engraved.  New names have been added including that of my grandfather William John Gilpin, Jr. He was to receive the name of the child who had been lost so many years ago.

Imagine That!

Last week I went to a retreat at Rolling Ridge on "The Poetry of Prayer" led by Steve Garnaas-Holmes. It was a great fall day full of nature's glory, inspiring words, and new and old friends. This poem came out of that retreat.

Imagine That!

Imagine you are loved

really loved

as much as you love your old dog

who poops on the carpet

who pees reliably not on the pee pads

who turns up his nose

at the expensive single serving filet mignon.

Remember how you forgive him

time after time

even after he does it again

and again.

Remember

that there is no end

no condition

no restriction

no contingency

on you love for him

on  your forgiveness of him.

Imagine that you,

yes you,

your flawed, shitty self

is loved and forgiven

that much

over and over

and over again.

Imagine that!

Feeding or Fooling the Birds

I bought a gallon of shelled sunflower seeds at the Bird Store on the Cape thinking I should dust off the old bird feeder and hang it from the shepherd's crook where the summer basket of flowers had hung. Then I could watch the birds from the window. This is also the same shepherd’s crook where I had hung the hummingbird feeder that attracted no hummingbirds, but in my experience, the winter birds aren't as picky.

So I put the bird feeder back together--the three pieces of plastic column inside the cage to keep out the squirrels, (Ha!) filled it with the sunflower seed, and hung it on the hook. 

For several days the level of seed seemed unchanged. Then on Monday I noticed the level had gone down some, but when I looked at the plastic column, I saw that I had put it in upside-down so that now that the seed was below the tiny spouts where the seed spilled out, there was no way for the birds to get at the seed. So last night I brought the feeder inside intending to correct my error today.

It was on my to-do list as I sat eating my breakfast when I saw a tiny chickadee fly from the hydrangea to the hook where yesterday there was a feeder, then back to the hydrangea, then back to the hook, and then fly off. I felt as if I had tricked it into thinking this was a good place to look for sustenance, then taken away the food.

I immediately fixed the feeder, filled it with seed and returned it to its rightful place. I can only hope that the birds will find this again. I suspect they will.

Autumnal Equinox

When and how

the earth turns or twists

to create this moment of balance

is beyond my control.

Exactly when the planet

leans into darkening hours

shorter and shorter days--

all this is out of my hands.

I may protest

every minute of disappearing sun

the packing up of porch furniture

the pulling out of extra blankets,

yet there is a sort of comfort

in knowing that the universe decides

when to replace a second of sun

with a second of night.

But it is I

who must make

the decisions

about my old dog,

I who must decide

what path to take for today’s walk

whether through the rose garden

or around the lily ponds.

I who must choose

between the chopped chicken

or beef in gravy

for his dinner.

On this day of transition

I look at the basket of unused toys

hind legs that cross or collapse

cloudy cataracts,

and I wish I were not

entrusted with

decisions about 

his universe.

September's Sweetness

September's Sweetness

This morning's peach

may be the last this season,

everything about it perfect.

The soft skin peels easily

to reveal sweet gold fruit.

I savor each piece,

hold it in my mouth

for just a moment longer.

       From upstairs I hear

       a plaintive whimper.

       Riley is calling for me

       to carry him downstairs.

       I cradle his warm body

       and hold on to the rail.

       I want to hold him like this

       for just a moment longer.