Divided By Eleven
When I Was Eleven
I was eleven, when last I saw Henrik Olson
Little Grandpa
Smaller like Little Grandma
Than the next generation that followed them
I was eleven, when last anyone saw Henrik Olson
Because he died in his bed in the little house
Behind the big house
Not very big, either
I see him only at the corner of my eye
I was eleven
And nothing remains of what I saw then
Plainly, because of years
As when someone came to say
So I should not understand
That Little Grandpa was in his bed
Ever so quietly
When he was eighty-six
In from the corner of my eye
I see two things
That have never faded
Henrik and Anna walking
From the little house to the big one
Talking together about something I did not know
And could not understand
With words they had carried
From Norway
When they came with their daughter Olina
And her daughter Magna
To make a sand and peat life
In the woods of Washington
And Henrik, in the summer
On the long peat field
Across the ditch they had dug
To drain the swamp
And plant oats
Shocking hay
For the men who would pitch it
Onto the steel-wheeled horse-drawn wagon
Younger men than Henrik
Larger men than Little Grandpa
Who would pitch the loose hay
To be hauled like brown lace
Behind the team
I do not know if I carry Henrik's genes
But I carry two bright pictures
On the path and in the field
Before he lay down
With the words he had carried
From Norway
When I was eleven
When I Was Twenty-two
When I was twenty-two, burdened
With the birdshot of a liberal arts education
Scarred from having been used for target practice
By my Greek teacher
Who saw in my ineptitude
The erosion of smiling certainty
If actually I went to a seminary
I went to a seminary
In Berkeley
To become what other people wanted me to be
Because I was twenty-two
Big Grandpa, who read scriptures
And prayed at the long kitchen table
Had taken me aside and asked if I did not wish
To become a lawyer instead of a priest
Even at twenty-two I knew
That if you have been born
At the side of a long road
There are only two ways to go
And I went to California
To learn bright salads and sweet certainties
Where, like Abraham,
I became the father of a small nation
And custodian of unbelievable truths
At twenty-two, I never knew
An eight-hundred mile road
Following question-marked turns
And persistent curiosity
Would branch like a freedom-tree
Eventually
And that I would turn east
To Chicago
To become what I wanted to be
Having learned bright salads
When I was twenty-two
When I Was Thirty-three
When I was thirty-three
The people who were twenty-two
Hauled Old Glory down
And said our government lied to us
That the war in Vietnam was a crime
And a shame and a god-damned lie
When I was thirty-three
Angry students locked the Dean outside the door
And read his Draft Board files
Poured blood on his complicity
And stuck flowers down militia gun barrels
They said we'd overcome
After the Selma March and Washington D.C.
When the troops came home again
Some died later of flower-shot wounds
Born innocent
And forced by evolution to know
That thinking is not an option
And that inheritance is not destiny
At thirty-three
Wanting something I remembered
Before we became a manifest destiny
I stood reluctantly
And wanted not to sing again
Bombs bursting in air
Liberty and justice for all
Our flag was not still there
At the dawn's early light
They lied and made us want to cry
They stole my innocence
When I was thirty-three
At the university
Chicago
Hog butcher for the world
Tool maker, stacker of wheat
Irish-Polish-All-American muscle
What had we become
I wanted to be free
Of innocence and trajectory
Wisdom came flowered
Smelling acidly of honesty
Grown-up children chained the doors
Marched across bridges, singing new songs
Killing fields and clubs and dogs
Racial hate and white crosses
Buses with back seats, and blindfolded buildups in Vietnam
Everything came smoking down
When I was thirty-three
I carried twice the books
To hold myself down
While honesty rose like flames
To burn the fingers of assumption
After a while
I carried my head gingerly
To a Wish-Doctor and asked him
To screw it on straight
Wishing none of this had happened
But knowing it had
I have lived cross-threaded ever since
I was thirty-three
When I Was Forty-Four
When I was forty-four
I sat at our dining room table
Where we met every evening
And talked about the day
Weaving our lives together
As they had been together
From California through Chicago
Until we reached the promised land
Where I had dragged them
Because my demon was stronger than theirs
I had gone from the collared priesthood
To dig a hole deeper into doubt
Than they knew or wanted
They trudged
California, Chicago, Tübingen, Chicago, Decorah
Reluctantly or innocently
We sat at the dining room table
And I tremble-voice told them that it was like this
That I was like the pepper shaker
And their Mom was like the salt shaker
And I shook like the shakers
Starting in Tacoma and Toledo
Meeting in Berkeley
Where our trajectories had brought us
To the same place
And I curved the shakers in arcs
Talking about salt and pepper shakers
Side-by-side
Like a little bride and groom
Both true to where we had always been going
Our arcs continued on
Away from that meeting place
While they sat there uncomprehending
Of the demon that moved salt and pepper shakers
Across the dining room table
I held tight to the salt and pepper shakers
Because I did not know what to say about
The real people at the dining room table
Not knowing how to explain
How one goes from near to far
In what was not a betrayal but an arc
How their mother's life was as true as mine
Now the pepper shaker was here
And the salt shaker there
I wanted to cry at the rotten absurdity of it
At the pathetic shambles of it
Why am I asking our children to understand
What we do not understand
When I was forty-four
I wondered what had determined everything early
Driven us inexorably to where we were about to fall off
The edge of the table
One here, the other over there
Numb and dumb like salt and pepper shakers
We could not say
What we did not understand
I should not want to be forty-four
Ever
Or again
When I Was Fifty-five
We drove east on I-10 at my age
I was the national speed limit
Driving a new-to-us-Oklahoma-used pickup
Dragging a tired trailer from Tucson
Back to Iowa greenfields
Feeling good
Feeling new feeling used
Thinking back thinking next
Academic degrees we needed more than wanted
In hand
To go to where we had long-time been
Three years we had been students again
Credentialled for a new life in an old place
Remodeled to teach computer information systems
Because the Religion and Philosophy Department
Believed in believers
And the Dean believed we were a pair
We computer-coded a detour
Through to a new major
Of minor consequence
I should return with a stud in my nose
Mari said
And you with an earring
Instead I disguised myself by changing my name
To what Ellis Island had taken from my father
And wore cowboy boots
When I was fifty-five
We told Felix the Wonderdog that we were going for a ride
And he jumped up onto the seat and said Let's go
Nose to the passing air
His map
Content with the miles between
Excited only by Arizona and Iowa
We went back to where he had been born
Fifty-five dog years earlier
And watched him sit up nose up when we crossed the Missouri
To what smelled familiar and strange
Another old dog coming back
An old dog with a nose full of desert dust
In a pickup held together with red Oklahoma dirt
To Northeast Iowa
Green and gray and familiar
Where friends were firmware
And policies hardware
Do you think he worry-asked one day
There is a chance
Luther will tenure a Methodist like me
You have to understand I said
When enrollment drops like this
They fear they've lost their roots and soul
And go to chapel singing hymns
Checking to see who isn't there
It is like a sine wave
Memorize A Mighty Fortress
For the dipping-down times
Felix and I crossed the river humming Wide Missouri
Into greengrass
Riding a sine wave
Doing fifty-five
When I Was Sixty-six
When I was sixty-six
One pants leg on
I told Mari it would be my last year to teach
Good she said Put on the other leg
Dawn-early
I told the Dean and his dog it would be my last year
Good he said while his dog stared away
This house is so big Mari said
Let us sell it and move on
The Dean said he would buy it
Good I said
Time to get even with his dog
We threw away most of what we owned
Moved all the heavy things to Tucson
Stored six tons more in seven places
And rented an apartment next to a tarantula
Desert rats
Starting over
When I was sixty-six
Marty said I could put my saw in his garage
So I cut two fingers off
Drove to the emergency room with my hand in a bag
The doctor sewed them back on
Old Timer Baseball came later
After my fingers stayed put
Stiff
My glove hand
What are you going to do when you retire
Everyone asks
I told them retirement isn't just golf
Or golf at all
If you have a saw
I left my wristwatch on the dresser until it died
Turned off the alarm clock
Started waking up to greet the sun
Lying down when it got dark
Tried to convince Mari that a crowing rooster
Would make a nice early Matins call
Have you gone mad she said
Take up Buddhism
Something quiet
Sleep in
Looking forward to the day
Wondering how to get it all done
Not caring if I didn't
Taking revenge on the industrial revolution
And marching in step
Measuring out lunchtimes
Stopped work whenever I damned well pleased
Early or late
Bought a house Painted it The neighbor's house too
Repaired the windows Finished the cabinets
Painted the pool Fixed the pump Coated the roof
Put in a circular driveway Hauled tons of rocks
Made flower beds Installed a water system
Fed javelinas Sweat Swore Built a new door
Retirement is not a job for old people
In Tucson now aren't you they asked in Iowa
Playing a lot of golf Keeping busy Have a hobby
Not a clue what people do
When they are sixty-six
Now That I Am Seventy-seven
Now that I am seventy-seven
The boat I built these last three years
Broods the winter days away
Glad for the roof and wondering at darkness
Innocent that Spring is half a year away
What will you do now my neighbors like to ask
Assuming that project-end is end-of-life
Idea is an only child
I want to say I will build a bridge over troubled waters
But I'd have to sell the boat to do that
Still be a little short
Take the boat instead
Now that I am seventy-seven
I am going to walk indoors more
Not so much to keep warm
As to keep from getting mugged in the morning dark
Minnesota Nice isn't always
Summer I will climb the corporate ladder
Up against the east wall
Scrape paint Paint paint
Bow my arches up
At seventy-seven I worry less about conformity
Time to let my thoughts run free
I think I'll say just what I think
Short of cruelty
Maybe buy a drover coat
Learn to swear
Properly
Nothing about crude intercourse
Insult the gods instead and all the angels too
Discard all my might-have-beens
Think about possibility
Locate the horizon
Plan my next eleven
While I am seventy-seven
When I Was Eleven
I was eleven, when last I saw Henrik Olson
Little Grandpa
Smaller like Little Grandma
Than the next generation that followed them
I was eleven, when last anyone saw Henrik Olson
Because he died in his bed in the little house
Behind the big house
Not very big, either
I see him only at the corner of my eye
I was eleven
And nothing remains of what I saw then
Plainly, because of years
As when someone came to say
So I should not understand
That Little Grandpa was in his bed
Ever so quietly
When he was eighty-six
In from the corner of my eye
I see two things
That have never faded
Henrik and Anna walking
From the little house to the big one
Talking together about something I did not know
And could not understand
With words they had carried
From Norway
When they came with their daughter Olina
And her daughter Magna
To make a sand and peat life
In the woods of Washington
And Henrik, in the summer
On the long peat field
Across the ditch they had dug
To drain the swamp
And plant oats
Shocking hay
For the men who would pitch it
Onto the steel-wheeled horse-drawn wagon
Younger men than Henrik
Larger men than Little Grandpa
Who would pitch the loose hay
To be hauled like brown lace
Behind the team
I do not know if I carry Henrik's genes
But I carry two bright pictures
On the path and in the field
Before he lay down
With the words he had carried
From Norway
When I was eleven
When I Was Twenty-two
When I was twenty-two, burdened
With the birdshot of a liberal arts education
Scarred from having been used for target practice
By my Greek teacher
Who saw in my ineptitude
The erosion of smiling certainty
If actually I went to a seminary
I went to a seminary
In Berkeley
To become what other people wanted me to be
Because I was twenty-two
Big Grandpa, who read scriptures
And prayed at the long kitchen table
Had taken me aside and asked if I did not wish
To become a lawyer instead of a priest
Even at twenty-two I knew
That if you have been born
At the side of a long road
There are only two ways to go
And I went to California
To learn bright salads and sweet certainties
Where, like Abraham,
I became the father of a small nation
And custodian of unbelievable truths
At twenty-two, I never knew
An eight-hundred mile road
Following question-marked turns
And persistent curiosity
Would branch like a freedom-tree
Eventually
And that I would turn east
To Chicago
To become what I wanted to be
Having learned bright salads
When I was twenty-two
When I Was Thirty-three
When I was thirty-three
The people who were twenty-two
Hauled Old Glory down
And said our government lied to us
That the war in Vietnam was a crime
And a shame and a god-damned lie
When I was thirty-three
Angry students locked the Dean outside the door
And read his Draft Board files
Poured blood on his complicity
And stuck flowers down militia gun barrels
They said we'd overcome
After the Selma March and Washington D.C.
When the troops came home again
Some died later of flower-shot wounds
Born innocent
And forced by evolution to know
That thinking is not an option
And that inheritance is not destiny
At thirty-three
Wanting something I remembered
Before we became a manifest destiny
I stood reluctantly
And wanted not to sing again
Bombs bursting in air
Liberty and justice for all
Our flag was not still there
At the dawn's early light
They lied and made us want to cry
They stole my innocence
When I was thirty-three
At the university
Chicago
Hog butcher for the world
Tool maker, stacker of wheat
Irish-Polish-All-American muscle
What had we become
I wanted to be free
Of innocence and trajectory
Wisdom came flowered
Smelling acidly of honesty
Grown-up children chained the doors
Marched across bridges, singing new songs
Killing fields and clubs and dogs
Racial hate and white crosses
Buses with back seats, and blindfolded buildups in Vietnam
Everything came smoking down
When I was thirty-three
I carried twice the books
To hold myself down
While honesty rose like flames
To burn the fingers of assumption
After a while
I carried my head gingerly
To a Wish-Doctor and asked him
To screw it on straight
Wishing none of this had happened
But knowing it had
I have lived cross-threaded ever since
I was thirty-three
When I Was Forty-Four
When I was forty-four
I sat at our dining room table
Where we met every evening
And talked about the day
Weaving our lives together
As they had been together
From California through Chicago
Until we reached the promised land
Where I had dragged them
Because my demon was stronger than theirs
I had gone from the collared priesthood
To dig a hole deeper into doubt
Than they knew or wanted
They trudged
California, Chicago, Tübingen, Chicago, Decorah
Reluctantly or innocently
We sat at the dining room table
And I tremble-voice told them that it was like this
That I was like the pepper shaker
And their Mom was like the salt shaker
And I shook like the shakers
Starting in Tacoma and Toledo
Meeting in Berkeley
Where our trajectories had brought us
To the same place
And I curved the shakers in arcs
Talking about salt and pepper shakers
Side-by-side
Like a little bride and groom
Both true to where we had always been going
Our arcs continued on
Away from that meeting place
While they sat there uncomprehending
Of the demon that moved salt and pepper shakers
Across the dining room table
I held tight to the salt and pepper shakers
Because I did not know what to say about
The real people at the dining room table
Not knowing how to explain
How one goes from near to far
In what was not a betrayal but an arc
How their mother's life was as true as mine
Now the pepper shaker was here
And the salt shaker there
I wanted to cry at the rotten absurdity of it
At the pathetic shambles of it
Why am I asking our children to understand
What we do not understand
When I was forty-four
I wondered what had determined everything early
Driven us inexorably to where we were about to fall off
The edge of the table
One here, the other over there
Numb and dumb like salt and pepper shakers
We could not say
What we did not understand
I should not want to be forty-four
Ever
Or again
When I Was Fifty-five
We drove east on I-10 at my age
I was the national speed limit
Driving a new-to-us-Oklahoma-used pickup
Dragging a tired trailer from Tucson
Back to Iowa greenfields
Feeling good
Feeling new feeling used
Thinking back thinking next
Academic degrees we needed more than wanted
In hand
To go to where we had long-time been
Three years we had been students again
Credentialled for a new life in an old place
Remodeled to teach computer information systems
Because the Religion and Philosophy Department
Believed in believers
And the Dean believed we were a pair
We computer-coded a detour
Through to a new major
Of minor consequence
I should return with a stud in my nose
Mari said
And you with an earring
Instead I disguised myself by changing my name
To what Ellis Island had taken from my father
And wore cowboy boots
When I was fifty-five
We told Felix the Wonderdog that we were going for a ride
And he jumped up onto the seat and said Let's go
Nose to the passing air
His map
Content with the miles between
Excited only by Arizona and Iowa
We went back to where he had been born
Fifty-five dog years earlier
And watched him sit up nose up when we crossed the Missouri
To what smelled familiar and strange
Another old dog coming back
An old dog with a nose full of desert dust
In a pickup held together with red Oklahoma dirt
To Northeast Iowa
Green and gray and familiar
Where friends were firmware
And policies hardware
Do you think he worry-asked one day
There is a chance
Luther will tenure a Methodist like me
You have to understand I said
When enrollment drops like this
They fear they've lost their roots and soul
And go to chapel singing hymns
Checking to see who isn't there
It is like a sine wave
Memorize A Mighty Fortress
For the dipping-down times
Felix and I crossed the river humming Wide Missouri
Into greengrass
Riding a sine wave
Doing fifty-five
When I Was Sixty-six
When I was sixty-six
One pants leg on
I told Mari it would be my last year to teach
Good she said Put on the other leg
Dawn-early
I told the Dean and his dog it would be my last year
Good he said while his dog stared away
This house is so big Mari said
Let us sell it and move on
The Dean said he would buy it
Good I said
Time to get even with his dog
We threw away most of what we owned
Moved all the heavy things to Tucson
Stored six tons more in seven places
And rented an apartment next to a tarantula
Desert rats
Starting over
When I was sixty-six
Marty said I could put my saw in his garage
So I cut two fingers off
Drove to the emergency room with my hand in a bag
The doctor sewed them back on
Old Timer Baseball came later
After my fingers stayed put
Stiff
My glove hand
What are you going to do when you retire
Everyone asks
I told them retirement isn't just golf
Or golf at all
If you have a saw
I left my wristwatch on the dresser until it died
Turned off the alarm clock
Started waking up to greet the sun
Lying down when it got dark
Tried to convince Mari that a crowing rooster
Would make a nice early Matins call
Have you gone mad she said
Take up Buddhism
Something quiet
Sleep in
Looking forward to the day
Wondering how to get it all done
Not caring if I didn't
Taking revenge on the industrial revolution
And marching in step
Measuring out lunchtimes
Stopped work whenever I damned well pleased
Early or late
Bought a house Painted it The neighbor's house too
Repaired the windows Finished the cabinets
Painted the pool Fixed the pump Coated the roof
Put in a circular driveway Hauled tons of rocks
Made flower beds Installed a water system
Fed javelinas Sweat Swore Built a new door
Retirement is not a job for old people
In Tucson now aren't you they asked in Iowa
Playing a lot of golf Keeping busy Have a hobby
Not a clue what people do
When they are sixty-six
Now That I Am Seventy-seven
Now that I am seventy-seven
The boat I built these last three years
Broods the winter days away
Glad for the roof and wondering at darkness
Innocent that Spring is half a year away
What will you do now my neighbors like to ask
Assuming that project-end is end-of-life
Idea is an only child
I want to say I will build a bridge over troubled waters
But I'd have to sell the boat to do that
Still be a little short
Take the boat instead
Now that I am seventy-seven
I am going to walk indoors more
Not so much to keep warm
As to keep from getting mugged in the morning dark
Minnesota Nice isn't always
Summer I will climb the corporate ladder
Up against the east wall
Scrape paint Paint paint
Bow my arches up
At seventy-seven I worry less about conformity
Time to let my thoughts run free
I think I'll say just what I think
Short of cruelty
Maybe buy a drover coat
Learn to swear
Properly
Nothing about crude intercourse
Insult the gods instead and all the angels too
Discard all my might-have-beens
Think about possibility
Locate the horizon
Plan my next eleven
While I am seventy-seven
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