Hawk Moon
“Not all the pages were there, and not all the handwriting was legible, but I'd been trying to write a piece about pioneers at harvest so this was very helpful.
Among other things, the journal reported how the woman had made mattresses from large quantities of moss stripped from trees; and spun yarn from the hair of wolves and coyotes, material that didn't always work so well; and turned worn canvas from tents and wagon-covers into overcoats; and battled the head colds and flu of the colder months by rubbing the children with warm goose grease and turpentine.
On the last day of the month, when the fiery leaves of the hills looked like the undulating wings of a vast butterfly, I knelt by the simple stone grave-marker of Katherine Louise Payne in the little country cemetery where I'd buried her. I formed soft words that were something like prayers, and shaped sentimental thoughts that were something like songs, and thought of how long I'd loved her — all the way back to First Communion i...n 1957 — and how long I would love her still, which was forever. One day a package came from my friend in the Bureau who'd been checking up on murders involving the mutilation of noses.MoreLess
Among other things, the journal reported how the woman had made mattresses from large quantities of moss stripped from trees; and spun yarn from the hair of wolves and coyotes, material that didn't always work so well; and turned worn canvas from tents and wagon-covers into overcoats; and battled the head colds and flu of the colder months by rubbing the children with warm goose grease and turpentine.
On the last day of the month, when the fiery leaves of the hills looked like the undulating wings of a vast butterfly, I knelt by the simple stone grave-marker of Katherine Louise Payne in the little country cemetery where I'd buried her. I formed soft words that were something like prayers, and shaped sentimental thoughts that were something like songs, and thought of how long I'd loved her — all the way back to First Communion i...n 1957 — and how long I would love her still, which was forever. One day a package came from my friend in the Bureau who'd been checking up on murders involving the mutilation of noses.MoreLess
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