Edvard Munch, painter of the Scream wrote, sickness, insanity and death were the Angels that surrounded my cradle and they have followed me throughout my life. The quiet, studious non-assuming Edward lay on his bed with his stack of books. I never asked what bought him to this first room off the side wing, home of those in various stages of scream. But in his sparse confine, surrounded by his books, I imagine he was quite free, very far from the Plantation.
A coontre far bewest,
Where savage pepell planted are
By nature and by hest,
Who in the mold
Fynd glysterynge gold
And yet for tryfels sell?
with hy!
john clare
it wasn't long after I was born
that I came home from Bluefield
from the West Virginia snow storm
back to Vicco, Kentucky to live
but for a spell for daddy heard
the call to come to Sopchoppy
to preach the Methodist word
and so in the Packard we journeyed
making it around June of fifty-five
naturally I was only five months
from being a native Floridian
or a Kentuckian if just once
daddy would not have left mamma
to fend for herself sending
her to Granny Orander to have me
while he was busily preaching
a dubious duty to rely upon a
drunken brother to carry one
over icy roads in a hard labor
wondering if on Pinnacle Rock I'd come.
So I came, and so we stayed
in Sopchoppy eight years until
the conference sent us packing
saying, come over to Monticello
and to that wonderful two story
Victorian parsonage with a view
of Washington street from my
upper left window where I would
sit and dream before bicycling to the
painting class where in oils I
learned there was more to life
than Sopchoppy and stick figures
and so I lived for a year in my
third house, the only house with
an upper room, save the Asbury
year with ZT Johnson and
the Emory Gray over his
garage apartment marriage
And so they tore down that third
home, for a parking lot and the first
just because, while the second
the fourth stood, the fifth moved,
the sixth moved, the seventh standing,
the eight remaining, the ninth and so the tenth too.
But of all the homes
it is the third home that I miss the most.
And I do know that every boy
should have a two story Victorian
with a view of Washington Street
at least once in his life time.
In the long ago journey to Bluefield
We would know our journey was ending
As we neared the East River Mountain tunnel
Going beneath the hills of Virginia
Opening into the mountains of West Virginia
Where we'd stop at the Blue Ridge station
To ride the little Red Ridge Runner train
Peering over the cliff to see grandmothers
Home on Cumberland road below
Impatiently taking the last switchbacks down
Into the town of Bluefield
To point out the familiar landmarks
St Luke's where two were born
The telephone station where another worked
Castlebury where another lived
Pulling up into the steep drive
Across from the dairy and the twins
Parking behind Monnies Black Buick
Beside Uncle Kermit's just introduced
Mustang
For he was a Ford salesman
And we'd look up upon hearing the
Ridge Runner high above us
It's whistle telling us
Another family had made it under
The East River Mountain
And too would soon be home
Looking up from their side of
Paradise.
Some days I get this hankering
For some deep sea fishing
Even though I’ve never been
Think I’ll drive down to Mashes Sands
See if I can find Fred Boen Becton
I expect he will be ready and expecting
The little toe head who called his name
Seeing him trying to slip into church
Late after a morning out fishing
For years you laid by my side,
Never lonely in the cold night.
Silently you listened when I cried,
Close you snuggled in my frights.
Days grew long, and so did I,
Beside the bed you were placed.
Now as a big girl, to no longer cry,
All such a rush at such a pace.
Now in school, far from home,
No friend have I by my side.
Often at night, when all alone,
Do you hear the tears I cry?
Down the aisle as a bride,
Tears of joy welled within.
Yet, something missing inside,
Mother, my doll would you send?
Now a golden grey, I await the end,
My children seldom find time for me.
Alone and afraid, how I miss my friend,
Oh, just once more, in her silence to be.
And from the attic within the dark,
A dolls muffled cry is heard.
Then silence, as her soul departs,
the doll now snuggled, without a word.
we the living
holding onto the
ebbing we could see
slipping from us
no plea or chant
no incantation could
stay the bleeding
beneath the suits
of black
we reached for a warm hand
a warm touch
a glimpse into a wet eye
a whispered word
anything
Even the distant crow
Anything to stay
our empty day.
A Yellowjacket lit beside me
Upon the blue enamel reminding
I too was once one
And I do not know if he came
to bid me home
You know
That sting of death thing
Ole Sopchoppy
The waters dark
Home of Murray and Walt
A good place to return
Before the pain of the sting
Sets in
John Clare Stokes
If it was left to me
When the blind man
Came to me
And with my first touch
He saw men
As trees walking
I'd have said
That's good enough
Go and create
With this vision that
Can see
Men as trees
And not as they are
Actually.
John Clare Stokes
Over the years I have occasionally visited the place of one of my most memorable races. Last year this time on our way back from Mississippi we detoured off I-10 monotony to the wonderfully landscaped West Washington US90 to Monticello and then down Waters Street between the Methodist Church my father pastored and the Jefferson County Elementary where I was a new third grader from Sopchoppy. We turned off Waters to the no trespassing road behind what was once the PE building. I went back to the day the coach announced today we are going to determine the fastest third grader. We all knew it was going to be Jimmy Haines, the champion from first and second grade.
We all lined up along the P.E.building and the instructions were to the guardrail, touch it and back up the hill. At the blast of the whistle, we all, boys and girls, set out in a tangle downhill. As expected, Jimmy reached the turn around first, but not far behind, the new boy from Sopchoppy.
About half way up the hill, the new kid surged ahead and handily won the honor of fastest runner in third grade. It was a door opener for the shy boy as now he was suddenly wanted on the team, in the group, at the lunchroom table.
The boy from Sopchoppy won few races over his running career, but he was certainly stoked to have won this one.
When we lived in Sopchoppy in the 50’s and 60’s, Laurice and Floride Roberts Standard Oil Station on the outskirts of town on HWY 319, was one of two places to get gas or have your vehicle or tractor worked on by Johnny B, the black mechanic. The snapshot inserted is of my father, Luther Ray, who passed away in 2011, and Laurice with his dog. Laurice died in 1997 and Floride in 2008.
Someone commented today on Old Florida, that the people of Sopchoppy were unfriendly. If so, it’s only because all the people I knew as a boy are buried out in West Florida Cemetery, and all the unfriendly have moved in from Tallahassee.
I think there were few towns like Sopchoppy in the 50’s and 60’s that epitomized Mayberry more.
