"Make Do."

The Great Depression pushed the young men of my home town away; some went to the Civilian Conservation Corps and a great many (including my uncles) retreated to the local river camps.

The people in town called the men who went to water "River Rats" and I guess you could say that their behavior mimicked that furry creature; industriously they worked to gather refuse for shelter, took advantage of the bounty nature provided, and in this way survived until fortune carried them home.

From the woods and farm field dumps they gathered material to construct their small shacks and shanties.

Some built floating barges that carried them through other river towns, looking for work while sustaining themselves on fish, turtle, beaver, and musk rat.

Tin and canvas roofs sheltered them from the rain and snow that fell. Tar paper, battened boards, and rough hewn logs blocked the wind.
Deadfall wood, burning in the oil drum stoves, provided the heat that warmed them and cooked their meals that were gathered from the river and it's banks.

The workday commenced before the sky began to glow through the trees; they waded through the river checking traps and trout lines. As the sun drew the wind to the east, rifles report echoed through the bottoms; squirrels, raccoons, deer, and birds were harvested.
Fishing with poles and traps continued through the day as well as the gathering of spring water, dandelion greens, wild onion, chicory, berries, persimmons, pawpaws, roots, and nuts.

Excess was traded and sometimes sold in the town square for sundries that could not be acquired naturally.

They were looked upon with jest and scorn for their rudimentary ways of living, but they were indebted to nothing except their basic human needs.
Hunger and the need for shelter was satiated by will and the knowledge of what our earth provides, free of charge.

My uncles "Made Do" and survived to thrive. They passed on their knowledge of the creeks and rivers to all that would listen.

I’ll end this by sharing their advice;

"If it’s tough out there, Make Do."

Ghost in the Machine

A Dream in Winter, 96’

The great northern forest was hushed by dense, falling snow.

The snow, as a fog, seemed to separate me from the innumerable, tall, dark, pines that faded into the white distance.
Solitarily, in pairs, and in groups, a great many owls fluttered and glided over me in silence; passing through the fog and into the distance, gradually filling the lower branches of the ghostly pines as far as I could see.
The owls shook the snow from their feathers as they preened, without notice of me.
I knew that one of them was my father. And I knew that he was home, without memory of horror, and without pain.


From the depths, dreams are delivered;
shifting and tumbling through the mire, gaining speed as pressures subside,they make their way to the surface.

Contours flash, surfaces glow, and substance is revealed as their journey nears the light of consciousness.

Images of objects and places, unknowingly stored in the recesses of the mind, are selected, assembled, pieced together, encrypted for the recipient, and jettisoned from fathoms below.

These messages, written in the language of the soul, are communicated and in darkness they take shape in a myriad of forms:

secret, as the whispering breath of a lover to the ear, warm, sweet, and sublime;
horrid, thrown before one, howling, gnashing, and biting like an animal caged;
welcomed, like a nudge to the ribs from a childhood friend.

These flickering moments are artfully crafted to expose the workings of the heart; unveiling condition, reaction, and intent.

The aged majority are from a familiar library and the necessity of their delivery is understood.

But some, a rare few, speak from other volumes and are parcels, not of my own.