Buffalo friend…one of a kind. Strength and unity in self and herds. Upholder of the right. P. Ferguson image, June 2021.
One Buffalo More
Once – short days ago there was a pickup truck fitted with bells and whistles as creature comforts are required for any long haul. This is the nature of driving across Canada through all seasons.
However, with this one truck was the growing clutter of ornaments, pins and amusements that filled the dash and visor of long driving days. Mostly they were buffalos (correct term Bison…but not here). Perhaps reminders of the range…the prairie…certainly fun…and perhaps so too recollections of the buffalo centerpiece worn for many years, Maintiens le Droit.
They were small and medium…not too large (as I recall) and when we rolled, our buffalo friends shared the journey in the great banter of the time. Perhaps it was a way of home running alongside the truck as the landscape changed. Laughter, humour, …the way of things…until one day…11 June 2021…we became one buffalo less.
A week to the day had passed and as I wandered through Sidney in pursuit of blueberry strudel (my buffalo friend would have enjoyed these too) I happened upon a small china Wade buffalo – just like one (of several – I seem to recall a herd) from my friends’ truck. And so it was to be that Wayne (my buffalo’s name) has returned to the range…one buffalo more.
To my dear friend Wayne Cline…may the road rise up to meet you… P. Ferguson image, June 2021.
Go away somewhere all bright and new. P. Ferguson image, May 2021.
In Search of Wildflowers
It’s the set piece to the day…a little wander…a little goodness…happiness, smiles and laughter with friends. As the goodly blend of Americano satisfies and the lemon blueberry crumbles towards oblivion – slightly above the din of machines and banter of snacking folk…are familiar chords…familiar expression…
Sail away. Thistle and powdered wings. P. Ferguson image, Gallipoli, June 2012.
My ears, unable to distinguish the poet’s voice from the murmurings of mechanical and inflectional clamourings, requires technology to capture the refrain, while sparrows bounce between crumbles. I walk towards the jukebox as verse and chorus rise to my recognition providing thoughts for my later day. I am in search of wildflowers…let your heart be your guide.
You belong in a boat out at sea. P. Ferguson image, Malta, March 2011.
The trail is good, a way to sail from thought to thought, petal to petal as I follow elevations and contours, amidst the gnarled bend of branches with soft green beards of lichen, leaf, and creeper. I am not an only one here this day. One wonders what others see amongst the stone and trees, the flora and fauna of the trail. Some perch to laughter, to watch, to love, to chatter, to look above – you belong somewhere you feel free.
You belong somewhere you feel free. P. Ferguson image, Tabraxia, Malta, March 2011.
Here amidst the colour a line or three for one. Within my thoughts the voice of a heartbreaker, walks upon my trail. One voice to another…laughter, love, watchful…I have found my wildflowers – while sparrows bounce between crumbles.
Wildflowers Thomas Earl Petty
You belong among the wildflowers You belong in a boat out at sea Sail away, kill off the hours You belong somewhere you feel free
Run away, find you a lover Go away somewhere all bright and new I have seen no other Who compares with you
You belong among the wildflowers You belong in a boat out at sea You belong with your love on your arm You belong somewhere you feel free
Run away, go find a lover Run away, let your heart be your guide You deserve the deepest of cover You belong in that home by and by
You belong among the wildflowers You belong somewhere close to me Far away from your trouble and worries You belong somewhere you feel free You belong somewhere you feel free
Thanks Mr. Petty for 1:42 Wildflowers. P. Ferguson image, May 2021.
The bronze rabbit and the iron horse. Do you know your purpose? P. Ferguson image, April 2021.
Time for the Trail
…and the bronze rabbit asked the iron horse, “Do you remember what you are?” No said the rusted monument, “That for which I was made is now long aged and the words no longer spoken nor the knowledge to understand my markings read…”
…and the iron horse asked the bronze rabbit “Do you know your purpose?” To which the bronze rabbit responded, “All I know is I am of the family Long Ears. If I am one of their kind or in remembrance of them all I do not know”. The passage of time claims so many things.
One by one monuments have passed from our memories. Old works more appreciated for art than purpose…because who was there now to know? The bronze rabbit and the iron horse so near to one and other…and of different eras…one knowing something of itself but for the other all of its kind no longer of this plain. Time claims its representations piece by piece.
On all of our many roads we pass by – that which once was known and – that which all purpose is known. A bit of time perhaps…to walk our trails with shorter footsteps…to develop an acute sense of place…to savor time with a forgotten creation…standing before the only representation of their kind. Who were these identities? What was their spoken word? But it was still to be that as time passed the bronze rabbit no longer remembered its family Long Ears and the Iron Horse’s rust fragmented into the ground.
Who will be our champions to remember us? Methinks it is time for the trail…to find my own rabbits and horses.
Footfall towards Mill Road, near Thiepval, Somme, France P. Ferguson image, April 2007
I’m Only Going Over Jordan I’m Only Going Over Home
Measured as the amount of foot traffic in a given area, or as my interested understanding prefers…the footstep and footsteps [of this road]. Each step across home, wilderness, and open space…the sounds – gentle or trudging, demure or obvious, searching and hopeful…cautious and hopeful. These are the steps we take on our obligations and desires, or on our footloose whimsical or conscious tessellated paths of interest and exploration. With each footfall new existence…the chance to see.
The footfall of soldier statues. The Response, Canadian National War Memorial, Ottawa P. Ferguson image, August 2005
This day the virtual auditions continue. I steadily regenerate through song and track, one recording follows another…some play mere seconds, others stop at intermittent intervals, at the chorus, the bridge…the end…I am done…judge and juror we remain hopeful. All are worthy yet who shares today’s thoughts with me? How is it that I feel these sounds…these voices…these thoughts? Today’s talent (in random order) – Tom Petty, Duane Allman, Jimi Hendrix, Jesca Hoop, Kris Kristofferson, Steve and Lilly Winwood, Velvet Revolver, Willie Nelson, Lyle Lovett, John Prine, James Gang, Yo-Yo Ma and James Taylor.
Footfall leading to Cosy’s Bunker, Juno Beach, Normandy, France P. Ferguson image, September 2009
A few minutes and more – all in which a songwriter has, to hold our hearts. We have heard their passages as the ambiance of our productions and exhibitions, at our events, celebrations and passings. Their words, their music can be the sum of all things to a film…three minutes as summation to 90 minutes or more. Today who is it that I will choose as I recall my footfall?
Footfall. A Great War German’s soldier’s footprint atop a bunker P. Ferguson image, September 2006
With my words today and amidst all those of the auditioned virtual performers another reminder appears- one gentle voice above all others. A scene – a creek – a wood and other foot-fallers. Of quiet times in the field and of a solitary tree and cathedrals resonant of my paths…and oh how these reminders – what so I wanted to use…footfalls…searching and cautious, hopeful…a cathedral of the forest…one voice speaks to all… a poor wayfaring stranger.
Schofield stops on the edge of the clearing. Unsettled by the world before him. Unsure if these men are living or dead. If he is one of these ghosts. (1917. Script written by Sam Mendes and Krysty Wilson-Cairns, p. 97)
And like Schofield I close my eyes. Done.
Schofield and the Poor Wayfaring Stranger. 1917. Sam Mendes Director (2019).
Poor Wayfaring Stranger American Folk and Gospel, ca. early 19th Century Performed by Jos Slovick in the film 1917
I am a poor wayfaring stranger I’m travellin’ through this world with woe Yet there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger In that bright land to which I go I’m going there to see my father I’m going there no more to roam I’m only going over Jordan I’m only going over home I know dark clouds will gather round me I know my way is rough and steep But golden fields lie just before me Where God’s redeemed shall ever sleep I’m going home to see my mother And all my loved ones who’ve gone on I’m only going over Jordan I’m only going over home I am a poor wayfaring stranger I’m travellin’ through this world of woe Yet there’s no sickness, toil, nor danger In that bright land to which I go I’m going there to see my father I’m going there, no more to roam I’m only going over Jordan I’m only going over home
Between Rock and Russell – names marked Robertson, Robson, Ross,…clues to the clover? pp. 188-189. R. Ferguson image, February 2021.
I Count the Petals
There is a book that I have, a history of the Fourth Canadian Infantry Battalion…I think about it often…not so much for the printed words but for something fragile within.
Acquired many years ago as a ready reference it was not until the later evening whilst sifting through its pages that a collection of four-leaf clovers revealed themselves…Here amongst someone’s book…someone’s time amongst the finery of life. Perhaps times shared with another in the meadow, small conversation at hand, the kindness of hopeful love, together with the gentle calm of each other. Surely a spring day…I count the petals again and again.
The Records of the Fourth Canadian Infantry Battalion. A home to names and clover…memories in distant fields. R. Ferguson image, February 2021.
Some Nights Might Feel Cold and Dark
The day before Rosemary told me there is a song to hear, something important that would remind me of the things we will look back upon and smile. At the time I was hesitant in the moment…it’s something I must listen to…and still it’s the more to be done and the time apart to which I have become concerned and too focused upon. The night passes…the snow begins to melt…
It’s An Early Start
Chatter with Rosemary first thing in the morning…always good…I will enjoy today. After navigating the plowed lanes of snow-bound roads I patrol the aisles for foodstuffs. Having found the largest of Americanos I return to the car wondering will the one cleared parking spot be available to me when I return? It is meant to be carving my path into the clearing and after wrangling carrier bags laden with the day’s bounty into the pantry and cold storage…it comes.
Give it a chance…sit down and have a listen…Rosemary said I needed to hear this…and now several listens later…there is something I have heard…my four-leaf clovers…pennies though tarnished were once bright and shiny…the luck still remains…the hard roads are the ones worth choosing…starting over. And the marks in the book?…All soldier’s names of the 124th….all from 1916…names once known to one soldier…the reader of this book…the keeper of the petals. I count the petals again and again.
Starting Over, music and lyrics by Chris Stapleton. 2020.
Well the road rolls out like a welcome mat To a better place than the one we’re at And I ain’t got no kinda plan But I’ve had all of this town I can stand And I got friends out on the coast We can jump in the water and see what floats We’ve been saving for a rainy day Let’s beat the storm and be on our way
It don’t matter to me Wherever we are is where I wanna be And, honey, for once in our life Let’s take our chances and roll the dice I can be your lucky penny You can be my four-leaf clover Starting over
This might not be an easy time There’s rivers to cross and hills to climb Some days we might fall apart And some nights might feel cold and dark When nobody wins afraid of losing And the hard roads are the ones worth choosing Some day we’ll look back and smile And know it was worth every mile
It don’t matter to me Wherever we are is where I wanna be And, honey, for once in our life Let’s take our chances and roll the dice I can be your lucky penny You can be my four-leaf clover Starting over Starting over
It don’t matter to me Wherever we are is where I wanna be And, honey, for once in our life Let’s take our chances and roll the dice I can be your lucky penny You can be my four-leaf clover Starting over Starting over
Silence on my radio. P. Ferguson image, February 2021
Waiting…meandering through my thoughts…
…so much to do…so many places to roam. No gentle breeze or harsh wind to remind me of any motion. No way to go…the sound of strangers sends nothing to my mind…silence on my radio.
Where can I turn?
And in the seeking…the once heard words of one in contemplation…a speaker from afar. A younger representative clad in black seeking rejuvenation that their order might not fade away. Such words, such thoughts in search of the path. And after much contemplation what did this younger find? Not so much what they need be – but what they are within themselves. Thinking not outside the box but finding “their” relevance in the messages not beyond their walls. What once they were and can still be? Not outside the box….within…within. And yet, what is it they choose from their walls…that speaks to all lives within their pages and reach?
When the Wind Blows
Old ideas and thoughts come across the horizon to be here again with me this night. What once was, has remained all along…these old friends upon my inner tide. No longer drifting but lapping at the shoreline. There was a time…one chord to the next…the platter spins, the vinyl delivers. When the wind blows…I can see them all again…friends through the years…tunes of our time…memories of other days. I find my path…I am all I need be this day and the next…In the window there’s a face you know…flow Paul flow…
Moonlight Mile, Written by Mick Jagger, Keith Richards. With Mike Taylor, Bill Wyman, Charlie Watts, Jim Price, Paul Buckmaster (The Rolling Stones)
Mud on the trail…a field of the Ypres Salient, Belgium P. Ferguson image, September 2017
Pen and Key
The quiet suggests a slight hint of echo within my ears. They too…like all of self are searching, my mind races towards an endless sea of pages, facing not upwards but viewed from their edges. Within the constant turning only the blur of ideas. No story…no pictures…only endless notes posted haphazard to a mind board…these legs need to journey.
My eyes stumble time and time again…is this just more of the same? This observer of history’s reminders and remainders is stymied. Our constant companion the menace of the time lurks…no menace wanted here…and so the pages of my virtual book of ideas continue to flip. Surge no surge. Nothing anchors within…only the drag of a chain and flukes seeking a foundation.
I have watched Ted Talks (Andrew Stanton) about clues to a great story, chosen to watch John Carter (2012) and channeled Edgar Rice Burroughs; The 39 Steps (1935) but these are not the steps I seek; V for Vendetta (2005) – a menace here too…interesting but no path for my musings;…The Red Baron (2008) soaring but wanting; and The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943) – intriguing but mostly in its brief treatment of the Blitz.
I come to realize that my usual treasury of resources is not delivering…film, sound and soundtrack, the words of others…all require my own journeys to find connection, similar and dissimilar…joys of discovery. These legs need to journey…finding the places and things that bring all together…when resources are easier at hand and the pen and key become willing partners again. Still have I missed something…I still haven’t found what I am looking for and yet here I am…
Published this same day Pipes of War website, 16 January 2021
Amidst the snowfall a bit of colour for all. P. Ferguson image, December 2020.
…and so finally we have a different day.
After so much of the same…this day at long last is not the perpetual Groundhog Day with and without shadows. Today the sky streams white as the snow-white freckles dance from the sky to find our ground and heights about. Today is a good day.
Soon the snow turns to frozen fingers of frost. P. Ferguson image, December 2020.
As I watch the accumulation build I continue with a steady review of spy, hobbit and Christmas films. Finding the background (sometimes the foreground) in each…Guinness signs and EIIR portraits, cheeses and dishware, butterflies and rings, ties and quotations, umbrellas and pocket handkerchiefs. Yes today is a very good day.
Though usually one to grimace at the site of the falling white boundary of earth’s weather, today I do not mind, though tucked up well with comestibles and beverages, I have had to venture forth, asking how did I lose my fancy of these falling feathers of white, when toes seemed to freeze on the outdoor frozen rinks and waters of Dartmouth. Where hockey was played till the wee hours and yet again I won or lost the Stanley Cup.
Regardless I will have to find the image(s) that will bring this day forward. Let it snow…today is a fine day to feel the tickle of snowflakes upon my person…it’s a different day…a fine day for P.E. hot chocolate and….boots not oxfords.
A welcome cliche…winter is coming, but we have a different day!! P. Ferguson image, December 2020.
A walnut upon the floor…Christmas temptation for the goodly mouse Wantmore!
AS2
Threadbare had lain within the trunk for umpteenth years. Somewhat patchwork with a kitten chewed ear Threadbare now rested amongst folded blankets and playful things – long ago filled with the imagination of once upon a time. Years faded one to another and time had added little warmth to Threadbare’s now odd body form, since last held by loving arms. Passed through a family of children Threadbare’s name had changed often…until he had become Threadbare in the goodly mouse Wantmore’s Bailey family attic.
The non-mouse Clarence Bailey lifted the trap to hoist himself upwards to this storage world of past, present and current needs. The attic received the light from below…dim yet producing a magical sepia toned galaxy of a treasured past. Surely as Carter fell upon the riches of an ancient world, “Can you see anything?…Yes wonderful things!”
The face of Tutankhamun…The gold mask of Tutankhamun is held by the Egyptian Museum, Cairo.
As Clarence entered Wantmore scampered towards a familiar den. The time was upon the season, a chance to grow fatter amongst the bits of dark Christmas cakes and assorted treats that fell to the floor. Wantmore’s time would be soon, perhaps a drop or two of sweet drink beside the bits of cake? Wantmore loved this time of the non-mice. As Clarence stooped amongst the boxes he turned to the family trunks. Unlatching the first Clarence lifted the sword (a mameluke) and thought upon his ancestor who passed across the fields of Waterloo. Though proud of his ancestor Clarence considered the hurt once caused. Such a time he thought as he returned the sword near to Wantmore’s (and Clarence’s) pictures. And yet again our goodly mouse, this day, remained undiscovered.
At the second trunk Clarence raised the bear he knew as Henry but to Wantmore this bear had long been called Threadbare. Clarence hugged his old friend and sat upon the floor recalling their adventures and so too his mother…past Christmas…past feast…and past story. Clarence’s mother had often read to him, sometimes of a Velveteen Rabbit…the pain of becoming Real…the pain of love. Wantmore observed…was this the taste of salt that ran from this non-mouse’s eyes?
The goodly bear had lain within his trunk…his name had changed often.
Timeless memories and hope as watery droplets were slipped away with Margery’s bell calling for Clarence. Wantmore understood “Real isn’t how you are made…it’s a thing that happens to you. It takes a long time.” Wantmore smiled a little mouse smile knowing he could still visit with his old Real friend…as Clarence cradled his bear, this Henry, this Threadare to the loving warmth of the non-mice in the downstairs. Was this the taste of salt that ran from this mouse’s eyes?
AF1
You always fuzzy even if a little threadbare from wear you always my bear. (RMA)
Cast
Wantmore as himself
Tutankhamun souvenir brought from Egypt ca. 1960
Leonard as our Threadbare and Henry
All images by P. Ferguson, December 2020
Merry Christmas to one and all…mouse and non-mice!
That his presence was known was not known unto him. His life was his attic. Here within the trunk he lived in the leather boot from Waterloo. That more than 200 years of history was its continuum, Wantmore did not mind…the boot was home. Within the trunk the medal lay…as to its significance – of no concern to this mouse. He liked it…for Wantmore it was shiny. A mameluke amidst these olden things would be desired by many, but in Wantmore’s space it hurt…it was sharp. Best to stay away.
Wantmore seldom chewed through the wool of the tunics. They were warm as they were…though the papers of the time suffered as Wantmore enjoyed scruffling through newsprint…he enjoyed the sound, shredding and texture. Wantmore however, left alone the images of the aged soldiers. These non-mice were his gallery…portraits of lost experience with which he could arrange to his liking…sideways, this way up, that way round.
At Christmas each year, the non-mice family returned to the low gables of the attic in search of tree and ornaments. It was a noisy time. Wantmore watched and waited…soon there would be green, red and blue glowing crystal lights – crumbs of cakes and cheeses, sugary things and goodness to chew.
It was Christmas…temptation this time of year would take him downstairs after their feast. In the dark Wantmore would clean up after the non-mice and then in his fullness would return to his attic.
Though Wantmore did not know this day as Christmas, he enjoyed the day as one of seemingly goodly things and kindness. Within his boot from Waterloo, Wantmore cuddled within his shreddings…drifting off to sleep, never knowing that more than most he knew Christmas well…not one of wanting, but just having the day itself.
Merry Christmas to one and all…mouse and non-mice!
Previously published Pipes of War website, 22 December 2019
