“We come from the land of the ice and snow
From the midnight sun, where the hot springs flow
The hammer of the gods
We’ll drive our ships to new lands
To fight the horde, and sing and cry
Valhalla, I am coming!”
-Led Zeppelin, Immigrant (Toby’s) Song
“There is no set standard for what makes a warrior. You don’t have to be able to throw people over your shoulder or endure a fifty mile forced march. Being a warrior means living with courage and integrity, facing difficulties with dignity, and finding joy even in sorrow.” -Jennifer Lawler, Dojo Wisdom
“Put the oxygen mask on yourself first, then assist those around you.” -What’s her name, some airline, between somewhere over the rainbow and the dirty water.
Another day in the autumn of the shire. The misty mountains grow thick with with rising fog from the river valley, adding weight to the airy clouds above. Hanging in mid air, they neither move nor shift with the chill breeze on the hillside, giving the backdrop of this heaven slice an otherworldly appearance, as if to appear on a stage, hand-painted on canvas with 103 of its mates. Crisp morning air invigorating my already hyperactive nature, I plunge in headfirst, pulling a knit gray hat over my ears.
Not much raking or stick picking to be done today, I meander my way around the property to the berberis thunbergii. My thoughts return to the day before, high on maple pulling. I had found four woollybear caterpillars. Pyrrharctia isabella, or isabella tiger moth, is a farmer’s friend for predicting the oncoming winter weather. The little worms have 13 segments, either black or brown. One had 5 brown, the others 7 or 8. While there is not specific scientific data supporting the caterpillar’s ability to predict weather, only evidence to support that it reflects how long the former winter was. With the air getting colder by the day, it seems that it might be sooner rather than later that this impending cold season sets upon us for a long one. The landlord is taking measure of this poisonous betty, and I recognize the look of intent – take it out. In a flash, I return from the shed with barrow, shears, branch snips, axe, spade, garden shovel and two pairs of thick leather gloves. He clips, I trim and minimize, until the visible portion of the venomous berry is all but hidden from the road.
Aye, the stump. He looks, a bit dismayed, at the size and scope of this project, and starts with the axe into the center of the core. It’s a root ball, knotted and twisted with years of growth. We make no progress, the axe clunking in the middle of the gnarled knot of venomous wood. I suggest we take a softer route, unearthing it, rather than hacking it to pieces. An eyebrow raises in my direction, and I nod in return. Wrapping my gloved hands around the handle of the agricultural pick-axe, I sink one of the ends into the earth surrounding – it slides in with ease – and I pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull. Sink, pull.
sinking, pulling, unearthing root
venomous invader of my soil
pervasive penetration, unearth
The song echoing in my ears as through the halls of Darrowdelf, it only stops with a thunk at the thick thread of root shoot. Inside, it is the color of bile, and the scent is worse. I breathe through my mouth to keep breakfast in, and swallow carefully. The contents of my stomach are NOT coming up today, I think, but this root is. I follow each offshoot patiently, careful to not break the vine-like meandering. The landlord is quick to just yank it out and be done and set it into the burn pile. He is of a different mind on the root – the same one that has been cursing the tulip tree to hurry up and drop it’s leaves, and wondering why the pin oak isn’t just following suit, going so far as to shake the branches to test the tactile strength of the petiole. Hatchet, axe, and saw is the answer, but sometimes old oaks need to hang out with the thorny red fruit to learn, and vice versa. I won’t let him hurt himself on this one. He might have allowed it to grow, but he was not the one who planted it here, and he was certainly not the one in denial of it’s existence as it matured. He just saw a red berried plant because that is all he was knew or was allowed to see.
Squirrel.
These roots run in every direction, as do my thoughts at any give moment. With each trowel of this gargantuan anchor, I rock the heart to and fro, discerning from the resistance which way to continue digging. Some roots are smaller and thinner, others are thicker than my thumb and run underneath the driveway, and are forked. This focking bush really wanted to live! I am going to need something with a little more oomph than an axe to get under the pavement. A few roots have snapped in the process, and the landlord has just about had it with my painstaking removal. He does not understand – his age, attention and memory are wearing on him this day. I stand up to stretch my back, and he grabs the root-ball and heaves up. One root left, and it snaps off. I elicit an audible “Fuck” and start digging. This one goes under the Chokeberry nearby, and is wrapped around one of it’s larger roots. The landlord grabs the spade, I tell him no. Let’s not hurt this other plant. Not any more than we have to. I dig, and start to unearth the root, he tells me to stand back, and cuts it with the spade as high up as the vile root goes. The red plant will heal, he says. It has stronger roots. He mentions that there is another stump that was from something similar in the back behind the garage.
Lead me to it, I say.
We haul the barrow full down to the burn pile, and heap it onto the ever growing pile, then back up the hill to this hideous ball, four times the size of the one in front. I can see that he is already weary, but my vigor of pulling out the first has me full of energy for the next. He obliges. This plant on the south side had grown so large, that the wind had blown it clear through the back window of the garage. With the garden spade, I carefully start removing dirt from around this dried stump. With it’s branches long since cut off, this heart was just drying up in the setting autumn sun, but it was nothing that melting snow and spring rains wouldn’t awaken. Dig. Toss. Dig. Toss. Shovelful after shovelful. Something starts screaming, starting from C1 through L4, tense, crushing, pulling, twisting. I grimace, but this is a look some have come to understand as, she’s overdone it again. Fuck, am I stubborn. The Landlord is kind, mentions that he has pretty much had it for one day (he means five or six), and as far as he was concerned it could wait until spring when he could hook up the lawn mower to it with a chain and pull it down the hill. Some ice and snow may just be what is needed to get this now dormant root to wither and shrivel.
I oblige.
The next morning, I awake to two inches of snow covering the landscape. I can barely see the party tree, much less the hillside of the Proudfoots, Hornblowers, Maggots or Hoggs. Thank you, Jesus! The landlord states he is getting too old for this shit, but I giggle and stuff my still broken foot into my shoe. I go outside with sleepy hair to check on the rosebush. The snow crunches softly underfoot. Buds are glistening with ice even in the morning overcast, and the open flowers are frosted in crystals, but still pliant and supple inside, deep dark red as freshly drawn blood. I give the fullest blossom an eskimo kiss, parting the petals with my nose, and it kisses back, velvety and sweet. Ah, you are gorgeous, dear flower. Your scent will fill my sinuses all day. I catch the pile out of the corner of my eye that we left behind the garage. The mound looks like chocolate cake mix covered with icing, but I know better. Nothing more I can do today, except shovel off the walkways and make sure no one slips. That’s okay, I love the cold. I can go outside in below zero temperatures without a jacket, even if the clouds are covering the sun, and still smile and be happy. I think again of the woollybears that I had nestled under leaves and at the bottoms of trees. I hope they are alseep. Next year’s crop will produce nearly all brown bears.
It’s gonna be a doosie. Hold my beer.
“Winter is Coming” – Ned Stark
With the angels of the night.
Crack wind clatter flesh rein bite
On an out-size unicorn.
Rough-shod winging sky blue flight
On a cold wind to Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
Breakfast with the gods. Night angels serve
With ice-bound majesty.
In a cup of silver liquid fire.
Moon jet brave beam split ceiling swerve
And light the old Valhalla.
Come join with us please
Valkyrie maidens cry
Above the cold wind to Valhalla.
The heroes rest upon the sighs
Of Thor’s trusty hand maidens.
Midnight lonely whisper cries,
‘We’re getting a bit short on heroes lately.’
Sword snap fright white pale goodbyes
In the desolation of Valhalla.
And join with us please
Valkyrie maidens ride
Empty-handed on the cold wind to Valhalla.”
A Walk In Neverland 