The Fever

"I take whomever I please," said the god of chaos as Quentin stared down at the shell of his lovely wife, Gwinny's fire red hair in contrast to her pale, ashen face. "You should have helped her, but you failed," said the spirit of doubt. Together, they began to laugh at Quentin. "She would have saved you," said doubt, snorting and clutching his belly. "You failed, and now she's mine," said the god of chaos. Their laughter pounded in Quentin's ears, building to a cacophony that shook the floor and rattled the empty medicine bottles surrounding Gwinny's body....

He woke with a start, nearly kicking over the bucket at the foot of the bed. The little girl's mother stirred, then settled back into the fitful sleep that a wooden chair and a heavy heart afford. They both must have fallen asleep when the seizures stopped. He walked softly around the bed and placed his hands on her cheeks and forehead. She was burning up, and his touches brought a wave of tremors through her little body. Her time was approaching. "She is already mine," whispered the god of chaos. Quentin shook his head hard, unable to fully emerge from his nightmare. 

"We are intervening, little one," he said quietly, stroking her sweat soaked hair. 

"You can't save her," whispered the spirit of doubt.

 Crossing the room to the hearth where the honey was still simmering, he inhaled the vapors. It was the first batch of the year when the most potent flowers were in bloom in the fields of Arkady, and the moons passed over the sun. Gwinny had run them both ragged each year harvesting that first batch of wild honey. Collecting it was no easy task. Gwinny always seemed to dance right through the gates, gracefully waving her smoldering sage and lavender as though it were a high art form. Indeed it must have been, because Quentin always raised every alarm. The little bastard defenders were always prepared to throw themselves at him in buzzing waves, while she sauntered away with the goods. It was tough, painful work, not to mention the long nights preparing and preserving the salves and poultices, so it was no wonder that they always fetched a good price from the farming folk across the lake in Raven's church, or down the haunted forest road in Eileen Moor, or any of the villages that dotted the base of the Griffon's Vein. Even the memories of those hard days of work made him ache with longing.                      

"You failed," said the spirit of doubt.

Gwinny's recipes were famous for treating wounds and ailments, and Quentin had done his best to carry on her work, though the spirit of doubt constantly reminded him that he was really only good at making strong drinks and growing pipeweed. This, however,  was something entirely different. This little girl had been brought here to die. Quentin had known from the desperate look on the mother's face that he had to do something, even if it was only to ease the child's suffering and give them a warm place to spend their last few hours together. It was what Gwinny would have done. 

No, she would have fought; Gwinny respectfully went to war with the gods. The god of chaos had chosen this child to die, and instead of soothing herbs and warm cider, Quentin had made the instinctual decision to go to war with that god, despite what chaos and doubt had to say on the matter. "At war with a war god," he thought with a jaded and bitter smirk, the god of chaos that seemed to always hold sway over the land, and ruin any semblance of order and justice in the world. The god of chaos was indeed a god worth going to war with, when the winds of conflict carried off the men of the levies, and the womenfolk were left to work the fields while the children played unattended. 

Quentin measured out the crushed herbs in pinches and palms. The apothecaries in the city used finely crafted instruments to precisely measure each ingredient, but Gwinny always said that healing came from one soul to another. You had to touch certain flowers and bond with them before they became medicine. "A little extra pinch won't hurt," she would say and toss a bit of pepper at him. "But you must concentrate!" 

Quentin unrolled two of the broad leaves of the Wyvernswood tree, and carefully spread the steaming poultice over each in turn. He walked back to the bed and drew down the woolen blanket from the little girl's trembling body, and slowly peeled the spent leaves away from the angry, weeping wound. As he delicately applied the new leaves, he imagined the corruption as though it were a tangible enemy to be drawn out, ambushed, and destroyed. Meanwhile, the spirit of doubt that haunted his every move whispered in his ear, "You are fighting a losing battle."

He had known, almost from the beginning, that this child's death would crush him. He could try to steel himself all he wanted, but it wouldn't work. They would load her tiny body back on the cart and send her back to whichever village she came from, and Quentin would be alone with his failures, left to answer once again to the spirit of doubt and the god of chaos. He would try to escape them, and he would fail. He would gather up the mead and apple spirits. He would pack his pipe and take up his traveling hat. He would run as fast as he could across the meadow, never gaining a step on the voices that hovered next to his ears. He would stumble through the haunted forest drinking, challenging the ghosts to show themselves, always to no avail. He would climb the Griffon's Vein and stand on the ridge, shaking his fist and cursing the gods in the shadow of their moons. He would cry and moan, then piss on the sacred stones.  He would drink and smoke away the anger and bitterness until the voices were silent, and the warmth of oblivion became medicine. 

The little girl's mother gasped awake as Quentin applied the final dressing. She took a moment  to catch her breath, then asked weakly, "Is there something I can do?" He pointed at the bucket next to the bed. "You can wipe her down with cool water." He nodded toward a cup on the table, "And drink that....and pray." The last part came out awkwardly, but she seized on it. "I will, I will sir. May the gods bless you, sir, for trying to help my baby." She was crying now, holding the cup in both hands and sipping between sobs. He felt a small knot in his stomach as he walked back to his chair. There was nothing left to do but wait. He took a long swallow of spiced cider that had cooled on the table. "You failed," whispered the spirit of doubt harshly. Another swallow and he was quieter. "She's mine," whispered the god of chaos quietly. Another swallow and he was gone....

A Circle of Stones

Just like my Scottish ancestors. A circle of stones. 

I still remember that day my dad opened the car door and introduced me to the paradise of Superior Township. Dad busted his butt twelve hours a day in the dirt for decades and finally got his nice house in the country. My family is baptized in Michigan soil. The gift my parents had given me was invaluable, they set my body and spirit free to roam the forests and fields of rural Michigan. I fell in love. I've always felt in tune with the earth, like the very stones of my hometown call out to me almost audibly. It's found throughout my poetry and songs, and I've never been able to shake it.

People often think of me as some kind of adventurer, I admit to fostering this perception a bit, so cut me some slack. The truth is, I spent most of my time away wishing I was back home in Plymouth, or Wolverine, where even the scrub pines call out to my soul. I saw the world in its raw form, and I needed Michigan dirt like medicine.

I hope everyone gets the chance to feel real satisfaction with their lives at least once. It's an amazing feeling, and I've found that it helps in the dying process. Yes, I can define that time. I had a little condo in downtown Plymouth. I was deeply in love with a beautiful girl who worked buying and selling stones, another rockhound. She moonlighted as a barista in a coffee shop in town where the mochas were fantastic, and people would crowd in to listen to me pick lousy guitar and sing gospel and blue-collar tunes. She made that beautiful town turn into magic. I was working sixty hours a week in Michigan dirt, and we struggled to make ends meet, yet life was beautiful, simple, and vibrant. It was genuine happiness, and we both knew it. Then I got sick.

Life hasn't ended. I was given a death sentence in 2011. I asked the neurologist at U of M what I should do, and she looked me right in the eye and said, "Start getting your affairs in order." I thought for a while about what that meant. I had to tell my beautiful Kate that I was dying, and set her free to go live the rest of her life while I wasted and died
.
She didn't go. Instead, she became my rock. I set my compass by her; she gave me purpose and direction. So together we got my affairs in order.  We rode our bikes to the little Baptist church and got married. We bought a house. We had a beautiful baby girl, followed by a beautiful baby boy. I've long surpassed my expiration date, and God continues to give me time with my family. Nobody lives forever, though.

I've never been a cemetery kind of guy. I wonder how many people actually consider how they want to be treated after they pass. I have the opportunity to make my own arrangements. I don't want my family, in the midst of grief, scrambling to decide what I would have wanted. I certainly don't want to end up as taxidermy, stuffed in a fancy box that costs more than any pickup I ever owned. That's not me. I'm not the polished marble kind of guy, either. I'm a Michigan boulder, rolled in dirt and snow. I want my resting place to reflect my life; simple, grounded, and covered in Michigan dirt. Besides, who doesn't want to design and build their own monument?

I'll go up to Wolverine in August, to the land my great grandparents farmed. Just like my ancestors in Scotland, with the help of my family I will build a circle of native stones. Eight stones, each one a point on the compass rose, and a stone in the center. It will align seven degrees west of magnetic north, to follow the stars instead of the compass. People who are dear to me will place the stones, and when I cross the Jordan, my ashes will go behind the true north stone, to wait for my lover and soulmate.

Frankie and Penn with my stones.

Thought That I'd Be Lonesome Without You

A
Thought that I'd be lonesome without you,

D  A

turns out that wasn't really true.

D  A

I couldn't weave my world around you

E

wondering if you ever found a clue.

Thought that I might die without your touch,

turns out it doesn't hurt so much.

I'm the bigger man for knowing

I can stand without you as a crutch.

D  A  D  A

You might find it awkward, me saying this to you,

D  A  E

but I've got no one else to say it to,

D  A

but I've got a ghost in the basement, and a raccoon in the attic,

D A

and a banker who keeps telling me I'm bad at mathematics.

D  A  E

I don't play a very good guitar, but I'm not as lousy as I used to be.

E

Wouldn't you agree?

D  A

I don't believe our story is complete.

D  A

I do believe that again we shall meet

D  A  E

when the Irish pubs vomit their patrons back out on the street.

A
Thought that I'd be lonesome without you.

Thought that things would never be the same,

turns out things never really change.

It just becomes a new fixture,

a picture in someone else's frame.

But the evening sun's still setting over Traverse Bay.

A Michigan breeze just blew my cares away

You may think I'm crazy, that may be a fact.

The answer just depends on who you ask.

Ask the ghost in the basement, or the raccoon in the attic,

the banker who keeps telling me I'm bad at mathematics.

The skeletons in my closet that rattle their bones at night when I try to sleep,

giving me the creeps.

I don't believe that our story is complete.

I do believe that again we shall meet

when the Irish pubs vomit their patrons back out on the street.

Tony Lollio 2007

Orinoco Monster Hunt

Craig and I cleaning piranhas for dinner. I ended up cutting my hand,
 which made the teenagers laugh at how inept I was with a knife.

"Hey Tone!" Steve yelled as he launched my shampoo bottle into the middle of the Orinoco River, closer to the Colombian side than the Venezuelan. Manuel, the native kid on our work crew immediately started across after it, and I was right behind him.

Now, there are some popular myths around piranhas that aren't exactly true. Every now and then, when the rainy season dries out, sections of the river get cut off from the main flow. Schools of piranha get trapped in these oxbows, and the lack of food turns them into the bloodthirsty monsters of lore. The vast majority of the time though, they are perfectly harmless, like a bluegill with dinosaur teeth. If you knew how many of them we ate with socialist rice and tobasco sauce, you'd see it was a one-sided affair.

Still though, doing a hundred meter freestyle to the middle of a river in the Amazon is a daunting task; maybe it was fifty..it was a long swim. Plus I had to beat the native kid, because even though I was just under a year out of the Army, I still felt like Uncle Sam was always judging me. Fear must have been propelling me forward, giving me the edge I needed to beat Manuel. I also might have grabbed his ankle just before the turn, that part's fuzzy.  I emerged victorious though, hoisting my shampoo bottle over my head like it was the Grail. I do whatever it takes to win, sue me.

Building schools and churches in Venezuela was hard work..hot, sweaty, spidery, rash in the, spend a day on the dirt floor of the latrine kind of work. Steve and I had spent the day digging a trench down a hillside. We laid PVC pipe in the trench and connected a rainwater cistern to the school teacher's house. The family was delighted with the dribble that finally emerged from the tiny hand valve, it was going to save them a half-mile slog to the community well with five-gallon buckets. We were proud of our work, and we'd finished with a couple hours of daylight left.

The school

Fishing was absolutely on my mind every time I saw the beautiful landscapes of the Amazon River system, but I was in Venezuela to work, not fish. Plus, the thirty-pound weight limit on the rickety prop plane prevented any extra equipment. I will never forget that landing on the dirt runway, the pilot in his tank top and bare feet, and my dad next to him with a headset; two pilots from different worlds. It was a great adventure. You have to understand this about me, I'll work my butt off for a chance to cast a line out in a new location, but I would have to suppress the urge, or so I thought.

Bob Holloway, the missionary who organized the project, was given a transportation stipend from the Church. He was supposed to buy a car, which isn't so useful in the Amazon. Instead, he bought a flat-bottom johnboat with twin Mercury outboard motors called La Provacadora, which needed no translation. Ed Anders, the retired builder who supervised us, had brought in rods and reels by boat with the construction equipment. They were practical philanthropists, I guess; if you're going to dedicate your life to improving living conditions in South America, you should at least have a fast boat and fishing tackle. They also both knew that I was a lunatic about fishing.

So with daylight fading, and these crazy low storm clouds rolling in, Bob decided to take us on a monster hunt.

In Michigan, a sudden rain squall usually sends people running for cover. In the Amazon, it's like a warm shower that you're always ready for, and badly in need of. Still though, when raindrops the size of your pinky nail are coming in sideways because you're full throttle down the middle of the Orinoco River, it stings quite a bit. I was keeping low, huddled over one of the tackle boxes. I was a couple thousand miles from home, fishing on a completely foreign River, with someone else's gear. A little more time to prepare and strategize would have been great. I had my eye on a seven-foot rod with one of those Penn spinning reels that looked like it came off a Detroit assembly line in the 70's. I gave a tug on the line,  and the well-oiled spool began to feed me line at just the right tension. Ed took care of his equipment...game on. I tied on a five-inch balsa wood minnow, black on top with gold sides. It would mimic a wounded baitfish anywhere on earth. Bob eased off the throttle as La rovacadora's flat belly slid to a stop on a gigantic smooth boulder in the middle of the river.

The Colombian military used these little things to patrol the river
La Provacadora .was bigger and faster, so they often "borrowed"
her to chase smugglers and guerillas.

We were on the largest of a series of boulders stretched from one side of the river. The water rushed between them, forming a series of rapids with plunge pools behind each boulder. Those pools were my target. I fired a cast upstream of the closest boulder, allowing the minnow to tumble through the rapids. As it reached the edge of a pool, I started my retrieve, each sweep of my rod tip sending the wooden minnow on a frantic surge towards the bottom.

I felt weight on the end of the line. It was not the pulse of something living, but the steady, unrelenting resistance that means you've snagged an obstruction. I was hopelessly hung up on the bottom, and I didn't have a lot of time to mess around, so I pulled out my knife To cut the line. A quick slap on my wrist let me know Manuel wasn't pleased with my decision. Back home,  a five dollar lure can be easily replaced, not quite so in the Amazon. So, for the second time in one day, Manuel jumped into the Orinoco to retrieve something of mine. He swam out into the current with his legs and one free arm, holding my line with the other hand to guide him to the snag. He disappeared beneath the surface until I felt the lure pop free.  After hoisting Manuel back onto the boulder, I handed him the pocket knife I'd carried since the Army. He'd obviously earned today's trophy...almost.

 I shot a cast upstream of the furthest boulder and snapped my wrist to send the minnow darting side to side like a wounded baitfish. Once...twice...WHAM! The swirling water let me know he'd struck just beneath the surface. I set the hook hard and felt the head shake before he made for the deep water of the main river channel, stripping line off the reel as he ran. After tiring from the run, he Turned to come straight back at me. I struggled to take in the slack and dropped the rod tip just in time for his first jump. He spent the next five minutes in a  series of runs and rushes, dives and aerial acrobatics. He was a worthy opponent, everything I expected from a place this wild and raw.

He finally ran out of steam, and I took a knee to land him as he rolled onto his silvery side and slid over the edge of the boulder. He looked to me like the love child of a salmon and a catfish, and he had the spirit of both. I reached down to grab him behind the gill plate, but Manuel slapped my wrist, shaking his head. He was standing over me with half of a broomstick...a club. I guess you don't catch and release in a place where food is scarce, I felt silly. He gave it a quick, sharp blow to the head, and it's mouth opened to reveal two giant two-inch fangs protruding from the lower jaw. Manuel had saved me that time, the day was his.....but not before I got the shot. I pulled out my digital camera and tossed it to my friend Craig. "Make sure it's a good one, please..."

8lb 2oz Payara, myself, and La Provacadora. Even in this grainy pic you can see those
teeth! Turns out this one was dinky, they get four times his size!

The Pied Piper

Nestled in the enchanted forests of Lower Saxony is the town of Hamelin. The town has kept a ledger, a log of events in the town, for centuries. If you go all the way back to the beginning of this record, you'll find an entry from 1384, as heartbreaking as it is enigmatic:

"It has been one hundred years since our children vanished."

So begins the true story of the Pied Piper. The historical record gives nothing more.

The Pied Piper Acrylic by Kate Lollio 

Like the plagues in the Holy Scriptures, the horde of rats fell upon Hamelin. This was no simple nuisance, it was a catastrophe. The food supply was threatened, and death and disease always seemed to follow the vermin horde.  Try as they may, the town's officials could not solve the problem, until a mysterious stranger appeared offering a solution...for a price.

One day, a colorfully clothed piper arrived in Hamelin and offered to rid the town of rats for a hefty sum of gold. Desperate, the officials agreed to pay. The piper played as he marched through the streets of the town. Entranced by his music, the horde of rats followed the piper out of town and into the countryside, to the river Weser where they were drowned.

Finally free of the rats, however, the town officials went back on their word, and refused to pay. Angry and bitter, the piper left Hamelin, vowing to return to have his revenge on the townspeople for their treachery.

Woe unto those who forsake the oaths to which they are foresworn.

"In the year 1284 on the feast day of St. John and St. Paul, the 26th of June, 130 children born in Hamelin were led away by a piper clothed in many colors, to their Calvary hill where they were lost." - Luneberg Manuscript, 1440

So, while the people of Hamelin feasted during the Saints day, the piper again marched through the town. This time, it was the children entranced by his melodies. The piper led 130 children through the streets, and out into the countryside, never to be seen again. Of all the children of Hamelin, only three remained. The first child, crippled, could not follow. The second child, deaf, could not hear the piper's music. The third child, blind, could not see where the rest were going.

The clock tower, one of many monuments in the city depicting the legend.

This is my version of the story, immortalized in western tradition, and told by the Brothers Grimm in their 19th-century collection of fairy tales. They were elaborating on an actual event that had occurred centuries earlier, already obscured by hundreds of years of oral tradition.

I walked the streets of Hamelin during my time living in Germany. It was amazing to stand in a fairy tale town, but what really fascinated me was that the story of the Pied Piper had an actual root in reality, a place and time in history you could put your finger on. The details of the event, however, are almost nonexistent. What remains is a skeleton, the framework of a story which the mind rushes to fill with detail. I needed to know more, and there was no more to be found, so my imagination spun with possibilities. I realized that this was the process that created myths and legends.

A tragedy befell the town of Hamelin, an event so traumatizing that it still grips our collective consciousness almost a thousand years later, this we know for certain. In a world filled with massacres and genocide, this story is intimate, one town and it's calamity. The story taps one of our most primal fears, the loss of our kids. It endures, ironically, as a fairy tale we tell our children when we tuck them in safely at night.

The importance of myths and legends to a culture can't be underestimated, a true storyteller understands this. The human mind longs to find meaning in even the most random event, and this process helps in the formation of our philosophies and worldview. Has the modern digital age replaced oral tradition, and if so, can we still find meaning in the events unfolding around us? With these questions in mind, perhaps the simple bedtime story becomes far more important than we ever imagined.

A story without an allegory is a waste of breath.

I Need Someone To Tell Her

Photo by Kate Lollio

4/4 G      C      G

I just need someone to tell her that I love her.

G      C      G

I'm not sure if she wants to hear it from me now.

C      D

Michigan chills me to the core.

G      C

All these sunsets are cold copper ore.

Am

Anymore I can't find my true north,

C      D

and I'd tell her if I knew how.

C   Bm  Am

I'd search the world and never discover

C   Bm  Am

a feeling that touches the essence of her.

C   Bm  Am

I could fill this notebook cover to cover,

C     D    G

but I need someone to tell her that I love her.

I just need someone to tell her that I want her.

Every night I lay my head down on a stone.

Reach out and hold her once for me,

I guess my arms ain't what they used to be,

and I would be the one to tell her,

if she'd pick up the telephone.

Does the ghost of what might have been still taunt her?

Does the host standing in the way still daunt her?

Am I close to resembling the memories that still haunt her?

I just need someone to tell her that I want her.

No Man's Land

Vespers, the evening prayer, Chalk by Kate Lollio

 "Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina." Father Toby's voice boomed the first line of Vespers into the cold air, each syllable an explosion of frost. It was a trick the Reverend O'Flaherty had taught him, a way of focusing on something you knew in a time of crisis. "You truly do have an exquisite singing voice, Tobias," he had said, waving a trembling finger back and forth as though conducting some sort of nightmarish orchestra. "Just try to stay with the beat."

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto." The whole thing had seemed absurd at the time, but now, in his own time of crisis, he clinged to it desperately. He loved singing in Latin, and he had done it incessantly. Even as a boy, the liturgical language had fascinated him. His parents had known early on that he was bound for the clergy.  It was as though the soaring verses transcended time and space, and took one to a place where angels sang, bathed in colored light. The suffering could never reach that place, and God's presence was always near. Now there was only this profound sense of abandonment.

 He had asked the Reverend which one of the liturgies to sing. The man had simply smiled and answered, "Oh, any one will do." Father Toby wiped the dirt from the face of his watch. Evening was upon them.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

"Sicut erat in principio, et nunc et semper, et in saecula saeculorum." He sang louder now, as if each word were a plea, even a challenge to God. If he could only sing loud enough, perhaps God would hear him over all the madness, and really return the ones he'd lost. Every part of him longed to see the lame actually walk, and the blind actually see. He needed it now, as though his very sanity hinged on the possibility of the miraculous.

 Thump, thump.

What happens when those miracles never come? What happens when all around you are the lame, the blind, and the dying? When they are reaching out to you, but you have nothing left to give? What do you do when the grief and the loss take root, and your soul cries out for rescue? Why then the loneliness, and the silence? The questions were relentless, and robbed Father Toby of what little rest there was to find here. Every time he closed his eyes, the grain fields of Iowa turned to churned up mud. Every time he thought of the Mass, the beautiful faces of his parishioners melted away, replaced by the faces of boys with hollow eyes.

thump, thump.

His hands trembled like Reverend O'Flaherty's, and he remembered the old man's answer. "Whatever else is there to do, Tobias? You sing. Sing angry, sing bitter, but never stop singing. Sing about God's goodness when your world's gone bad. Sing about love and life in the midst of hatred and death. Sing of God's peace even as chaos erupts. Pray every day as though the Almighty could arrive just then, and should he not, for heaven's sake man, get out there and do his work until he comes!"

"Amen." Thump.

So Father Toby sang out from no man's land. As he sang, his soul cried out from the wilderness.

"Alleluia." Thump, THUMP!

The shells pounded their rhythm; the final shot fell close. He felt the great heave, as though his chest would turn inside out, and his eardrums would burst. He drew his knees to his chest, tightly gathering as much of himself as possible beneath the meager protection of his helmet, and waited for the inevitable shower of earth and wood, metal and gore. The Hunn artillerymen were making the most of their last barrage of the afternoon, and he certainly didn't envy the boys of C Company, currently being raked by cannon fire a couple of hundred yards away.

The ringing in his ears had only just begun to clear when he saw a figure emerge from the smoke, and stumble out alone into no man's land. He had no rifle or helmet, and he was completely covered in mud. Father Toby watched in horror as the man vanished into a shell crater, only to reemerge from the other edge and continue towards the middle of the killing field. Father Toby had been pinned down there all day, and he began waving a timid hand, trying to get the man's attention, while hoping to avoid drawing fire himself. The overturned carriage he sat against was really no cover at all. A well-placed volley of rifle fire could have torn it to bits at any moment.

He cringed at a rifle shot, followed by another, dull pops in the wake of the ear-splitting salvo. A small plume of dirt erupted at the man's feet as he continued aimlessly, oblivious to his surroundings. "Run!" Father Toby shouted, "Run, man, go back!" The man stopped suddenly and looked in Father Toby's directions who was now waving frantically. "Run! Run, man, or get d...."

A rifle shot rang out. The man suddenly jerked, as though punched by some invisible hand, and collapsed into a motionless heap in the mud. Father Toby gasped, exhaling another explosion of frost as he dropped back against the carriage. He again drew his knees to his chest, and buried his face between them. One boy too many, and the last strings began to unravel. Father Toby rocked himself softly, as his tears mixed with French mud.

Movement caught his attention; the heap in the mud was beginning to stir. The man slowly rolled himself over, and reached out a hand above him, grasping at something only he could see. Father Toby's heart began to pound, but he never hesitated. There, in the midst of his own crisis, as the world crumbled around him, he fell back on what he knew best, his calling....God's work. Out there a man lay wounded, perhaps dying. Out there in the open, a man's soul stood at the precipice of eternity, and he was all alone.

Father Toby clenched his rosary tightly as he crawled out into no man's land, its crucifix hanging from his dirty fist, inches from his face as he crept forward on his elbows. The distance seemed overwhelming, but every time he raised his head to check his bearings, there was Jesus, suffering on the Cross. It was then that he remembered that all of the suffering, the pain and loss, were not separating him from God, they were drawing him closer.

Thump, thump, thump, thump

Every scrape and cut became a privilege as he dragged himself across the ground. Each drop of blood a rose for the Blessed Mother, and his broken heart an offering at the foot of the Cross. It was Christ at the edge of every shell hole. It was Christ in front of every wire obstacle. It was Christ guiding him forward. Father Toby prayed as he crawled, and the loneliness vanished as he felt God join him the mud.

"Alleluia." Thump, THUMP!

1916 U.S. Army issued Rosary

"O Lord, make haste to help me. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen. Alleluia."- From Vespers, the evening prayer.

- From May of 1917 - November 1918, 2,300 American clergymen served as Chaplains in the American Expeditionary Force during World War 1. Father Tobias is my work of fiction, the Reverend O'Flaherty is not. Colman O'Flaherty was an Irish born American, ordained by the Roman Catholic Church in Sioux Falls, Iowa in 1909. He was killed while ministering to the wounded and dying in an artillery barrage on October 3, 1918, one month before the war's end. He didn't carry a rifle, only a sword of the Spirit, still he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for his actions in combat.

This story is dedicated to the Payne family.

Ex

The Boondoxology

Cold Sky by my good friend, Bowen Kline

3/4 C D G

To the man who is able to put in twelve hours, 

and the family that's growing like weeds and like flowers,

and he turns to the fool, when he turns over towers.

C D C

His world can seem cold like the snow,

and there's nowhere but forward to go.

So he turns his chin, to the December wind.

It's the only thing he's ever known.

C D C

Then the snow melts down, into Michigan ground,
C D C -(G)

and he reaps a bit more than he sows.

She studies all night, and she works every day,

and she hopes to be home while the baby's awake.

She prays for a light in the dark where she lays.

God's shoulder seems cold like the snow,

but every Sunday she's in the back row.

The tears on her chin, are her prayers and her hymns.

It's the only thing she's ever known.

Then those tears seep down, into Michigan ground,

in her garden where the lavender grows.

Wolverine

D

Every piece of gravel on this road

A

that I travel's telling me my load

Em

is too heavy, so I'm told

G

that I should cast my burdens down.

The spirits of my family 

are whispering through the maple trees.

I just need to set my mind at ease,

so I'll walk to my hometown. 

Em                                 D

I'm hoping that she'll open up her arms to me.

Wolverine, Wolverine, 

Sturgeon River keep on running cold and clean.

I just need for your September breeze  

to take a hold of me

and wash away all the bitterness I've seen. 

Wash away all the bitterness that I see.

This world has not been kind to me.

I guess I was too blind to see.

that all the things I ran away from,

only brought me back around. 

I've been around a time or two.

I've seen some tricks and learned a few.

I've earned some dollars and burned a few.

Now I'll walk to my hometown.

I'm hoping that she'll open up her arms to me.

Wolverine, Wolverine,

Sturgeon River keep on running cold and clean.

I just need for your September breeze  

to take a hold of me,

and wash away all the bitterness I've seen. 

Wash away all the bitterness that I see.

Great Grandpa built his house by hand. 

I hope that I'm his type of man.

I won't build my house upon the sand

and then watch the rains come down.

But the firmest piece of ground I know 

is just up the road a mile or so.

I've just a while to go,

so I'll walk to my hometown. 

I'm hoping that she'll open up her arms to me.

The Christmas Tree Ship

The Christmas Tree Schooner by Charles Vickery

The three-masted schooner Rouse Simmons set sail from Manistique in November of 1912, with a cargo of 5,500 Christmas trees bound for Chicago.

In the early 1900's, American naturalists became alarmed by the annual harvest of millions of young conifers. After all, it takes seven years to grow an average six-foot Christmas tree. The math was working against American pine forests, and in true Christmas spirit, capitalism and environmentalism would come together to provide the solution.

By 1920, Christmas tree farming had become a year-round occupation, an industry that supplied virtually all of America. Today, Michigan is the fourth largest supplier of farmed Christmas trees, an industry that employs 100,000 people nationally. For every tree harvested in the U.S, three seedlings are planted. At any given time in America, there are 350 million Christmas trees in the process of growing.

In 1912, however, the future was as difficult to predict as a November storm on Lake Michigan.

Herman Schuenemann, captain of the Simmons, was affectionately known as "Captain Santa," for his habit of giving away trees to families who couldn't afford them. He was, above all else though, a businessman. He knew a business opportunity when it appeared, and the 1912 holiday season presented Schuenemann with the opportunity of a lifetime.

By selling his Christmas trees right from the ship at the dock, Schuenemann was able to cut the wholesalers out, offering his trees at the lowest price while maximizing his profits. November snow had fallen heavy on the region, burying the tree farms and hampering Schuenemann's overland competitors. The resulting Christmas tree shortage in Chicago meant a windfall of profits, depending on how many trees Herman Schuenemann could deliver to the dock.

With all this in mind, Captain Santa and his Christmas tree ship sailed headlong, and grossly overloaded, into the jaws of one of Lake Michigan's notoriously deadly November gales. The Rouse Simmons was last seen afloat on November 23rd, 1912. She was low in the water, covered in ice, and flying flags of distress. By early December, Christmas trees were still washing ashore near Two Rivers, Wisconsin.

The Christmas tree ship disappeared that night with all seventeen hands. For decades, Lake Michigan sailors would report spotting a mysterious tall ship, which appeared out of nowhere with an evergreen lashed to her mast.

The wreck of the Rouse Simmons 

In 1971, the Rouse Simmons was discovered in 165 feet of water. She lies upright, with her holds still full of cargo. Among the artifacts recovered were two Christmas trees, which were decorated and displayed nearly sixty years after the ship failed to arrive at her destination.

Americans purchase 30 million real Christmas trees every year, grown on the 350,000 acres of tree farms spread throughout the country. Today's modern Christmas tree ships are giant freighters inbound from China, where eighty percent of our artificial trees are manufactured...a lament for another time.

Each year in early December however, the Coast Guard cutter Mackinaw makes a special voyage in honor of Herman Schuenemann. She sails from northern Michigan to Chicago, with a load of Christmas trees for underprivileged families.

I'm sure Captain Santa would approve.

Porch Picker's Lament

3/4 G

We waited for bad news, 

cold there like statues. 

C

We prayed for so long on our knees.

D

How can I live?

How can I raise my kids, 

C

if they're closing down our factory? 

We closed up the gates for the last time. 

We talked of the times that we spent. 

We sat on the tailgates of our pickups.

We sang the porch picker's lament.

Am

First you roam, you roam,

D

then you find yourself a home.

Am 

You labor and you groan 

D

until the work is all gone,

Am

then you moan, you moan,

D 

you say you should have known,

Am                                    D                   

then you pack up your things and move on.

I'm kind to my neighbor. 

I trust in my savior. 

I've learned to rely on myself. 

I believe in we the people, 

and we're all created equal, 

or so says the papers on my shelf.

There are things left unspoken.

There are things that are broken. 

There are things that are just badly bent.

Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. 

Sometimes it's easy to stay silent. 

First you roam, you roam,

then you find yourself a home. 

You labor and you groan 

until the work is all gone,

then you moan, you moan, 

you say you should have known, 

then you pack up your things and move on.

There's blue and white collars

both chasing after dollars, 

Slaves to things they think make them free, 

but someday all that gold

will pave the streets I stroll,

at least that's what my Grandma told me.

Until then we'll wander,

then cross over yonder, 

and figure out what it all meant. 

We'll sit on the tailgates of our pickups, 

and sing the porch picker's lament.  

A Walk in the North Woods

One night I thought I'd disappear 

and walk amongst the elk and deer.

I had a load of stress to clear 

as autumn's chill was ever near

I thought about a trail I'd seen

where maples mixed with evergreen, 

from Vanderbilt to Wolverine 

My watch said it was ten fifteen. 

The Army taught a few things right, 

like how to cuss and how to fight, 

and you don't really need a light 

when walking through woods at night. 

I made it to the trail at last, 

extremely high and low on gas,

so caution to the wind I cast. 

I checked my watch as midnight passed. 

I wandered down the trail a ways

enveloped in a creepy haze,

when shafts of light in colored rays

set the path around ablaze.

I'm not a man for tales and lies.

I swear that there before my eyes 

an object spinning in the sky

looked like a tin for cherry pies.

Now every Michigander knows 

they planted pines in even rows,

and even in my panic throes 

I knew exactly where to go.  

I ran between the rows of pine, 

but stopped and turned to look behind, 

and some infernal root or vine

around my ankle did entwine. 

I almost had a heart attack 

I tripped and fell upon my back, 

and landed like a tater sack. 

A flashlight tumbled from my pack

Not much out there frightens me, 

but this one almost made me pee.

When I was finally safe and free 

my watch said it was five till three.

I sat there in bewilderment 

and wondered where three hours went. 

I thought of how that time was spent 

until my mind was warped and bent.

Now people think that I'm a creep.

I live alone and moan and weep,

'cause every time I try to sleep 

                                       I hear a little beep...beep...beep...beep...beep...beep...beep. 

No Retreat

Counting years has become important to us, my love. You continue to flourish and flower in the midst, and I love every new aspect of you. I can never find the words to adequately explain how I see you, but perhaps I can tell it this way....

An angel found a soldier, she walked out of the rain.
His armor had been sundered, he was grimacing in pain.
She knelt there right beside him, and lifted up his chin.
"Your story isn't ending, this is where the fight begins."

He shook his head and stammered, "There's nothing here to see.
The fight in me is finished now, there is no victory.
You'd be wise to run right now, we have no earthly chance,"
but she refused to listen, picking up his broken lance.

"I will not surrender sir, I will not run away.
There's no time left for pity, we've one more beast to slay."
He cried out cold and bitterly, "I don't think I can stand!"
She took his splintered lance and firmly pressed it in his hand.

before them rose a monster, insidious and foul
cloaked in clouds of anguish, with death behind its cowl.
It screamed in songs of mourning, with teeth of sharpened knives.
Behind it stretched a trail of broken hearts and shattered lives.

An angel found a soldier who had lost the means to fight.
She grasped him by his shoulders, and heaved with all her might.
with heaven's help she lifted, and got him to his feet.
There was nowhere to run to, there would be no retreat.

They stood there both together, she held him calm and steady.
The plague of fear subsided, they were resolute and ready.
The creature howled its challenge, intent to lay them low.
She whispered, "I can help, but you must strike the killing blow."


Tony Lollio 2018

Waltz of the Pilgrim

3/4 G

I'm dirty from my head to my toes, I'm dirty from my head to my toes.

     C                                G

I'm battered and bruised and there's holes in my shoes,

        D

I have only a few more miles to go.

It feels like the winter is done, feels like the winter's all done.

When the drifters all awaken from their long hibernation

and head west toward the warm setting sun.

Times when I felt all alone, Times when I felt all alone

Like I fought and I failed, and the other side prevailed 

So I laid down my guns and walked home

But I met a man on the street. I met a man on the street.

He was robbed, he was beaten, no stranger to mistreatment

He had holes in his hands and his feet 

    C                       G

The waltz of a pilgrim, it plays on and on

    C                            Em

To the sounds of my footsteps as they push me along.

    C                            G

The mud stains my pant legs as I dance to the song.

    C        D                G

I'm here for a while, then I'm gone


Tony Lollio 2018

Seeing Clearly

Prophecy beneath a dying moon

Hangs in the sky like a smoldering coal 

You've slept and dreamt in Enochian tongues

And risen to see clearly 

Never dreamt of looking away

resolute, rigid and standing your ground

daylight that blinds and gives way as it fades

over hallowed dirt and the bushes ablaze 

Gone now the haze that shrouded your path

vanquished the ghosts that swirled in the darkness 

You focus your gaze on the endless, the vast

The tomes of the scholars lie open

You won't hold back the blanket of shadow

that falls like the finest of charcoal ashes

but bathe in the breeze, the mysteries whispered 

only disturbed by the brake light flashes

Eyes that betray the indomitable soul

Lamps remain lit and wicks remain trimmed

You've been to the depths of the caverns below

                                                         And risen to see clearly

                                                          Tony Lollio 2018

A Raven story for my love

 You do love your symbology, and the Ravens do always speak to you in a language no one else understands, so let me tell you a raven story from the native people of the Pacific Northwest.

There was once an old man with a particularly ugly daughter. The old man went out to fetch water in the days when the world was completely devoid of light, and darkness consumed the universe. You see, the old man was so afraid of the world seeing his daughter, that he fashioned a box to capture the light. Inside he crafted another box, and inside it yet another, on and on until the very last, and smallest box, contained the very spark of light that lit the universe.

As the old man walked along, a tiny needle from a mighty pine dropped into the water he was carrying, and he took it to his ugly daughter and offered her a drink. She drank down the water, and with it the tiny needle, which was no ordinary needle at all. For Raven, the trickster, had disguised himself, and now began to grow inside of her.

The old man's ugly daughter gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, and the old man grew to love and embrace his grandson. In fact, he loved his grandson so much, that he gave the child anything he asked for. And so every day the boy would ask his grandfather to open just one of those boxes, and every day the old man would agree. Every day a box, until one day they reached the last, smallest box.

Just as the old man opened the last box, the boy revealed his true self, and Raven, the trickster, snatched the spark that lit the universe.  As he flew away with his prize, light was released into the world.  

So once again you and I, my love, look at the raven through another perspective. Once again we find relevance in its many symbolisms. There is a duality in Raven, the trickster who brought light into the world. I was selfish and deceitful, and you brought light everywhere you went. I became a better man when I was with you, and together we became a force of creation.

The light that you bring into the world sustains me, and our souls will fly together forever. Consider the Ravens......    

One magical night

Was it a good concert? I don't know, I don't really remember it that well. The important thing was that I was hanging out with her. I had never really liked Ann Arbor before I met her. Whenever we were together, though, the city seemed to come to life; less strange and quirky, and more vibrant and welcoming. I didn't feel different and out of place anymore, she had that effect on me.

 There was a milk crate full of old vinyl records sitting on the sidewalk. We stopped and dug through the entire collection, even though I'd never heard of any of the artists, and neither of us had a record player. Everywhere we walked was an adventure, and everything we found was treasure. Whatever plans we made were always an excuse to hit the streets. It was the walk that was magic. The concerts, museums, and restaurants may all fade from my memory; but I'll always remember the walks, the streets of Plymouth and Petoskey, Traverse City and Charleston, Detroit and....Ann Arbor.

 The sky was heavy and gray as we turned down Francis St. She never seemed to mind the rain. I, on the other hand, had pride in my ability to always find shelter at the last possible moment before the downpour. I couldn't forget, however, the day at the coffee shop when she walked right out into the storm. She left me standing there, cowering under the awning. I decided two things that day under the coffee shop awning; this girl was something very special, and I wasn't going to let her walk off alone in the rain ever again.

 The drizzle got steadier and heavier as we walked along Francis, until it seemed as though we were the only two people left on the street. The sound of the blues drifted toward us from a tiny alcove, where an immaculately dressed black man sat on a stool with an acoustic guitar. With no regard for the pouring rain, he sat licking the blues to no one, like he had been waiting for us. Our own private show! Suddenly, the concert we had just seen was forgotten, and we were dancing in the rain to the blues.

 To this day, I don't remember much about that concert. When I close my eyes, however, I can still see that man's gray suit and fedora. I can still hear the Memphis style of blues from his guitar. I can still feel my wet pant leg against my calves as we stomped in the puddles.

Sunday Morning

Have you ever awakened from a terrible dream, relieved to be safe in the comfort of reality? For me, the opposite is often true.

I am sitting in a folding chair in the sandy soil that lets you know you're up north. The breeze that comes off the big lake carries that aromatic symphony of decaying leaves, wood smoke and charcoal, sunblock and sweat. I'm in the shade of a copse of tall pines, their needles occasionally poking at my bare feet through the sand.

Behind me are several picnic tables, where members of my family are talking, laughing, bantering about politics or telling stories about the kids. Cabin doors are slamming, people coming and going, either preparing for a meal or cleaning up after one, I can't really tell.

The children are playing, running and chasing each other, or being chased by harmless yellow jackets attracted to the sticky sweet watermelon juice that covers their little faces and hands. Someone is crying from a serious injury that will be forgotten in five minutes, while someone else tries using a ball to dislodge another ball that is stuck in a tree.

It's all so vivid, so temptingly close. I grasp the arms of the chair and push myself up as I stand, feeling the grainy sift of sand between my toes. I take my first step when the world starts to spin and fade. I'm still standing in the sandy soil when I realize what's happening.

No, please don't go. Please......

I'm staring at the ceiling, back in my broken body prison cell, fighting back that first wave of panic and anguish that greets me most mornings. I tell myself to find a handhold, something to keep me from sliding off the edge into the abyss. Sometimes it's easier, but after nights of dreaming....

There's music drifting down the hallway. Kate is playing worship songs while she does housework. I concentrate on the lyrics as someone sings about how strong God is when they are weak and afraid. Someone else sings about an anchor that holds in the midst of a storm. I slowly slide to a stop on the rock face. I find a ledge and secure a foothold; now if I can just climb out. I hear a familiar old verse.

"Whatever befalls, you have taught me to say:

It is well, It is well with my soul."

It's time to start my Sunday.