Longing for North

It's hot here still. Like 100 degrees everyday hot. Our A/C has been hit and miss since last week. It is over 90 in my office during the afternoon most days. I'm sick of it. Sick of the heat. Sick of the dry. Sick of the flat boringly mundane beiges, tans and sandstone colors. We had a torrential downpour and subsequent flood and apart from the destruction,it was marvelous, marvelous I say. The desert was alight with life, puuuuuurples not plain purples. And green, oh green, how I've missed your verdant liveliness. All that life. I'm am not a desert dweller. Nothing in my midwestern upbringing has prepared me to face this day in and day out, unrelenting. The mountains, they are beautiful, but are missing something, something that other mountains have, oh there it is, a tree line. yes, trees, or rather, here, no, no trees, treeless. arborial less.

A lone poor bison. Buff. Ta Tonka. Alone. in the heat of the sun. Why?! How?! I want to free him from his pen but to where, dry desert death until he becomes a bleached empty erratic skull creating question marks of their own. Better he suffer with hay and hose than dessicated in the sun.

Northern climes. I dream of northern climes. Fall creeping in to turn greens to a rainbow of autumnal beauty. Good burnt oranges, not the bright ones of Vols and Tigers, but of pumpkins jack o'lanterns. Deep bloody reds. Even jaundiced yellows still clinging boldy to summers carefree happiness and photosynthic sweetness. Glorious. Gently falling to create a soft crispy blanket muffling the hardening ground then natures murmurs crawling to a crescendo of raspy cocktail  voices windswept. Warmth giving way inch by inch to pillowy cooling rains and angry booming storms drowning out the last gasps of long days and warmer nights.

This place pales in comparison. Boring continuity. Hot with a chance of hot followed by, well, more hot. It's football season for goodness sake, where are the crisp nights of warm drinks, the scarves, the hats and knitted gloves. Where, I ask, where?!!!

Poet Laureate of the North

The Cremation of Sam McGee

By Robert W. Service 1874–1958

 

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.