The Story So Far
It was a hard birth, in an upper berth, to a woman named Bertha and a man named Bert. Sad that they were destined never to meet. I was adopted by a truly lovely couple, of a variety of extractions. Their roots were in olde England and New South Wales, and old southern Wales where stalwart farriers dug the obdurate coal out of the deep unyielding earth, where they put their shoulder to the wheel and their feet on the ground, their knees up and their hands to themselves; and colorful Bessarabia and drab Slovenia and Hungary and Brittany and Brindaban and Bhutan and Cathay and Mandalay and Hunan and Sichuan and Iowa and Ohio and Idaho and the Midwest, the Middle East and Middle Earth, and the hinterlands of the lowlands of the badlands of the Southland. And that is why, they said, they had the gift of gab and the wisdom of the ages and the patience of a saint and a nose for news and the good sense they were born with and hearts as big as all outdoors and eyes bigger than their stomachs and names to conjure with and a busman’s holiday and a cobbler’s eyetooth and a costermonger’s chance. As it happened, the couple who adopted me were also my biological parents, so it was almost as if it were fated. My progenitors were very rich and very poor, by turns and finally at the same time. I acquired skills, incredible and of no use. I kept them to myself. I profited by the labor of my hands and the skin of my teeth. I got a job, and then the job got me. I was a gofer. I wondered what to go for. You probably know what I went for. I gave them what for. I considered the consequences.
I sang like an angel. I danced like the wind. I talked too much. I talked too much. I talked too much. I talked too much. I reside in a modest house known locally as “The Estate” with my husband, my wife, my girlfriend, my boyfriend, my girlfriend’s boyfriend, my boyfriend’s girlfriend, my girlfriend’s boyfriend’s boyfriend, two sons, one daughter, one stepdaughter, two stepsons, a son-in-law, an outlaw son, a grandson, a great grandson, a not-so hot grandson, a layabout, a scoundrel, a wastrel, a mongrel, a rat, a bat, a cat, a dog, a hog, and a frog named Gog and Magog, with an azalea, a hydrangea, a camellia, and a bougainvillea, in a pergola festooned with wisteria, and in the front yard a single petunia, a begonia, forget-me-nots and love lies sleeping. I got the pergola because I’m a faygeleh.
My existence was aimless. My life had no direction. I lost my moral compass. I wandered lonely as a cloud. I came from outer space. I ate the air before me. The stars were my destination. I had reached the last outpost. My time had come. I studied history. I made history. I was history. I gave up the ghost. I cashed in my chips. I saw that all was vanity. I bought the farm. I wrote my memoirs:
I Didn’t Do it! . . . Or Did I? Present At My Autopsy My Life as a Beard—No, I Mean the Kind On Your Face How to Get Stains Out of Practically Everything . . . Except Your Heart That Time I Was on TV Hope for the Best and Spend Your Life Stewing in Disappointed Dreams Egg Salad for Two This is Not Your Father’s Egg Salad I Never Promised You an Egg Salad The Man from Hanukkah You Can’t Call It Brunch If You’re Eating Alone Nobody Knows the Minor Inconvenience I’ve Seen Money Cheerfully Refunded Upon Request.
I can tell you, of my own experience: Life is too short and moves too fast. The days succeed the nights, but the nights outlast the days. With dawn comes a reckoning. Night falls like a drunk stumbling down stairs. Day breaks like a twig in a strong man’s grip. Go out the door. Get out your handkerchiefs. Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain. Listen again. Look at the sky. Look at the earth. Look where you’re going. Look out for me. Stay out of my way. Write when you find work. Give me your blessing before you go. Be mine. Be there for me. Be yourself. Be someone else. I’ll catch you round the campus. I’ll see you in my dreams. I’ll be wherever you are. Lately some of my friends have been insisting that I’m actually dead, and have been for some time, but I think that’s just because I can be pretty hard to get in touch with. Where I come from—well, people just don’t come from there.
Dream of the Chestnut
Terence Winch tells this story about his mother giving him a lucky chestnut which he always keeps with him — elaborate buildup about his sainted mother, then he produces it from behind his ear, like a magic act. He emphasizes that he always has it on him.
I ask, Do you really believe it’s good luck?
He says, Nah, I guess not, and then throws it away, as far as possible, waits for the look on my face. Then I get it.
He then says he had the chance to show this to Liberace once, and after they laughed, Liberace said, Of course, it would be more interesting to hand them the chestnut, put them in the position of deciding what to do with it. Then every time you saw them, you could say, How’s the chestnut doing for you? Is it bringing you luck? Then: You still carrying that chestnut? Then eventually: I hope you haven’t tossed away that chestnut. My brother lost his and it isn’t pretty what happened to him. When the guy looks quizzical, you say: We never talk about it in my family.
Bernard Welt’s poetry has appeared widely in journals, art catalogs, and anthologies including The Best American Poetry. He started his education in poetry at the Mass Transit open readings and the Folio Books readings in Washington, DC, and in The Johns Hopkins University Writing Seminars. He has received a US National Endowment for the Arts Creative Writers Fellowship and a Lambda Book Award nomination.