Thursday, January 28, 2010

Cold Hands

Cold Hands
(by R.P.Edwards)

Cold is cool
When way too hot
But unwelcome cold
Is really not
So keep your frozen hands
At bay
Don’t touch my bod
In any way
For if you do
I’ll memory keep
And wait for “your”
So toasty sleep
And with “my” frozen fingers
So keep your ice cubes
Off my bod!

Over the years he had been known by many names; John the giant, John the great, John the gentle, but, to those in the northernmost headquarters of  “Fish and Game,” he was simply known as, John.  He was, without question, the most successful poacher of the artic fox and the Alaskan marmot and, although most in the bureau gave him a pass (and a wide berth) --as much for his amazing knowledge of topography and survival skills, as for his inoffensive search for a little pocket change to support his habit of chewing tobacco and gin--, there was always the “new guy” who wanted the feather and so, Ronny, the transplant from the lower forty-eight, went on a “John” hunt and, by golly, he found him.

It was a long walk back to the wardens snow cat and, with the old, and rather round “poacher” off to his left (no resistance given, a few pelts hanging from his belt) John veered ever so slightly to one side as they walked a frozen river to save a little time. “John!,” bellowed the near-teen, “this way!”  That’s all he had time to say for, as the trapper knew (and only assumed that anyone venturing this far north would know) there was a thinning of the ice where one stream met another.  Crack! Kersplash! And, a moment later, a deep guttural grunt as the “criminal” lifted the young man up from certain death.  A few minutes later, as time and subzero temperatures would cause frostbite to claim at least some of the fingers of the novice, John ripped the gloves from the popsicle and then thrust the icy hands inside his own thick coat, one under each arm, skin to skin.  And…there they stood…face to face…for the ten minutes need for the thaw.  Two hours later, after sharing some cooked rabbit by a robust fire (and a shot of “fire” for the innards), the warden bid John adieu, and never again sought him out, or tolerated a word against him. 

It was the water-pump.  I poked my head under the car and followed the water.  I had hoped for a hose, but it was merely the launching point for the water streaming from the weeping organ.  Ugh, another new experience.  So, with the aid of my daughters fiancé (heck, he did most of it), we took the thing apart and purchased a new pump.  The next day, as I struggle to remove the lower hose (thought I might as well replace it), the freezing temperatures (no garage) and the soaking of coolant, caused my little digits to cry out for warmth.  So, I got up, went in the house and, seeing my fifteen year old son warm and toasty at the crack of noon, I removed his quilt and placed my frigid fingers on “John’s” hot chest.  Immediately I got his attention, but he didn’t scream or even protest (other than the look in his eyes and the slight quivering of the six foot three frame).  After a minute I had a proposal.  “I tell you what, son.  I’ll let you stay in bed if you allow me to warm my hands on you every few minutes.”  He got up.

That's what I think.  How about you?  Click comments below...and say.

1 comment:

justaddmidget said...

That poem is a good one.