DECEMBER 7, 2017 // 7
Books, gardening, hiking, hobbies,
recreation, personalities, travel & more
CLOSE TO HOME
The storms of November, the call of conversation
sometimes recollections of peace
or discussions of the Civil Rights
Movement. Vietnam came and went,
and so did Richard Nixon. We landed
on the moon. Khrushchev died. So did
Ronald Reagan. Jimmy Carter made us
proud as a retiree. (Thank God he is still
inspiring.)
So much passed around that oak table,
the same one that even now resides in the
Shelburne Inn. And the good doctor might
just as well have posted a tent sign that
insisted, “Contribute or else!”
By DAVID CAMPICHE
FOR COAST WEEKEND
‘T
’was the witch of November come
stealin.’”
So says Gordon Lightfoot in
his famous ballad “The Wreck of the Ed-
mond Fitzgerald.”
It may have been too rough to feed the
sailors on that doomed coal ship, but our
luck, this blustery November, was that the
gang from the evening before hung on,
and we ate a satisfying breakfast. And then
pleasant conversation came with a chorus
of wind and rain, making a “tattle-tale
sound” and rattling the 120-year-old win-
dow panes.
Several of us sat around a round oak
table in the cozy dining room at the
Shelburne Inn, drinking gallons of black
coffee and eating Porcini omelets, talking
and talking, while the rain poured, and
the north wind blew ferociously. We were
surrounded by rain clouds, but we were
content.
A klatch of poets
Robert Michael Pyle is the Walt Whit-
man of southwest Washington. He is a
man of steady, careful words. His skill of
observation is unrelenting. His collection
of published books numbers more than 20
and grows each year.
Some people call him a genius, but
most of us just call him “Bob.” His keen
eyes follow his keen words, and an intel-
ligent man will listen carefully, as Pyle
himself does, filtering knowledge like a
Willapa oyster, separating micro plasm
from brine. He is a man with an effusive
personality and a penchant for detail.
His partner, Florence Sage, is a fine
poet and performance artist. Her words
spill like quicksilver rain. She always
knows how to light up a crowd — mostly
small rendezvous, because poetry gather-
ings tend to be small. But then, Florence is
larger than life.
Steve Caskey — the third contributor
to the previous night’s performance — is
a pastor from the small village of Morton
below the mighty shadow of Mt. Rainer.
He loves adventure, running, climbing
and the sculpted word. He brought a
story about stones, chisels and a reborn
Another cup of
coffee for the road
DAVID CAMPICHE PHOTOS
Beth Caskey, left, and her husband, Steve Caskey
cathedral. His story
and slide show were
enlightening. Though
a Christian pastor, he
endorses the teachings
of other masters. He is
a wonderful listen-
er. His wife, Beth,
is a teacher of four
decades and describes
education as a journey
Robert
and not a race. Let me
Michael Pyle
just say that the hu-
man circle around that
19th century table was invigorating.
So, what goes on when the winds
turn around and the storms of November
come racing? Well, that all spells out why
poets and friends add to the richness of
our community and to the enlightenment
of our souls. They talk and share, laugh
and smile and, sometimes, beguile. Roar,
storm, roar!
Feed your head
Yes, good talk is rich.
So is a writer’s community that fills in
several hours talking about cedar trees,
miracles and the state of the union. And
authors. Books of rare, distinguished
revelations, and more
common ones — so
be it! Read, read, read.
And food. Always,
food. Food for the
body, food for the
mind.
I wish you were
with us that November
morning, because love
and friendship can
Florence
be as simple as warm
Sage
casual conversation —
though, this rendez-
vous lasted nearly three hours.
My point is that we are generally so
busy, too busy. Busy at work. Too busy to
sit, or eat a carefree or prolonged meal. To
stop and see a neighbor. Or, simply, to sit
at that round oak table and talk.
I often feel that family discussion has
faded into an alternate reality: cellphones,
computer games and an average of six
hours of TV each day. My father, a busy
doctor for 50 years, insisted on family
time, an hour nearly every night when
kids and adults shared in the ritual of the
spoken word.
Sometimes there were reflections of
World War II, Korea and Vietnam, and
I’d argue that coffee is good for the
soul. I often wonder what happened to
those small cafés that sold a cup of Joe for
a dime, where the vets and businessmen,
hobos and poets congregated like gangs of
penguins?
Perhaps those cozy cafés have been
replaced by Starbucks and other coffee
houses, by intimate bars and bistros. But
with drive-in windows and Americans on
the run, time and place simply seem trans-
posed into a faster way of life. We can’t
catch our breath.
Robert Bly, another renowned poet,
blamed this breakup of communication
on the Industrial Revolution. Industrial
capability split up the traditional family,
particularly fathers and sons and an age-
old apprenticeship system. Men were off
to the factory.
And what about cellphones, Facebook
and Twitter? How do we fit a meaningful
message into 140 characters, compared to
the experience of unfolding ideas that are
exchanged in engaging conversation?
Write a poem for God’s sake! It need
not be a masterpiece. Poet laureate, Wil-
liam Stafford, said that if you were having
trouble expressing yourself, “Just lower
your standards.” He understood the power
of commitment.
Back at the oak table, Bob takes a
deep breath and begins to extol the
genius of Brian Doyle, a brilliant author
and poet who just passed (read “Mink
River,” please!). Doyle was barely
middle-aged and many mourn his early
departure.
And the coffee talk rolled on... CW