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Joseph E Bird

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robert’s nativity

“I’m getting married over the Christmas break.”

As announcements go in a fourth grade class, that’s a big one. When your teacher says something like that, you first realize that she has a life outside of the classroom and that there are other people in her life besides you. And getting married? That’s a lot for a nine year-old to process.

It was a little school, Lakewood Elementary in St. Albans, West Virginia. Miss Yount was the teacher. (For the sake of simplicity, I’ll refer to her as Miss Yount, though Yount was her married name.) As tradition of the day dictated, the students would normally get their teacher a Christmas present. but being the wise young woman she was, Miss Yount asked the kids to come up with something “creative” instead of a traditional Christmas gift.

One of her students was Robert Taylor, the fourth child of seven in the Taylor clan. He was a serious student and took Miss Yount’s request to heart. Using a pattern his mother had, Robert fashioned a nativity scene using styrofoam balls and felt. Nine figures in all, including Mary and Joseph, angels, wise men, and shepherds. No phoning it in for young Robert Taylor. Even the face of the baby Jesus in Mary’s arms was detailed. An artistic masterpiece? No. But what is evident is the time and effort that he took to create this seasonal memento for a teacher he would not likely see again after he graduated fourth grade. There was obviously a fondness for her.

And so he graduated, and she married and moved away.

Robert grew up, graduated college and began working as a structural engineer for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, despite the B in math he earned in fourth grade from Miss Yount. He married, had four kids of his own and now has four grandchildren. He retired from the Corps a couple of years ago, but even after retirement, he has been to Mosul, Iraq five times where he has assisted in the engineering of the stabilization of the Mosul Dam. Miss Yount would be proud.

And then a couple of weeks ago, a message appeared on Facebook.

“I’m in search of a Robert Taylor, Asian-American who attended fourth grade at Lakewood Elementary School in St. Albans, WV. His teacher was Ms. Dale Yount. I believe the year would be 1967, 1968, or 1969. His expected age would be 60-62.”

It was a friend of Miss Yount, helping her try to find Robert Taylor.

After she left St. Albans with her husband, Mrs. Yount, now Dr. Yount, traveled the world. She lived in Egypt, Japan, Malaysia, England, Singapore and several states in the U.S. In all they had moved 39 times. At each place they lived, every Christmas Dr. Yount displayed the nativity scene that Robert had so carefully crafted so many years ago.

And she never quit thinking about that little boy and wondering how his life had turned out.

You can guess the rest. Yes, they have connected via email but have yet to talk to face to face. Her current residence is near the home of Robert’s youngest son so it’s likely a meeting will happen soon. It will be heartwarming in so many ways, and it seems they share the same values and the same faith. Which is one of the reasons the nativity scene that Robert made is so special to her. It’s not just another Christmas ornament, it depicts what Christmas is all about. It speaks of the eternal bonds of love and grace.

Merry Christmas.

copyright 2019, joseph e bird

This story is true, though some of the facts from 50 years ago are affected by fading memories. The author has taken the liberty to create a narrative that expresses the truth more or less as remembered by the participants.

6

how did i get here?

you may ask yourself

Sunday, October 27. Mingo County, West Virginia.

We’re visiting my brother-in-law, Paul, at the nursing home on top of the mountain in Williamson. It’s a typical visit. We bring Coca-Colas and 7-Ups. Not Pepsi. Not Sprite. Coca-Colas and 7-Ups. We drop them off at the dining hall where a local gospel group is beginning to play. Two men, two women. An acoustic guitar wired to a little Fender amp. They sing loudly, all feeling, no nuance. Gathered around are the usual assortment of residents in wheelchairs.

Paul is there but he has no interest in staying so we go back to his room to visit a little. After a while, it’s time to leave. We hear the music from the dining hall so we go back to listen for a bit.

The music is as country gospel as you can get, full of twang and southern West Virginia. They’re singing a song I’ve never heard.

I Can’t Even Walk Without You Holding My Hand.

Of course not like the video I just linked, but it’s the same song.

And there’s a lady lying horizontal in a wheelchair, clutching her sippy cup, her eyes closed. And she’s singing along.

In the back is another lady mouthing the words.

Gertrude, who says she’s ready to be with the Lord, is singing too.

John Michael looks to be in his thirties. He wheels up and asks for a microphone and one of the ladies obliges. John Michael sings his heart out, even if his voice is not what he wants it to be.

It’s hard not to be touched.

We finally leave and make our usual stop at Mickey D’s for coffee for the long ride home. Over the sound system, the Talking Heads song, Once in a Lifetime, is playing.

I remember the quirky alternative-rock song from so many years ago and it gets stuck in my head. I can’t remember all the words and when I get home I find it and play it.

you may ask yourself,
well, how did i get here?

David Byrne’s philosophical musings about how life blazes by and here we are. How did we get here?

Most folks in the nursing home are probably not prone to introspection, but there a few. I’ve talked with a veteran with no legs and he may ask himself.

Larry has family issues that haunt him. He may ask himself.

Our friend Peggy would. My God, what have I done? Not a question she would ask in vain, but a sincere pleading.

And so it goes.

Same as it ever was.

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you must watch this

mercy.

i can’t begin to describe this video.

if you are a runner, you must watch this.

if you are an introspective person, you must watch this.

if you are awed by the forces of our natural world, you must watch this.

and if you watch this, you must watch until the very end.

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fathers

Most are not leaders of nations.
Most are not creators of wealth.
Most are not icons of sports or entertainment.
Their names will not be written in the annals of history.

But without them, we would be nothing.

Their fathers worked with pride as pipe-fitters and welders and electricians.
Their fathers mined coal and dug ditches and toiled with dignity.
They did what was necessary to provide food and shelter and clothes.
They did what was necessary to provide hope for a better tomorrow.

Tomorrow came, and it was better,
and the sons and daughters of the fathers went to school
and became teachers and writers and lawyers and engineers.
They became fathers and mothers themselves
and likewise provided for their families.

They did all of this
without the need for attention,
without the need for adulation,
without the need for self-aggrandizement.

Fathers persevere and sacrifice.
They do what needs to be done.
They are good and honorable.

No, not all fathers.
Some abandon.
Some abuse.
Some give up.

It’s not about gender roles.
Sometimes the mother is the father.
Sometimes she is both.

It’s not about being the breadwinner.
It’s about being strong for the family.
It’s about providing direction to those who wander
and encouragement to those who strive.

Now they rest,
their work less strenuous,
their lives less demanding,
and they sit quietly,
content to let others lead.

They have lived simply.
They have lived nobly.
They have given their all.
They are fathers.

copyright 2019, joseph e bird

1

no place for a young girl

Every year about this time we go to the cemeteries and clean the graves of those who have gone before. It makes you realize how fast time flies. Has it really been that long? And then there are all those forgotten graves. What was their story? Maybe this.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
up the steep gravel road,
through the woods
to the clearing
where the old grey headstones
were covered in moss
and leaned toward the earth
as if they were too tired
to stand up straight,
for so long they had stood in testament to
the forgotten lives
of those whose names were
were worn from the stone
by the unrelenting and unforgiving
passage of time.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
because there were snakes
and yellow jackets
and maybe bears.
and at night
across the hollows
voices and laughter and music
and now and then
a gunshot
would echo
from neighbors unknown,
and though the graveyard
was close
it was no place for
a young girl alone.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
but along with the grey, rough tablets
of ancient men
and their wives
and their children,
were smooth slabs
of curved and polished marble
with praying hands
and crosses
and Bible verses
written in script,
and names her grandmother knew
of this cousin and that uncle,
and her grandmother’s husband,
the grandfather she had never known.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
under the deep shade
cast by towering oaks and maples
where grass wouldn’t grow
and moss and lichens
clung easily to the old stones
and left her grandfather’s headstone
untouched by nature,
save for the pollen in the spring
that she would wipe with her finger
from the smooth marble,
that also promised
that her grandmother would
someday
rest with him.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
but her grandmother worried too much.
she had never seen a snake
and stayed clear of the bees
and the idea of bears
just seemed silly,
and it was peaceful
always peaceful.
and she would talk to God
and ask why other kids
teased her,
though she knew
it was because her clothes
were old and
she was poor.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
and she sat beside the grandfather
she knew only from photographs,
and read Psalms
from his old Bible
and drew wisdom from the words
that would stay with her
all of her days,
and give her
comfort
through her pain,
and strength
through her weakness,
and courage
through her fears.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
and when she saw him
she knew her grandmother
had been right,
and she had been foolish,
and as he came toward her
he took a drink
from a bottle
and wiped his mouth
on his sleeve
and laughed,
and she knew
that he had come
from the valley
of the shadow of death.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
but she would fear no evil
and she always carried a staff,
the old iron pipe
from her grandfather’s workshop,
heavy and cool,
and she stood
and gripped it in both hands
and drew back
and stepped toward him
and swung,
and he screamed as it struck
against his ribs,
and his bottle dropped,
and she ran off the hill.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
she didn’t tell her grandmother
and she didn’t sleep
for days,
and when the kids
teased her because
she had to tape the soles
of her shoes,
and because she lived
in a shack with her grandmother
because her mother had
killed herself with a needle,
she cried into her pillow
softly,
so her grandmother wouldn’t hear.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
and it was weeks before she went back
to find her staff,
her grandfather’s iron pipe,
which had given her comfort,
and to find the peace
that had left her.
but it wasn’t the same.
she couldn’t read
she couldn’t pray
she couldn’t close
her eyes
because he might
be out there
still.

she wasn’t supposed to go there by herself.
and though she was afraid,
she still went there by herself,
because it was there
she had learned of
peace and strength and courage.
and she would grow
and live far away
from the hollows,
and the kids who teased her,
and she would become a woman
strong in her will and
strong in her faith
and though she was never alone
she went there by herself.

copyright 2017, joseph e bird
photo copyright 2017, joseph e bird

7

still they come

we are the land of the oppressed

and still they come

we are the land of the unfair, the unjust, and the selfish

and still they come

we are the land of the destitute, the marginalized, the ignored

and still they come

we are the land of prejudice, and bigotry, and hatred

and still they come

we are the land of assault, and theft, and murder

and still they come

we are the land of toxic waste, and foul air, and undrinkable water

and still they come

we are the land of filthy cities, the homeless, and needles in the playground

and still they come

we are the land of division, and tribalism, and democracy in decline

and still they come

we are the land of despair, and shattered dreams, and lost hope

and still they come

we are the great Satan, the imperialist nation, the evil America

and still they come

.

we are the land of friendships, and neighbors, and welcoming strangers

and still they come

we are the land of charity, of goodwill, and acts of kindness

and still they come

we are the land of giving, and helping, and sacrifice

and still they come

we are the land of your faith, of my faith, or no faith

and still they come

we are the land of mountain majesty, of fruited plains, and sparkling rivers

and still they come

we are the land of small towns, and family farms, and shining cities on the hill

and still they come

we are the land of hard work, and opportunities, and reward

and still they come

we are the land of dreaming, of possibilities, of anything can happen

and still they come

we are the land of the underdog, and second chances, and comebacks

and still they come

we are the land of the brash, the home of the brave, and defender of rights

and still they come

we are the inspiration of yesterday, the bread for the day, and the hope for tomorrow

and still they come

.

we are the land of hopelessness and hope

we are the land of the poor and the rich

we are the land of the atheist and the faithful

we are the land of oppression and liberty

we are America

and still they come

copyright 2019, joseph e bird

1

a birthday

sids birthday for web

“For through wisdom your days will be many,
and years will be added to your life.”

The photo is of A. S. “Sid” Morgan, maybe taken in 1973, maybe his 90th birthday.  I suppose I could try to count the candles.  If it was 1973, he would die less than a month later.

This is the kind of photograph that inspires stories, spurs the imagination of a writer.  But Sid lived the adventures.  He built boats and floated down the Mississippi on hunting expeditions back in the early 1900s.  In 1926, he opened a museum that over the years became legendary.

You’d never guess he lived that kind of life from the picture.  He looks tired.  The house he’s in, once a proud mansion on the bottom land near the Kanawha River, looks tired. I was in the house many times as a child and the memories are still strong.  Unusual memories.  The smell of the soft, slowly decaying wood of the front porch, patches of tin covering the holes.  The feel of the air in the house.  Cool, until you walked into the kitchen and the gas heaters overwhelmed with stuffy warmth and lingering fumes. And the quiet.  Sometimes the house was full of people, full of kids, but I remember the times where it was only Mom and Sid, our family visiting quietly, the stillness of it all unsettling.

It’s gone now.  The house demolished shortly after Sid’s death.  Across from where the house sat is the massive John Amos Power Plant.  No hint of what happened there years ago.

But the stories are still there, just waiting to be written.

4

new york morning

sunday morning
by myself
and it’s cold
in the shade
of the tall buildings
as I unlock the doors
of the parish
a full hour before
the service begins

and I know where
she’ll be sitting
her hair falling
onto her shoulders
her brown eyes
and that perfect
practiced
professional
smile

because she is an
actor
like so many are
but she really is
and she is so
nice and friendly
and unpretentious
and
perfect

so perfect
and I can
do no more than
look her way
when she lingers
afterward
by the heavy doors
reading her bulletin
waiting

she has my heart
without knowing
but she is
perfect
and I am me
and the holy
and the profane
can not
be together

but I speak
and
she smiles
and I ask
her name
and I shake
her hand
and I tell her
my name

and I ask
where she’s
from because
everybody has
come to new york
from somewhere else
in search
of
something

cincinnati, she says

now I’m smiling

I’ve seen the
reds play there
I’ve skated
on the ice
at fountain square
and looked out
over the city
from the top
of carew tower

and I turn off the lights
and lock
the heavy doors
and she waits
in the cool
sunday shadows
and we walk
together
in the new york morning

copyright 2018, joseph e bird

6

there will be bad times, brother

shutterstock_224292622 for web

“Although the fig tree shall not blossom,
neither shall fruit be in the vines;
the labor of the olive shall fail,
and the fields shall yield no meat;
the flock shall be cut off from the fold,
and there shall be no herd in the stalls.”

Do you hear me? Do you understand? There will be bad times, brother.
In my eighty-one years, you better believe I’ve had them.
Three years ago I lost Nita.
We’re supposed to get wiser as we get older, and I guess I have.
Even so, loss is hard and lonely.

Here’s what I know.
Listen, now.

“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation.
The Lord God is my strength and he will make my feet like hinds’ feet,
and he will make me walk upon mine high places.”

I didn’t always know that.
When you’re young, you think the fig will always bloom.
You think there will always be fruit on the tree and cattle in the stalls.
Now don’t be thick-headed. You know what I mean. Even if you’re young, you know what I’m saying.

But this isn’t my story. It’s Trevor’s.
Trevor for sure didn’t know.
To this day, I don’t know if he’s taken hold of the truth.
It’s not profitable for a man to express his faith in these days, and when you’re young like Trevor, you’re not inclined to go against everything the world says is right.
One has to be tried, tested, and hardened by fire.

That boy.
He’s a remarkable boy.

— Maxfield Martin

copyright 2016, joseph e bird, from the novel A Prayer for Rain

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