I’ve never made jam in June before and up until last year I had only known and loved raspberry jam from the Northwoods of Wisconsin. Raspberry jam is still my favorite, but I’ve welcomed into my heart two jams of the plentiful wild edibles of the Northwest: blackberry and salmonberry.

The berries I picked yesterday evening made a sweet and mild jam, with a mellow even taste and sweet tang to close. Besides, it boasts a warm ruby citus color. Tonight we put it on vanilla ice cream, but I think it’ll be at its best paired with a chévre.

It passes the test with ease, so as soon as I am able, I’ll be out to pick more.

In the middle of a frenzy of errands, I dashed into the University Bookstore to eye the literary magazines and was delighted to see the new issue of the New Orleans Review, which includes poems by Carl Phillips, Sherman Alexie, Tess Gallagher, and myself, among others.

My poem in this issue, “The Smallest Working Pieces” (reprinted below), is also the title poem of my newest chapbook, forthcoming this fall from Toadlily Press. It’s always a strange and wonderful experience to see your work in print–something that started out as scratches in a notebook bound alongside other works of the best words in the best order.

I also have two poems in the current issue of Columbia, and poems slated for the fall issue of Cincinnati Review, the winter issue of Prairie Schooner and an upcoming issue of Nimrod.

___________

The Smallest Working Pieces

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

When my brother wanders home, we know
his figure, but we cannot yet tell
whether he is a bird wing or bone, many
hollow pieces, or one fallow stem-

This man could be water
in a glass nearly empty, he could
be evaporation itself, working upwards,
perfecting the trick of removing himself.

He could be a leaf
that papers and curls when the wind
massages him, a leaf that waits and waits
for autumn to singe, then release him.

This brother could be a stalk
of corn, or the husk, each ear deaf
to the world’s whispering. And I can’t
even begin to imagine how many

fields of ears are not listening.

Today, River and I took our first real walk together.  Just father and son.

Elie’s been a bit under the weather—add that to a great lack of sleep and these last few days have been a dizzying whirlwind of to-do lists and just-getting-by-ism.  So while Elie was taking a well deserved nap between feedings I put River in the sling and headed out the back door.

We swung through the yard and out the back gate, and in about eight minutes we were walking in the dappled darkness of a wooded ravine.

The trail dips steeply along a creek that’s pretty much a trickle at this point in the year. It’s lush with young maple, salal, Oregon grape, blackberries and the massive remainders of a few old growth cedar and hemlock. I walked slowly, marveled at the light, the intense greens, the silence, and suddenly, at Salmonberries.  They were everywhere.

I must credit Elie for their first discovery about a week ago, though her find somehow escaped me. Until now.

The berries come in two colors, hanging from tall sparse bushes like tangerine and merlot lanterns lit by the sun. Walking with River, I sampled a few fruits—tart and tangy. And, I decided a few hours later, perfect for jam.

So, with my chores in order for the moment, and Elie content with River in her arms, I took off for the wooded ravine a second time today. It hardly took an hour for me to pick about a dozen cups of berries—nearly enough for two batches of jam.

I can hardly say how nice that hour was. Just me. Walking a wooded trail and then off the trail and along a shallow creek bed. Picking berries and smiling with the simple purpose at hand.

Tomorrow comes the jam.

I got the craving sometime between scrubbing a crusty brown substance out of the fridge and sweeping years worth of food debris from behind the stove—peach salsa.  Mmmmmmm.

Once the kitchen was pretty sparkly and fresh smelling, I headed off on a few errands, the first of which was to stop by Top Banana, a great little produce stand in Ballard.  Unlike my trips to the grocery store, I rarely shop Top Banana with a list. I just walk in and let the colors and smells guide the menu.

Half a dozen plump tomatoes, a Walla Walla onion, a bulb of garlic, four fuzzy peaches, a red pepper, a jalepeño, a bunch of cilantro, a lemon and a couple limes.

Back at the Village, I diced the onion, four tomatoes and four peaches, then minced a few cloves of garlic, the jalepeño and cilantro. Put it all in a big green bowl, add a couple tablespoons of olive oil, the juice from two limes, and half of one lemon, a good amount of fresh ground pepper, a little less salt, stir and—the whole house smells fresh.  Ah, and then the red pepper.  I take a third of it, braze it lightly with oil and flame roast it on the stove top.  Then that’s diced and tossed in adding a subtle smoky flavor.

I take a small spoonful to make sure the flavors are just right and once I’ve approved the batch, chips are served.

There are a couple of great things about fresh salsa: first, it gets better and better over a few days, while every element absorbs the flavor of a neighboring ingredient. Secondly, there is a good deal of extra liquid which goes a long way to make leftover rice new.

Salsa on crackers, in an omelet, on Guatemalan style tacos, on salmon, in a fresh cold pasta, as bruschetta, on burgers and grilled cheese sandwiches, on salad, with plain rice, and the list goes on.

This salsa loves substitutions too. Use mango or pineapple in place of the peaches. Add some orange flesh or grapefruit. Roast a poblano pepper in place of the standard red pepper.

Then, put it on everything.

Elie keeps saying, “I’m so happy. I’m just so happy.” Of course, I also made her cry this morning when my endless patience evaporated without warning. But we’re just out of the garden now, where, for about an hour we pulled and thinned spinach, arugula, mixed greens, carrots, beets, onions and snap peas, weeded a bit, re-staked some luscious—but drooping—tomato plants, and finally, offered our garden a well-deserved deep soak from a leaky hose.

All the while River grunted and squeaked from a swaddling sling on Elie’s belly. River seemed pretty into the gardening scene, and we’re quite relieved.

It doesn’t take much to get us going, and hard work with a tangible result is the best of rewards.

I’ve kind of stumbled into this gardening thing a bit late.  As a kid, you couldn’t have paid me to weed or rake for more than about fifteen minutes. I was much more interested in worthwhile ventures like skateboarding and idly strumming a guitar. Among other shortcomings, I didn’t cook. Anything. I didn’t even make my own toast.

So it was a welcome, but mysterious, surprise for my parents when I came home from college one summer and began cooking all the meals.

I’ve since become quite passionate in the kitchen—someone who loves to be involved in the process of making, whatever that may entail.

Last year Elie and I worked on organic farms in New Zealand, and I’m no longer a stranger to weeding, harvesting, and planting. Elie had previously been the head gardener of a one-acre children’s vegetable garden in urban Minneapolis and I trust her green thumb with the life of our produce. She often had delightful encounters with city kids, who, wide-eyed, pulled purple carrots from raised beds—the same kids who had previously thought food magically appeared in the grocery store.

This year, we planted our first garden together. It’s been a joy, from the idea to turing the soil and marking rows, to the first sprouts and beyond. Even as newbie, I know I’m in this for the long run.

All it takes is one harvest to be sure.

Tonight I took a bath. Not to get clean, but to soak out sore muscles. To pause and enjoy the stillness. If you must know, I indulged with blue chamomile and lavender bath salts, an IPA in a chilled glass (as always), Ray LaMontagne, a candle orange as a harvest moon and glimmering on the still water.

Listening to the precise breathiness of Ray’s voice, I got to thinking.  We had moved back to the west coast from the midwest just a year ago, sharing a rental truck with then-aquaintences Pete & Jane. I remember showing up at their sweet little Minneapolis house in dirty shorts and a tank top from Honduras that was surely one size too small. We loaded their stuff and enjoyed a nice picnic on their back lawn and that was that.

A couple thousand miles later, we dropped off their stuff and went on to our own unpacking.

It wasn’t more than a couple weeks, though, before we started getting together for dinners, enjoying lingering evenings of perfect conversation. It became a rarity that a week would go by without a meal together and soon the acquaintances were the best of friends.

Elle and I have had our little boy River in our lives for 12 days (if you don’t count the pregnancy), but already I can’t imagine the world without him. The same has happened with Pete & Jane, and it wouldn’t have happened without the serendipitous move to the same place at the same time.

While I’m still a bit exhausted from today’s long haul, I’m thankful for the good things that come when you least expect them. And I’m glad to know that some of those things linger even when you’re a little further away.

Well, there’s no denying it. We are true vagrants.

In our four years of marriage we have moved five times and one of those years we were living out out of a couple backpacks, wandering through New Zealand and Central America. We never intended for this sort of flightiness and have long dreamed of finding a place we could really commit to.

But here we are again, surrounded by boxes.

I hate moving, hate pulling things from the shelves, hate carefully wrapping fragile items for travel. So much goes into making things just right, that I can hardly get down to the business of undoing that’s required of me. Elie will back me up. I am a terrible mover.

We’ve moved across town in the middle of a Minnesota winter and across country in the blaring heat of August. For our year abroad we left our possessions scattered in half a dozen homes over a fifty mile radius. We’ve done the hundred-trip-moves in small borrowed vans, and the one-punch-moves made possible by big rental trucks. We’ve been hasty at times and our stuff shows signs of the wear. Through these continual transplants I feel a bit disheartened, though I suspect it’s as my brother Thom says: “Some things you hate most in the moment make the best stories later on.”

‡‡‡‡‡

This past fall I spent a full week building custom bookshelves for my office. I made all of the many cuts with a handsaw and miter box, and while the old fashioned method was satisfying in the end, I was a bit heartbroken taking the shelves down today. I plan to reuse the shelves in my writing shack and I’m sure they’ll look great, but they were cut to fit a specific room, which, in a few days, will no longer be ours.

I’ve spent countless hours on restoration projects in this house, making a little money, but all the while knowing I wouldn’t be around to enjoy the results in the long run.

When it comes down to it, Elle and I have learned to make home pretty easily wherever we are, but my willingness to work hard for that feel is weakened with each move between. Give me a week and I know we’ll be doing well, putting books back on their shelves, thinking maybe this time we’ll stay more than a year.

‡‡‡‡‡

Here’s a poem from AGNI 64 that says a lot of what I feel:

Now Over the Empty Apartment

You in the door look back
and are no longer there,

although that is the hall
through which you walked a hundred times
thinking well, what of it?—awake

in the middle of the night—

and that is the window where the sky drew back & night came on,

where the planes banked in
scheduled and flashing from the west—

Your hand was pulling shut the shade
and mornings, your hand pulled it up again

though you are not there, you in the door going over the days,
going as a wave goes, that is,

nowhere, and all your lovers now? Those real,
imagined? The sad,
gratified sighs?

All that while,
through the evenings, didn’t something
quietly call,

something off in the marginal light,

in the vapor through which
the faces of passengers dimmed

and flickered? That slight
rivering, insistent

beneath the blare of the television, beneath you as well, at the surface

busy with addresses, with pictures & books. You crowded the place,
you in the door

who, looking back now—over the hallway, the shine
of the relentless floor—

can no longer be sure

you are the person indeed who had that body
and lived days in it there.

—Kate Northrop

Ask Me

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

—William Stafford

Today is my first Father’s Day and rather than feeling the focus on me, I feel even more thoughtful about my own father.  I was blessed with the wonderfully rare example of a strong and sensitive man who let his children really know him. So many fathers, including his own before him, were distant—bringing home the bread, but not delighting in the sharing of it.  

I could wrangle out specifics, but I most want to acknowledge the gift he has given me as a fledging father. Because of his example I already know how I hope to navigate a host of child challenges.  I know I won’t be perfect and I’m sure I’ll repeat some of his mistakes (and invent new ones), but those are small worries in a world of more important concerns. Thanks Dad.

‡‡‡‡‡

Today also marks the beginning of another rarity in our culture: We will be moving in with my parents.

With my youngest brother, Thom, heading off to college, my parents had invited us in long before we were expecting. But once that door was open and a baby was on the way, we began to realize the potential. We could have the proverbial village that is so often said to be necessary in the raising of a child.

I’ll be the head chef, the maid, the odd-jobs man and resident bard. Elle will be yogi, school marm, head gardener and milk supply. Grandpa, the ethical leader, the wise one, the tickler, the movie-goer, the gray hair. Grandma, the warm-hearted, the selfless, the giver-of-good-hugs, the listener. And of course we’ll all be parents and teachers and students ourselves.  

‡‡‡‡‡

Our garden glows like a green fire up back beside what was my childhood playhouse (soon to be my writing shack), the chicken coop is nearly ready for our chickens, and the cul-de-sac is bustling with the next generation of young children. The home is plenty large and will be three-generations full—something honored by most cultures around the world, but for some reason thought ridiculous by ours.

We are proud to be a little different and embrace this opportunity to be a cultural anomaly. And how great to think that our boy will start his life in the house where I spent most of my youth. That’s a kind of rootedness I can really stand behind. 

In light of all these musings we’ve decided to officially rename the homeplace The Village. I’ve been thinking how lovely it is that we have such a community for our child. But today, as I’m pondering how it takes a village to raise a child, my mom points out the real truth: It takes a River to make a village.

Quilt Made by Annie Olson-Reiners for River Avery

This week—the first of our new life—we’ve been blessed to have Elie’s Mom, Marcia, around. Each morning she arrives at our house and helps us transition from the nightlong “nap n’ feed” we have going. I get to sleep a little, Elie gets a shower and some food and Marcia holds the little River for as little or as long as we need her too.  

When I’m up she helps in the garden, sorts junk and packs for the inevitably inconvenient move we have coming this week. Whatever it is, Marcia loves to have a project.  

The other day River was napping on my chest while Marcia sorted through a mess of Elie’s clothes.  

“When my mother would come over in the early stages of Alzheimer’s,” she began, “we would give her some patchwork to do. Just an old pair of socks—something we planned to throw out. She just needed to have a purpose and the sewing helped.”  

“Are you sure,” she asked me, “I’m not just doing patchwork?”

Such a lovely question—one I had no problem answering. “No,” I said resolutely.  ”This is more than patchwork,” and the proverb was born.