Page 26Life in the Manure Pile by Marsha JordanThe husband once aspired to be a self-sufficient, back-to-thelandpioneer. He bought a windmill, oil lamps, beehives, and acouple of pigs, which we named Lois Lane and Clark Kent.This dirty duo caused me headaches from the day we tookthem home. We tied them in gunny sacks and secured them in theback of our truck; but the Houdini hoglets somehow freed themselves,tumbled from the vehicle, and headed for the hills. Weeventually got the slippery little buggers safely home, but onlyafter a wild skirmish in the woods.The adventurous and clever Clark soon discovered his alternateidentity as Super Pig. He learned to climb atop his roofedshelter and leap over the fence to freedom. Lois, not to be outdone,was never far behind. Motorists on the highway near ourhome reported seeing wild pigs darting between cars. I also receivedsome angry phone calls from horrified neighbors whowere shocked to find the pair digging up their flower beds. Perhaps,rather than Lois and Clark, they should have been namedLewis and Clark, due to their propensity to explore.These two heavyweights usually embarked upon their adventureswhile the husband was at work, so I was the designated pigherder, responsible for bringing the troops home after each rendezvous.How does one lure two full-grown hogs to follow you?It takes courage, determination, and a slop bucket full of swinedelicacies like apple cores, potato peels, and moldy bread crusts.More than once, I trudged through waist-deep snow, dropping atrail of leftovers behind me.I've never liked animals that were too big to sit in my lap, butthese humongous hogs were more than intimidating. They wereman eaters! While leading them home like the pied piper, I had torun to stay one step ahead as they followed close behind, nippingat my heels.Yes, pigs BITE—at least these two did. They were scarier thanattack dogs.Once Lois and Clark tasted blood, they preferred it to theirusual diet. That diet consisted of truckloads of stale doughnuts,sour milk, and assorted restaurant scraps. Keeping the porkers fedwas a big job. They ate a lot, and you can imagine what else theydid—a LOT.The manure pile grew into a mountain, which remained longafter Lois and Clark were laid to rest as pork chops in our freezer.The following summer, I planted a garden that I faithfullyweeded, fertilized, and watered.At the end of the season, I was shocked to discover that myprized vegetables were dwarfed in comparison to the giant tomatoesand cucumbers that had sprung up from the manure pile.You may wonder why I'm telling you more than you care toknow about pigs and manure. It's because I've found that wherethere's manure, there's sometimes a lesson buried under it.Like you, I've known sorrow, loneliness, and disappointment.At those times, it often feels like I'm living smack dab in the middleof a mountain of manure. However, things that stink aren'tnecessarily bad. Sometimes, what we think is awful right nowmay end up being good for us. Ask anyone who took castor oil asa kid!Just as the garbage in a compost heap makes gardens grow, thegarbage in our lives can enhance our personal growth. Trials canresult in strong faith and character. The stuff that stinks the mostis usually the best fertilizer for healthy spiritual development.Even stinky manure, after a time, turns into healthy and cleansmelling soil.Gardens go through seasons. <strong>Spring</strong> is the season to plant andfertilize. Summer is the season to weed and cultivate. Fall is theseason to harvest. Winter is the season for the land to rest. Ourlives have different seasons too. Some of them are more difficultthan others. But if we endure “for a season” without giving in toshort-term thinking, we will reap a harvest.When your heart is broken, it may feel hopeless; but there'salways hope, even in the dung heap. Consider what the end resultmight be for this situation.Blossoms of blessing can spring up from pig manure. Thesmelly, disgusting manure that our lives can become often bringsforth prize-winning fruit. Celebrate the fact that others haveclimbed that manure mountain and made it to the sunshine on theother side. Believe and keep the faith, then grab a shovel and startdigging. There's a harvest on the other side. #Submission GuidelinesWRWA members may submit articles, essays, historical/remembrances, short stories, or poems for consideration to The Editorat 23059 Old 35, Siren, WI 54872 or via e-mail to newsletter@wrwa.net. We strongly prefer e-mail submissions, but will accepttypescript submissions. If sending via e-mail, please include “WRWA Submission” in the subject line and include the manuscriptin the body text and not as an attachment. If typescript, please submit on clean white paper, 12 point font. The maximum length is800 words, though shorter is preferable and will have a higher chance of being printed. We will, on occasion, take longer items,but only rarely. Short stories, historical/remembrances, and poetry may be submitted without prior coordination. If you wish tosubmit an article or essay, however, it is best to discuss that with the editor in advance via e-mail, letter, or phone. We will try toacknowledge receipt of all submissions. That’s easy via e-mail. However, if you send something via regular mail, please includeyour phone number. No manuscripts will be returned. The editor retains the right to edit any submission for clarity, punctuation,spelling, grammar, and length. Submission constitutes the author’s permission for one-time publication rights in The <strong>Wisconsin</strong>Regional Writer and inclusion in periodic collections of Journals and anthologies of articles and creative writing published thereinand distributed by WRWA on CD/DVD media. The author retains the copyright and all future rights. #
The Magic and the Music of Poetry: Whistling in the Dark—Is Anyone Out There?by LaMoine MacLaughlin, First Poet Laureate of Amery, <strong>Wisconsin</strong>Page 27In the dimness of human memory,while we huddled together around thefire on cold winter nights, we listenedto those stories that celebrated our culturalheritage and were passed down tous, sung by our poets. The act of listeningto poetry and the act of poetic compositionwere communal acts. Thesinger was performing his part of agroup, communal experience, providingan important role in the preservation of the traditions, thesocial customs, the spirituality, the glue that held the communitytogether. And that ancient singer was communicatingwith that audience, unconcerned about originality or individualvoice, instead focusing upon the retelling of the story. Andwe are still hearing his voice thousands of years later.Part of our problem is that authentic experience of communityis increasingly rare in American society during the beginningof the twenty-first century. Philosopher Baker Brownellhas told us that many of our contemporary social problemsspring from the disintegration of community in our time. Certainlyany contemporary definition of community is very complex,but all too often that definition degenerates into a feelgoodfuzzy to describe any social group and to mean all thingspositive with the result that community has come to meannothing tangible or specific to anyone. The danger, of course,is that it will eventually drop from our vocabulary and theconcept will altogether vanish from our consciousness. Moreoverrecent disasters have shown the extreme fragility of thefabric of community in urban areas. As human beings we allneed community, real community, and it is far too important aconcept to be allowed to disappear.As writers, we all need community, real community, tokeep us honest and to keep us truly communicating with otherauthentic human beings. Sometimes we refer to virtual(almost, but not quite) reality and at times we seem unable todistinguish it from genuine reality. The arts used to be shared,communal experiences. What happened? Perhaps as poets wehave also failed in our responsibility to keep the foundation ofcommunity strong.Explore these possibilities: Talk with your Mayor aboutestablishing the position of Poet Laureate in your village orcity. Visit your local schools and help teachers spread poetrythroughout their classes by reading for their students. Shamelesslyproselytize for poetry. Become your town’s wild poetryprophet. Run for school board or city council. I might evenaccept church council. You might not win, but try it anyhow.Do something to enter deeply into the life of your local community.Read Vachel Lindsay’s “The Gospel of Beauty.” Andkeep reading and writing. #It’s write for meby Nan GellingsMany times, I struggle for words I’d like to sayGroping in my mind’s closet for expressions I’ve packedawayI want to give advice, to offer comfort or cheer,Choice words at the right moment for someone I hold dearThe spoken word eludes me, love is left unsaidOr when it’s spoken I wish I’d said something else insteadGive me pen, paper, and moments to choose each wordI will share from my heart the me you have never heardWords can be a gift; how we present them is the keyGod bless the good speaker but the written word is meTimeBy Peg Sherryhangs midair whispersa moment scentedwith ripe purple grapesclinging to their vineswaiting secretsTattooing An Old Lady’s DreamBy Peg SherryIn the shop of tattoos,I watch the actionfor just a fraction of a minute.I promised to satisfy my thoughtsso I brought a snapshot of us,in which your admiring smileshowed how I beguiled in younger days.But now the craze of wrinklehides my twinkle behind the bags.The artist studies me and the photo,“Go to the skin guy next door.He’ll make your eyes wideYou’ll be surprised at the change.Then come back and I’ll arrangea heart upon your arm,add to your charm”We smile. We knowI won’t go,even though it’s cool,but such schemingadds to the dreamingof an old fool
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