Not Proust

A Remembrance of Childhood Past

I was only eight, perhaps nearing nine. Mother in hand, my hand in mother's hand. We tramped muddy back roads and rutted country lanes and mouldy woods in search of grasses. Me, diving eagerly beneath every brambly rabbity hedge or piney copse, scrambling up sandy banks held together by Hawthorn roots and blackberries, tiptoeing into fetid bull frog marshes awash with swamp-loving snakes, ready to grab every turgid green stem I saw. We searched on more than one day, or perhaps not, maybe it was only one long day. I recall we scoured the edges of pig pens and goat fields, sheep nibbled pastures and all the odd neglected cabbage, rutabaga and pea fields we could find. Toward the end of the day we climbed slowly up the Snipes, a balding hillock where a few years later my cousin David would find evidence of early Roman occupation and then use his discovery as the theme for a float in an annual school parade, but I don't think we discovered any Italian grasses to add to our collection.

But the collection of grasses. It was a school assignment, perhaps a science fair, with coloured ribbons to be awarded, and untold prestige heaped on the winner. I suppose the ribbons were Blue, Red, and White, what other colours could they be? Green? I worked hard. My mother worked harder, much harder, she always worked harder, but I think she was used to it. It was my mother who carefully carried the grassy stems I had plucked or clipped (with what I know not) in her billowing dress, or was it a paper bag? (Perhaps a bag that once carried hot chestnuts, or baked potatoes, or licorice allsorts) But, whatever the means we managed them home safely. The contest, as I remember, was to see who could collect the largest number of different grasses. We had worked hard, very hard. Then, after the sun had set my mother and I sat in the front parlor, or else in the kitchen beside the hob, and arranged what I had collected in a glass vase, or perhaps only a tin cup, but it was full, overflowing, crowded. I looked at it, how could anyone else have ferreted out so many different genera and species I thought, though I doubt I used those terms?

On the day of exhibition I confidently placed my collection of grasses on the display table beside the others. Glancing quickly at the other contenders I thought there was no possibility of my failing to take home the most important, brightest ribbon, whatever colour it might be.

After the judges had ooh'd, ahh'd and coo'd for a very long time they eventually chose a winner.

It wasn't me. I had been disqualified.

My collection of grasses, they said, would have easily been the undisputed winner, but, I had included a sedge.

Promises, Promises

or, some notes regarding Trout Creek Press and the Dog River Review.

Every year around this time I promise to organize the chaos in my studio, a workspace that unfortunately has come to resemble an abandoned storage unit. Each year the clutter multiplies and further restricts movement; there is little room to work, even in miniature. But, this year things will be different, I promise.

Much of the tidy mess is comprised of boxes of the Dog River Review (1982–1995), and copies of the thirty-one plus chapbooks I published between 1984 and 1996 under the Trout Creek Press imprint. But every time I think I have at last reached the point where I can take a pragmatic approach to dealing with this accumulation, I turn away. How can I simply dump them in the recycling bin? I can’t, and so for years I’ve been shuffling them from one shelf to another, lifting the cartons into the rafters, or stacking them one on top of the other until they threaten to crush themselves into oblivion, but not this Spring, I promise.

So, a list of what’s available seems like a logical beginning, if only to know what I might be throwing away. I know copies of the Dog River Review are out there, all except number one. And I know other early issues are in limited supply. Of the chapbooks, who knows? Of some there are an embarrassing number, others only a handful, and a few most likely unavailable. Here’s the list:

Dog River Review, # 2 (1982) thru #28 (1995)

1984
The Peter Poems and Other Disgraces – Joseph Semenovich
1985
Twenty-one Waking Dreams – Roger Weaver
1986
10/170 – Connie Fox
1987
What Are You Doing - Robert D. Hoeft
In The Compass of Unrest – Sheila Nickerson
No Difference – Fritz Hamilton
Against All Wounds – Judson Crews
Red Hair and the Jesuit – Lyn Lifshin
1988
Wanted! – Arthur Winfield Knight
On the Rack – Gerald Locklin
1989
Secret Affinities – Terence Hoagwood
1990
Measuring Time – David Chorlton
1992
Tales and Declarations – Bruce Holland Rogers
Entre Nous – Connie Fox
De La Palabra – Sam Silva
Body Bags – Nathaniel Tarn
Sweet Harvest On – Sam Silva
Glass Wall – Phoebe Grigg
1993
Vito & Zona – Wilma Elizabeth McDaniels
Love Against the Grey Winter Mean – Sam Silva
The Human Flower – David Chorlton
1994
Traveler’s Advisory – Steven Sher
The F. S. Whinkla Interview
Coffeebreak Poems – Steven Hartman
The Water Under Fish – Leslie Leyland Fields
1995
Reality Sandwiches – R. M. Host
Art As Anyone’s Salvation – Sam Silva
Making A Sacrifice Like Art – Sam Silva
Orbits – Brett Hursey
1996
Lex*i*con – Robert Rucker
Life flight – Robert Rucker

1989
Lands of Frost and Stars (cassette tape) – David Chorlton

If anyone is interested in purchasing any of the above, or desires more information, they can email me at: lhawkins@hrecn.net. I do realize that eventually they will have to be worse than remaindered, but for a few more months I will continue to move the cartons around like a game of musical chairs. Someday the music will abruptly stop.

Perhaps I can persuade Whinkla to help.