by Rochelle Cunningham
© October 08, 2010
A Man who use to run circles
Around giants twice his size
Now naps away what is left
Of the rest of his life
His Yosemite Sam mustache
Has long since been replaced
With a prickly-grey stubble
On his poor weathered face
He asks what his boys are up to
And still calls me his sugar-bear
I take time to look into his hazel eyes
That are quickly losing their luster
I see the times for tall-tales
Or toothy grins as he plays his guitar
Are certain to become fewer & fewer
As the light slowly dims in my father
And although I hate to see him in such pain
I hail to the powers that be
For surrounding him with so many loved ones
And allowing him a few more days here with me
I accept that his days are numbered
They have been for quite some time
But no matter how much I think I’m prepared
There is no way to imagine him not in my life
He offers me his unconditional love
Something so few are fortunate to know
His light will live on, long after his life
In my heart & memories it will continue to grow
He’s been the driving force in our family
The stern rock we’ve all counted on
How does a house continue to stand -
When you feel your foundation is gone?
I suppose, like others before us
We’ll adjust to live in new ways
And lean on each other for comfort
Until we’ve weathered the long, painful days
His legacy continuing to live on through my brothers
Somewhere between power tools & gentle guitar strings
With such determination and talent coursing through them
I know his presence will always be seen
These days I touch his tissue paper skin
And tell him how much I love him so
Knowing he wants to be with his Pop again
I silently grant him permission to go
My heart is so full of sorrow
Not being able to do much at all
The pain of watching a parent so helpless –
Withering away like leaves in the fall
My love for him is as strong today
As it has always been in the past
The love we share transcends this life-time
I am certain it will continue to last
And while we still have some time left on this Earth
I make a point to share my heart & stay in touch
Reminded how each precious moment we are given
Should be spent with the ones that we love
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
WANTED: A Missing Man
by Rochelle Cunningham
© August 2010
...is the notion of residing safely tucked beneath your wings – going to cost me mine? Do I have to give up the best of me, to rest my head upon your chest at night?
...if I start to follow in your footsteps, where will my tracks wind up? Does the ground around me have to turn to quicksand before you reach out your hand to me?
...can I fall to my knees without you casting your shadow upon me? Will you hold my hand, and remain still –and quiet – and perhaps stay lost for a bit, while I attempt to find my own way out?
...if I let you wander through my heart, will you get scared and decide to run back home? Can you open your eyes long enough to pull back the curtains of my memories and allow my love to shine in and fill our room?
...are the dishes and dirty laundry going to pile up quicker than the kisses and the laughter? Does the sound of my voice keep you spellbound – or do you find yourself running for cover?
...is forever just too damn long, when you're caught always asking so much more of me? And what happens to me, when I decide to – just – say – "No"?
...will you cast a handful of glass stones from your seat in the back of the theatre, when you've never been on stage before? Is it so hard to believe I don't have a problem with an early curtain call or a late night rehearsal?
I'll let you in on a little secret...
Sometimes –
when the credits are rolling –
as the last tears are being dried from the sad story and you hear an empty popcorn tub get kicked under a seat somewhere for someone else to clean up later –
...a woman can be found sitting alone, somewhere, there in the dark– realizing she has lost something –
...because she has spent the better half of her life –
losing pieces of herself –
missing a man.
~ Inspired by 3 Doors Down "Let me be myself"
© August 2010
...is the notion of residing safely tucked beneath your wings – going to cost me mine? Do I have to give up the best of me, to rest my head upon your chest at night?
...if I start to follow in your footsteps, where will my tracks wind up? Does the ground around me have to turn to quicksand before you reach out your hand to me?
...can I fall to my knees without you casting your shadow upon me? Will you hold my hand, and remain still –and quiet – and perhaps stay lost for a bit, while I attempt to find my own way out?
...if I let you wander through my heart, will you get scared and decide to run back home? Can you open your eyes long enough to pull back the curtains of my memories and allow my love to shine in and fill our room?
...are the dishes and dirty laundry going to pile up quicker than the kisses and the laughter? Does the sound of my voice keep you spellbound – or do you find yourself running for cover?
...is forever just too damn long, when you're caught always asking so much more of me? And what happens to me, when I decide to – just – say – "No"?
...will you cast a handful of glass stones from your seat in the back of the theatre, when you've never been on stage before? Is it so hard to believe I don't have a problem with an early curtain call or a late night rehearsal?
I'll let you in on a little secret...
Sometimes –
when the credits are rolling –
as the last tears are being dried from the sad story and you hear an empty popcorn tub get kicked under a seat somewhere for someone else to clean up later –
...a woman can be found sitting alone, somewhere, there in the dark– realizing she has lost something –
...because she has spent the better half of her life –
losing pieces of herself –
missing a man.
~ Inspired by 3 Doors Down "Let me be myself"
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Jealousy Of Night
by Rochelle Cunningham
© July 2010
There is a man out there…
…who conjures midnight reminders of my desire to possess him – still.
From the barren pillow sharing my bed, a warm phantom rises to wake me. Without a word, he takes my sleepy hand in his and leads me down another woman’s path.
There is a man out there…
…who refuses to abandon a dream that naps quietly on a dusty shelf in someone’s basement. He’s caught clawing at the blank pages of a bedside journal – unwilling to turn on the lamp. And his breath weighs heavy on the back of a sleeping poets mind.
There is a man out there…
…who assembles broken memories that crash on the shores of desperation. Wrestling with the rising tide he sails the course of a barely beating heart toward the horizon of a forbidden kiss. A swell in the stillness of the room uncovers a woman’s face and stirs the bedroom curtains as a reminder of troubled waters ahead.
There is a man out there…
…who lingers where he does not belong; unwilling to shake hands with the silence of night, he makes his escape on the tail-wind of dawn’s golden braid.
I wake to his lullaby humming a tune on my ceiling fan and arise hung-over from jealousy of night.
© July 2010
There is a man out there…
…who conjures midnight reminders of my desire to possess him – still.
From the barren pillow sharing my bed, a warm phantom rises to wake me. Without a word, he takes my sleepy hand in his and leads me down another woman’s path.
There is a man out there…
…who refuses to abandon a dream that naps quietly on a dusty shelf in someone’s basement. He’s caught clawing at the blank pages of a bedside journal – unwilling to turn on the lamp. And his breath weighs heavy on the back of a sleeping poets mind.
There is a man out there…
…who assembles broken memories that crash on the shores of desperation. Wrestling with the rising tide he sails the course of a barely beating heart toward the horizon of a forbidden kiss. A swell in the stillness of the room uncovers a woman’s face and stirs the bedroom curtains as a reminder of troubled waters ahead.
There is a man out there…
…who lingers where he does not belong; unwilling to shake hands with the silence of night, he makes his escape on the tail-wind of dawn’s golden braid.
I wake to his lullaby humming a tune on my ceiling fan and arise hung-over from jealousy of night.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Pearl Whispers
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2009
Pearl, Idaho is silent. There are not even enough skeletons lying about to call her a ghost town. Many drive past, not knowing they missed the old town entirely. Yet the curious, still attracted to the swath of land separating the Emmet Valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend, continue to make the 12 mile trip in from Boise.
Perhaps for some, the attraction is the loud voice she once had. At the turn of the nineteenth century Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Although she rests quietly now under the wild yellow roses and the native grasses that cover her stories from the past, she was once hostess to a thriving community.
The only thing visible today is a location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand proudly. In its stead are a handful of old, lonely trees and a few broken concrete pieces that exist to remind the living of generations past – those who lived out their dreams, and their lives, over the course of 140 years, with the earliest discovery of gold dating back to 1867.
To others, this land is home. It is a harsh, robust land full of wonder and peace, with the quiet landscape beckoning to keep her company. For those who own Pearl property, their ties to the land date back several years.
The Burkhart’s are the only living link to Pearl and the old mining days. Joe Burkhart first arrived as a young boy in 1912; he was 4 years old. Pearl has since enchanted the family with a sweet, mysterious embrace, for the Burkhart’s remain loyal to the vigorous terrain. Although Joe Burkhart has passed away, there are still other Burkhart members who maintain the house and the land which has survived many years of changes.
In 1990, another man looked over a plot of land known as the St. Mary’s, and Pearl whispered that same sweetness in his ear. He dreamed of an opportunity to purchase property and leave it as a legacy for his family. This dream blossomed over the course of seventeen years. Having acquired nearly 300 acres, including parts of the original town of Pearl and several mines, Gaius Cunningham proudly calls Pearl home.
Semi-retired from his locally owned and operated demolition company, Cunningham now enjoys the hours he devotes to working closely with his land. He uncovers the underground springs which he gently maneuvers, re-directs, and diverts into holding tanks. A careful development that provides running water to his home and a means to water the assorted vegetation he and his wife Kathy, have transplanted to the dry, ground.
Additionally, Cunningham relocates the hillsides, forging beautiful settings with lush grass and gratifying sunset views for his household dwelling. In the modest home he built from salvage material collected over the years in his demolition business, he and his family take great pleasure in his many accomplishments.
“I look around and see what I’ve done – there’s a certain admiration in that.” He says humbly. Both he and Mrs. Cunningham live in Pearl, but the entire family enjoys Pearl year round. The summer offers hot afternoons for biking, horseback riding, 4-wheel activities, or a dip in the lake he has created. Typically, evenings are cool and spent relaxing on the porch with a glass of iced tea or a cup of coffee. The winters tend to bring enough snow for sledding and snowmobiling. However, the road to Pearl is not maintained year round and unsuspecting travelers have found themselves at mercy of the bitter winter temperatures and the benevolence of Mr. Cunningham and his Caterpillar loader to free them from disaster.
One particular fascination for Mr. Cunningham is the native rock of Pearl. Having spent countless hours with his loader, he has moved the rocks from one section of land to another. Such beautiful geological contributions include blue granite that he dug out from The Easter Mine, a light brown stone, Mrs. Cunningham likes to call the Dam Rock because it was harvested from the rock formation by the dam, and Mormon Brown stone (a dark rock resembling tree bark when crushed), named after the Mormon City Mine. Similar stone can be found all over the country; it is utilized for ground cover (after crushing) or as landscape rock in subdivisions and housing developments. In Pearl, Cunningham uses it to beautify his property and maintain its natural state.
The families’ passion for the land is observed in creative efforts to foster the native habitat. They enjoy a variety of annual traditions together. For instance, a fall ritual is performed by gathering plums from old fruit trees to make “Pearl Jam” for gifts at Christmas-time. Winter provides them with a personal playground - and in the spring, buckets of wildflowers are picked from their hillsides. 
They have even entertained the idea of a web-site featuring seasonal cards from their personal photo collection and native jam to purchase for anyone interested in a taste of Pearl.
Many locals and enthusiasts of all kinds enjoy the elements of the Pearl area. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty 13-mile road that takes them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. Even hunting and target practice is noticeable throughout the changing seasons.
Not everyone loves and appreciates the land like those who live on it. This is evident by the occasional loads of garbage found dumped in the ravines, or the empty shell casings and trash left behind after a weekend bonfire or afternoon of target-practice. The assorted beer bottles, soda cans, and cardboard to-go containers are all increasing signs of disrespect to the land and to those who live there.
“I hate to see people come up here and treat it [the land] like that. That’s why I moved so far from the city, to get away from people. We didn’t come here for the gold. I wanted this for me and my wife and my kids,” says Cunningham.
Both Mr. Cunningham and the late Joe Burkhart share the same sentiments. In an Idaho Statesman article written by Tim Woodward in 1980, Burkhart told Woodward, “I liked it [Pearl] busy the way it was in the old days, but I like it this way too. I’m 72, and that’s too old to be a miner. It’s not so bad if people come and go for the mining, just as long as they don’t start movin’ in. You get too many neighbors and then you’re stuck with ‘em.” When Woodward asked Burkhart how many neighbors he considered too many, he replied, “Well, you get two families and if they stay, that’s too many.”
Mrs. Cunningham has a slightly different take: “I think it’s nice to see family’s go for a drive and dink around together. As long as they are smart [not going in to the mines] and respect the no-trespassing signs, there is room for all of us.” She likes the idea that, “although Pearl is only 12 miles from town, it feels as though you are hundreds of miles from anything.”
Pearl is a place for those who like serenity; a place to sit quietly and observe the raw, high-desert beauty. Those who appreciate Pearl get excited to see the sage hen courting in the spring, or watch the Oriels build their grey hammock nests high in the tree tops.
It is reserved for those who marvel at the miles of wild yellow and lavender Buffalo Bean flowers growing up from the deep red and purple clay that dapples the hillsides, or for those who enjoy the fragrant smell of sage floating along on the consistent breeze. It is a place of tranquility where you can watch a Red Tail hawk soar above in the undisturbed blue sky, or experience the symphony of native birds while they busy themselves with daily duties. An entire afternoon can be consumed simply watching the brilliant colors of the birds darting back and forth, weaving through the warm, dry air.
The silence of Pearl is often interrupted with sounds of running creek water, jingling aspen or cottonwood leaves, croaking frogs, and chirping crickets. In the evening, those same busy birds chatter among themselves, unseen and content as nightfall approaches. While a Mourning Dove softly coos at twilight, you might also hear the lonely far-off sound of a coyote’s howl gently penetrating the sunset that is busy setting the sky on fire with a dozen shades of violet and orange. Pearl is a place that helps you to forget what you left behind – 12 miles back.
© 2009
Pearl, Idaho is silent. There are not even enough skeletons lying about to call her a ghost town. Many drive past, not knowing they missed the old town entirely. Yet the curious, still attracted to the swath of land separating the Emmet Valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend, continue to make the 12 mile trip in from Boise.
Perhaps for some, the attraction is the loud voice she once had. At the turn of the nineteenth century Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Although she rests quietly now under the wild yellow roses and the native grasses that cover her stories from the past, she was once hostess to a thriving community.
The only thing visible today is a location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand proudly. In its stead are a handful of old, lonely trees and a few broken concrete pieces that exist to remind the living of generations past – those who lived out their dreams, and their lives, over the course of 140 years, with the earliest discovery of gold dating back to 1867.To others, this land is home. It is a harsh, robust land full of wonder and peace, with the quiet landscape beckoning to keep her company. For those who own Pearl property, their ties to the land date back several years.
The Burkhart’s are the only living link to Pearl and the old mining days. Joe Burkhart first arrived as a young boy in 1912; he was 4 years old. Pearl has since enchanted the family with a sweet, mysterious embrace, for the Burkhart’s remain loyal to the vigorous terrain. Although Joe Burkhart has passed away, there are still other Burkhart members who maintain the house and the land which has survived many years of changes.
In 1990, another man looked over a plot of land known as the St. Mary’s, and Pearl whispered that same sweetness in his ear. He dreamed of an opportunity to purchase property and leave it as a legacy for his family. This dream blossomed over the course of seventeen years. Having acquired nearly 300 acres, including parts of the original town of Pearl and several mines, Gaius Cunningham proudly calls Pearl home.
Semi-retired from his locally owned and operated demolition company, Cunningham now enjoys the hours he devotes to working closely with his land. He uncovers the underground springs which he gently maneuvers, re-directs, and diverts into holding tanks. A careful development that provides running water to his home and a means to water the assorted vegetation he and his wife Kathy, have transplanted to the dry, ground.Additionally, Cunningham relocates the hillsides, forging beautiful settings with lush grass and gratifying sunset views for his household dwelling. In the modest home he built from salvage material collected over the years in his demolition business, he and his family take great pleasure in his many accomplishments.
“I look around and see what I’ve done – there’s a certain admiration in that.” He says humbly. Both he and Mrs. Cunningham live in Pearl, but the entire family enjoys Pearl year round. The summer offers hot afternoons for biking, horseback riding, 4-wheel activities, or a dip in the lake he has created. Typically, evenings are cool and spent relaxing on the porch with a glass of iced tea or a cup of coffee. The winters tend to bring enough snow for sledding and snowmobiling. However, the road to Pearl is not maintained year round and unsuspecting travelers have found themselves at mercy of the bitter winter temperatures and the benevolence of Mr. Cunningham and his Caterpillar loader to free them from disaster.
One particular fascination for Mr. Cunningham is the native rock of Pearl. Having spent countless hours with his loader, he has moved the rocks from one section of land to another. Such beautiful geological contributions include blue granite that he dug out from The Easter Mine, a light brown stone, Mrs. Cunningham likes to call the Dam Rock because it was harvested from the rock formation by the dam, and Mormon Brown stone (a dark rock resembling tree bark when crushed), named after the Mormon City Mine. Similar stone can be found all over the country; it is utilized for ground cover (after crushing) or as landscape rock in subdivisions and housing developments. In Pearl, Cunningham uses it to beautify his property and maintain its natural state.
The families’ passion for the land is observed in creative efforts to foster the native habitat. They enjoy a variety of annual traditions together. For instance, a fall ritual is performed by gathering plums from old fruit trees to make “Pearl Jam” for gifts at Christmas-time. Winter provides them with a personal playground - and in the spring, buckets of wildflowers are picked from their hillsides. 
They have even entertained the idea of a web-site featuring seasonal cards from their personal photo collection and native jam to purchase for anyone interested in a taste of Pearl.Many locals and enthusiasts of all kinds enjoy the elements of the Pearl area. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty 13-mile road that takes them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. Even hunting and target practice is noticeable throughout the changing seasons.
Not everyone loves and appreciates the land like those who live on it. This is evident by the occasional loads of garbage found dumped in the ravines, or the empty shell casings and trash left behind after a weekend bonfire or afternoon of target-practice. The assorted beer bottles, soda cans, and cardboard to-go containers are all increasing signs of disrespect to the land and to those who live there.“I hate to see people come up here and treat it [the land] like that. That’s why I moved so far from the city, to get away from people. We didn’t come here for the gold. I wanted this for me and my wife and my kids,” says Cunningham.
Both Mr. Cunningham and the late Joe Burkhart share the same sentiments. In an Idaho Statesman article written by Tim Woodward in 1980, Burkhart told Woodward, “I liked it [Pearl] busy the way it was in the old days, but I like it this way too. I’m 72, and that’s too old to be a miner. It’s not so bad if people come and go for the mining, just as long as they don’t start movin’ in. You get too many neighbors and then you’re stuck with ‘em.” When Woodward asked Burkhart how many neighbors he considered too many, he replied, “Well, you get two families and if they stay, that’s too many.”
Mrs. Cunningham has a slightly different take: “I think it’s nice to see family’s go for a drive and dink around together. As long as they are smart [not going in to the mines] and respect the no-trespassing signs, there is room for all of us.” She likes the idea that, “although Pearl is only 12 miles from town, it feels as though you are hundreds of miles from anything.”
Pearl is a place for those who like serenity; a place to sit quietly and observe the raw, high-desert beauty. Those who appreciate Pearl get excited to see the sage hen courting in the spring, or watch the Oriels build their grey hammock nests high in the tree tops.It is reserved for those who marvel at the miles of wild yellow and lavender Buffalo Bean flowers growing up from the deep red and purple clay that dapples the hillsides, or for those who enjoy the fragrant smell of sage floating along on the consistent breeze. It is a place of tranquility where you can watch a Red Tail hawk soar above in the undisturbed blue sky, or experience the symphony of native birds while they busy themselves with daily duties. An entire afternoon can be consumed simply watching the brilliant colors of the birds darting back and forth, weaving through the warm, dry air.
The silence of Pearl is often interrupted with sounds of running creek water, jingling aspen or cottonwood leaves, croaking frogs, and chirping crickets. In the evening, those same busy birds chatter among themselves, unseen and content as nightfall approaches. While a Mourning Dove softly coos at twilight, you might also hear the lonely far-off sound of a coyote’s howl gently penetrating the sunset that is busy setting the sky on fire with a dozen shades of violet and orange. Pearl is a place that helps you to forget what you left behind – 12 miles back.
Primordial Time Clock
by Rochelle
© July 2010
The office serpentine
Crawls across my desk
Leaving a trail
Of deadlines
While the clock on the wall
Casts her shadow
And sighs:
"Last call"
Collated reports and general ledgers
Fall like autumn leaves
To their blue, plastic
Graves below
As laughter resists
Rising above the silent maze
To penetrate an offensive, fluorescent mist
On goes the buzz
The click, and the hummmmm
In the land of mechanical creatures
Where caffeine and nicotine breaks
Are seen draining life at the water cooler
Gradually replace the talk
Around the campfire
© July 2010
The office serpentine
Crawls across my desk
Leaving a trail
Of deadlines
While the clock on the wall
Casts her shadow
And sighs:
"Last call"
Collated reports and general ledgers
Fall like autumn leaves
To their blue, plastic
Graves below
As laughter resists
Rising above the silent maze
To penetrate an offensive, fluorescent mist
On goes the buzz
The click, and the hummmmm
In the land of mechanical creatures
Where caffeine and nicotine breaks
Are seen draining life at the water cooler
Gradually replace the talk
Around the campfire
Shotguns and Bowling Balls
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
Confused and out of breath, I arrive at the Emergency Room.
It was a warm October evening when a set of glass doors parted, allowing me to enter the air-conditioned waiting room. The first thing I noticed was my fifteen year old brother, Jake, because he was covered in blood. He jumped up from an orange, plastic chair when he saw me. I looked past him to see my mother standing at the counter, filling out paper work in a short sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. A patch of blood started at her right shoulder and had run down to her elbow and there were noticeable blood spots on her Levis. Looking down at the floor I saw blood trails and splatters everywhere.
A few of my brothers friends, and some cousins were there too. My emotions elevated, and adrenalin choked out the possibility of communication as everyone tried to explain what happened simultaneously. All I could do was stand, frozen, in a daze. My eyes squinting, trying to decipher their words, but the room sounded as though it were filled with several static radio stations. I tried desperately to focus on my brother.
“Start over, Jake… slow down, and tell me what happened,” I say, and a few of the radio frequencies died down. He was shaking and could hardly speak in complete sentences. He told me how sorry he was, how he felt responsible because my last words to him were: “Watch over my baby while I’m at work.”
I was looking into his eyes that welled with tears, trying to concentrate on his words. He was describing what I could only imagine as an episode from COPS while he repeated events leading to someone shooting my ten month old Rottweiler puppy.
* * * * * * * *
Only two hours earlier I had been laughing at my dog, Farley, as he rolled a 16-pound bowling ball around in the yard; barking and snorting as he tried to maneuver it in and out of the low spots in the grass.
Now I stood in an emergency room – listening to a technician talk to my mother, staring at my brother as I try to register his broken words. Focusing harder, I try and piece together the muddled sentences: “…shotguns, …chasing him down to kill him, …got to the doctor as soon as we could, …I’m sorry, Sis. I’m so sorry…” I felt my brain lurch forward, like a standard transmission grabbing the wrong gear. Finally, I hear my brother’s story:
“We were kicking some sack in the driveway and I thought he’d like to come out and play,” Jake was telling me. “I turned my back for a minute and he wandered off. Next thing I know I’m hearing gunshots. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM – this fucking idiot unloaded five rounds - right there in the neighborhood!”
This was difficult to register. Our neighborhood had always felt like a Norman Rockwell painting; a place where kids grew up together, rode their bikes, threw footballs in the streets, and waited for the bus together. Livestock occasionally got loose and our dogs frequently roamed the streets. If ever a problem arose, it was simply worked out. So the unthinkable had been committed; a neighbor had acted out in violence and shot a beloved member of our community — a member of my family.
I listened quietly. Jake said he turned to the direction of the gunshots and seconds later, he saw Farley darting up the driveway, dragging his back leg behind him and then, BLAM !, another shot that peppered the next door neighbor’s window. My mother came running to see what was going on, but the boys had already headed across the street to confront the neighbor with the shotgun.
Jake yammered on about how he pounded on this guy’s door, yelling at him while our mother joined him there on the neighbor’s porch. The man opened the door with a shotgun in his hand. Their confrontation was heated and brief because the police were beginning to arrive. Later we would learn, the man with the shotgun had several different versions of his story, so we never did find out exactly what happened.
However, as I stood in a local ER with my puppy in critical condition, I was certain that some of the most difficult decisions of my life were about to unfold before me because a stranger had acted out in violence.
A medical professional appeared in the waiting room to lead me back to see Farley. The doctor walked by my side and prepared me for what I was about to see. Unfortunately, all I heard was tangled jargon as though it were coming through a bad loud speaker – like Charlie Brown’s teacher – wha, whaa, wah wha, waa won.
The corridor was a long, white hallway; buzzing with fluorescent lighting that cascaded over the doorways and tiled floor. I could make out broken discussions coming from the rooms with the doors left ajar as we passed by them. The smell of antiseptic and iodine made air thick and hard to breathe.
My heart broke when the doctor opened the door. The first thing I saw was his face, and he lit up like an excited child on Christmas morning when he saw me. His eyes begged me to take him home, pleading with me, apologizing for any wrong-doing he had committed. I knew he had been waiting for me since he had been shot, waiting here in this room, alone and scared. I looked into his eyes - and I broke down.
Hot tears surged uncontrollably and rolled down my cheeks as I watched him attempt to crawl toward me, dragging his hind legs behind him, struggling to come and be near me for comfort. I moved closer so he didn’t have to exert himself and I dropped down with the weight of an iron anchor to sit at the edge of the cold, steel kennel.
Farley looked up at me from behind his big brown eyes. He had already become my dearest companion, my best friend, and he was my baby boy. Farley had been shot because he wandered into the wrong yard and a man with a shotgun hated Rottweilers.
I noticed blood where his collar should have been. This is where the first round must have caught Farley across the back of the neck. A wet wound lay open and bleeding, revealing white and red meaty flesh. The second and third shots had hit Farley in the right back leg, directly behind the knee. His left leg was not working, and was presumed to be broken from the stressful run home.
Looking at him, everything seemed to flash before me…
…the boys playing in the driveway and deciding to let their puppy and mine out to play…the dogs innocently wandering in the neighborhood…Farley deciding to sniff around the neighbor’s grass…the neighbor going into his house for his 12-guage shot gun… and the man chasing my dog to the edge of our driveway – blasting away. He unloaded five rounds from his gun. Once Farley made it to the end of our long driveway, the shooter retreated but only after one final shot that peppered the neighbor’s living-room window. This frightened them so much, they stated to the police they thought they had been victims of a drive-by shooting.
* * * * * * * *
The doctor told me that Farley’s back right leg had been hit the worst and the X-ray’s revealed the majority of the cartilage to the knee-cap was destroyed along with damage to the tendons.
With his head in my lap I looked over his wounded body. There is matted black hair, and gaping wounds all over his hindquarters and neck. I just cry and tell Farley how sorry I am. I shake my head and comfort my dog while my mother and the doctor talk. I can’t help but picture how crazy the scene must have been at my parents’ house just hours before…
…I see Farley playing, wandering around in the fall leaves and cool grass, enjoying the chill in the evening air with sundown approaching – then, abruptly confused, running for his life, shotgun blasts ringing out, my brother and his friends looking around, shocked, trying to put the chaotic, unfamiliar sounds together as they watch Farley running up the driveway, bleeding and yelping like a wild, wounded animal.
* * * * * * * *
After a few minutes with my dog, I realize I had to contemplate my options. With the balance of Farley’s life in my hands, I haven’t a clue how to respond under these circumstances. I remind myself this isn’t the first time I had been to the emergency room with him.
Ironically, on April Fool’s Day, I had taken him to softball practice with me, where he contracted Parvo (a disease known to dehydrate the animal). Understanding how fatal the disease is, I rushed him to the vet immediately. I knew how devastating this could be to a four-month old, gangly, Rottweiler puppy just starting to put on weight. The vets inserted an IV drip into his vein and got him hydrated. After a couple of days, they had done all they could do.
Farley seemed to get better when I came to visit, then would quit eating and drinking once I left. The veterinarians suggested he would do better in my care. So I took him home and fed him rice, hamburger, and canned dog food to put his weight back on. Although he was weak and had difficulty keeping liquids down, we persevered. We had cheated death for the first time.
A few months later, he was at normal body weight again and doing well so I scheduled him to be neutered. The surgery had been successful, but it was later complicated with an infection that we fought for nearly two months. A week after his infection cleared up, he cut his right front foot on a piece of glass and had to have a couple of stitches. To keep him from licking, Farley wore the lamp-shade looking Elizabethan Collar during all of his afflictions. He wore the collar so often, his nickname became “Bucket-Head”.
At the end of October, Farley turned 10 months old and the collar had been removed for the third time in his life. We needed to celebrate. To commemorate his freedom from the bucket, I loaded him in my pickup to spend the afternoon on our property in Pearl (a small mining town in Idaho). Once we returned home from our adventures in Pearl, he bucked and played in the back yard, ate dinner in his kennel, and I kissed him on the forehead before I left for work. A few hours later, Farley would be shot.
* * * * * * * *
The ER doctor clearly explained that my alternatives were to have surgery on the right leg (either amputate the leg, or try to pin the leg and hope the knee heals) or put him to sleep. My head was told me to put the dog out of his misery, he was in excruciating pain. My heart ached for my companion. I was present to only one thought: there is nothing wrong with my dog. After all, the buckshot had missed all of his internal organs, his head, and both front legs. Farley was just broken.
I looked down at him again. A financial responsibility of this magnitude concerned me, but putting a price on how much I valued this precious animal made me feel guilty. I struggled with the thought of having a crippled pet to care for, and that made me feel guilty. But I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking: there is nothing wrong with my dog… I can’t put him to sleep… I love him. The decision was mine. I decided to pin his leg and nurse him back to health once again.
Two days later, Farley went in for his first surgery. It lasted three hours. I took him home to the guest house, where the two of us lived behind my parents’ home. I slept every night on the floor with him. I wrapped a dish towel under his belly to help him outside to go to the bathroom. I gave him aspirin every four hours and changed his bandages twice a day. Some days the living room, where we slept, would smell of rotting flesh as the wounds oozed and healed. I didn’t care; I loved him so much.
I gently rubbed his paw and looked into his glazed, watery eyes as he fought the medication I gave him for the pain. After two weeks, the veterinarians decided that the leg was deteriorating more than it was healing. We were going to have to amputate the leg after all.
The second surgery took only two hours. I was angry and heartbroken that my perfect, beautiful boy was going to be malformed. However, I was quite surprised with the results of the amputation. Once I got past the disfiguration and the apprehension over his shaved hip, I was impressed with the recovery of an animal after an amputation; he was up and around that very day!
Because Farley was a large breed dog, the vets told me the likelihood of hip problems would be greater. Additionally, because he would have to support so much weight on only one back leg, his life expectancy had been reduced to four years. So I started researching hip dysplasia, a common degenerative joint disease, especially with large breed dogs, and found that glucosamine and chondroitin would benefit his recovery. I began putting powder on his dog food which strengthened his hip immensely to increase his life expectancy. Farley continued to ride in the back of my pickup. “Load up” was replaced with “Paws Up” so I could give him a boost into the back of the truck. He never passed up a chance to run, hike, or swim, but his favorite remained playing soccer with his bowling ball.
It took over a year (from the time of the shooting) to get the neighbor on trial for his illegal behavior. Although I won my restitution case for over $5,000 in medical bills, I have never seen a dime. Because the Idaho State laws place more value on livestock than my pet’s life, the man was not found guilty of anything other than “illegal discharge of a firearm”.
The entire dilemma gave me a greater appreciation for what parents go through with a child in desperate situations. Certainly, an animal is no comparison to that of a child. However, I discovered that the painful and emotional decisions for those we love – are never easy.
If I had to change anything, it would be to choose amputation as a first option. I would not hesitate to advise someone if they were faced with a similar situation. The animal’s ability to recover is no comparison to that of a human because there are no psychological, emotional, or physical processes to struggle with and therefore, the animal adapts immediately.
Additionally, I had to accept the fact there are angry, unreasonable individuals who turn to violence as a solution to their problems. This man received a fine for illegally firing a gun, but more important - he could have killed someone in my family. I simultaneously feel disgust and sympathy for someone who has such little respect for life and lacks the humanity to fully understand the damage he caused to me and to those I love.
* * * * * * * *
I had Farley for eight years after the accident, despite the four years the veterinarians gave him. We had a wonderful, eventful life together. On September 9, 2007, I snuck out for a morning hike at Table Rock, leaving Farley sleeping quietly in the den. I came home from my hike to discover my Farley-dog lying in his own vomit, and he was barely breathing. I believe his insides had given out on him. I was heartbroken. It was time to say goodbye to my beloved friend.
As my boyfriend and a neighbor loaded my 120-pound companion into the back of a Jeep, I crawled in next to him, and we cuddled together in the warmth of the sun for a final, beautiful fall day together. I held his big black paw and spoke to him all the way to the clinic. I held that big black paw until he took his last breath, and I was honored to be there for him as he left this world. He would have been nine years old in December.
Farley was truly the love of my life. Unconditional love is rare to find from other human beings, and animals just give it freely. Even though our adventures together had been bitter-sweet for nearly a decade, I believe that the harder the road is to travel, the more appreciative you become of the journey. His love will be with me forever.
So maybe the neighbor did me a favor – bringing me closer to an animal than I could have ever imagined. Regardless, I had to find a way to reconcile my feelings. This was such an unusual and cruel event in my life, but it was easy to endure with the love of my Farley-dog there by my side.
© 2008
Confused and out of breath, I arrive at the Emergency Room.
It was a warm October evening when a set of glass doors parted, allowing me to enter the air-conditioned waiting room. The first thing I noticed was my fifteen year old brother, Jake, because he was covered in blood. He jumped up from an orange, plastic chair when he saw me. I looked past him to see my mother standing at the counter, filling out paper work in a short sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. A patch of blood started at her right shoulder and had run down to her elbow and there were noticeable blood spots on her Levis. Looking down at the floor I saw blood trails and splatters everywhere.
A few of my brothers friends, and some cousins were there too. My emotions elevated, and adrenalin choked out the possibility of communication as everyone tried to explain what happened simultaneously. All I could do was stand, frozen, in a daze. My eyes squinting, trying to decipher their words, but the room sounded as though it were filled with several static radio stations. I tried desperately to focus on my brother.
“Start over, Jake… slow down, and tell me what happened,” I say, and a few of the radio frequencies died down. He was shaking and could hardly speak in complete sentences. He told me how sorry he was, how he felt responsible because my last words to him were: “Watch over my baby while I’m at work.”
I was looking into his eyes that welled with tears, trying to concentrate on his words. He was describing what I could only imagine as an episode from COPS while he repeated events leading to someone shooting my ten month old Rottweiler puppy.
* * * * * * * *
Only two hours earlier I had been laughing at my dog, Farley, as he rolled a 16-pound bowling ball around in the yard; barking and snorting as he tried to maneuver it in and out of the low spots in the grass.
Now I stood in an emergency room – listening to a technician talk to my mother, staring at my brother as I try to register his broken words. Focusing harder, I try and piece together the muddled sentences: “…shotguns, …chasing him down to kill him, …got to the doctor as soon as we could, …I’m sorry, Sis. I’m so sorry…” I felt my brain lurch forward, like a standard transmission grabbing the wrong gear. Finally, I hear my brother’s story:
“We were kicking some sack in the driveway and I thought he’d like to come out and play,” Jake was telling me. “I turned my back for a minute and he wandered off. Next thing I know I’m hearing gunshots. BLAM, BLAM, BLAM – this fucking idiot unloaded five rounds - right there in the neighborhood!”
This was difficult to register. Our neighborhood had always felt like a Norman Rockwell painting; a place where kids grew up together, rode their bikes, threw footballs in the streets, and waited for the bus together. Livestock occasionally got loose and our dogs frequently roamed the streets. If ever a problem arose, it was simply worked out. So the unthinkable had been committed; a neighbor had acted out in violence and shot a beloved member of our community — a member of my family.
I listened quietly. Jake said he turned to the direction of the gunshots and seconds later, he saw Farley darting up the driveway, dragging his back leg behind him and then, BLAM !, another shot that peppered the next door neighbor’s window. My mother came running to see what was going on, but the boys had already headed across the street to confront the neighbor with the shotgun.
Jake yammered on about how he pounded on this guy’s door, yelling at him while our mother joined him there on the neighbor’s porch. The man opened the door with a shotgun in his hand. Their confrontation was heated and brief because the police were beginning to arrive. Later we would learn, the man with the shotgun had several different versions of his story, so we never did find out exactly what happened.
However, as I stood in a local ER with my puppy in critical condition, I was certain that some of the most difficult decisions of my life were about to unfold before me because a stranger had acted out in violence.
A medical professional appeared in the waiting room to lead me back to see Farley. The doctor walked by my side and prepared me for what I was about to see. Unfortunately, all I heard was tangled jargon as though it were coming through a bad loud speaker – like Charlie Brown’s teacher – wha, whaa, wah wha, waa won.
The corridor was a long, white hallway; buzzing with fluorescent lighting that cascaded over the doorways and tiled floor. I could make out broken discussions coming from the rooms with the doors left ajar as we passed by them. The smell of antiseptic and iodine made air thick and hard to breathe.
My heart broke when the doctor opened the door. The first thing I saw was his face, and he lit up like an excited child on Christmas morning when he saw me. His eyes begged me to take him home, pleading with me, apologizing for any wrong-doing he had committed. I knew he had been waiting for me since he had been shot, waiting here in this room, alone and scared. I looked into his eyes - and I broke down.
Hot tears surged uncontrollably and rolled down my cheeks as I watched him attempt to crawl toward me, dragging his hind legs behind him, struggling to come and be near me for comfort. I moved closer so he didn’t have to exert himself and I dropped down with the weight of an iron anchor to sit at the edge of the cold, steel kennel.
Farley looked up at me from behind his big brown eyes. He had already become my dearest companion, my best friend, and he was my baby boy. Farley had been shot because he wandered into the wrong yard and a man with a shotgun hated Rottweilers.
I noticed blood where his collar should have been. This is where the first round must have caught Farley across the back of the neck. A wet wound lay open and bleeding, revealing white and red meaty flesh. The second and third shots had hit Farley in the right back leg, directly behind the knee. His left leg was not working, and was presumed to be broken from the stressful run home.
Looking at him, everything seemed to flash before me…
…the boys playing in the driveway and deciding to let their puppy and mine out to play…the dogs innocently wandering in the neighborhood…Farley deciding to sniff around the neighbor’s grass…the neighbor going into his house for his 12-guage shot gun… and the man chasing my dog to the edge of our driveway – blasting away. He unloaded five rounds from his gun. Once Farley made it to the end of our long driveway, the shooter retreated but only after one final shot that peppered the neighbor’s living-room window. This frightened them so much, they stated to the police they thought they had been victims of a drive-by shooting.
* * * * * * * *
The doctor told me that Farley’s back right leg had been hit the worst and the X-ray’s revealed the majority of the cartilage to the knee-cap was destroyed along with damage to the tendons.
With his head in my lap I looked over his wounded body. There is matted black hair, and gaping wounds all over his hindquarters and neck. I just cry and tell Farley how sorry I am. I shake my head and comfort my dog while my mother and the doctor talk. I can’t help but picture how crazy the scene must have been at my parents’ house just hours before…
…I see Farley playing, wandering around in the fall leaves and cool grass, enjoying the chill in the evening air with sundown approaching – then, abruptly confused, running for his life, shotgun blasts ringing out, my brother and his friends looking around, shocked, trying to put the chaotic, unfamiliar sounds together as they watch Farley running up the driveway, bleeding and yelping like a wild, wounded animal.
* * * * * * * *
After a few minutes with my dog, I realize I had to contemplate my options. With the balance of Farley’s life in my hands, I haven’t a clue how to respond under these circumstances. I remind myself this isn’t the first time I had been to the emergency room with him.
Ironically, on April Fool’s Day, I had taken him to softball practice with me, where he contracted Parvo (a disease known to dehydrate the animal). Understanding how fatal the disease is, I rushed him to the vet immediately. I knew how devastating this could be to a four-month old, gangly, Rottweiler puppy just starting to put on weight. The vets inserted an IV drip into his vein and got him hydrated. After a couple of days, they had done all they could do.
Farley seemed to get better when I came to visit, then would quit eating and drinking once I left. The veterinarians suggested he would do better in my care. So I took him home and fed him rice, hamburger, and canned dog food to put his weight back on. Although he was weak and had difficulty keeping liquids down, we persevered. We had cheated death for the first time.
A few months later, he was at normal body weight again and doing well so I scheduled him to be neutered. The surgery had been successful, but it was later complicated with an infection that we fought for nearly two months. A week after his infection cleared up, he cut his right front foot on a piece of glass and had to have a couple of stitches. To keep him from licking, Farley wore the lamp-shade looking Elizabethan Collar during all of his afflictions. He wore the collar so often, his nickname became “Bucket-Head”.
At the end of October, Farley turned 10 months old and the collar had been removed for the third time in his life. We needed to celebrate. To commemorate his freedom from the bucket, I loaded him in my pickup to spend the afternoon on our property in Pearl (a small mining town in Idaho). Once we returned home from our adventures in Pearl, he bucked and played in the back yard, ate dinner in his kennel, and I kissed him on the forehead before I left for work. A few hours later, Farley would be shot.
* * * * * * * *
The ER doctor clearly explained that my alternatives were to have surgery on the right leg (either amputate the leg, or try to pin the leg and hope the knee heals) or put him to sleep. My head was told me to put the dog out of his misery, he was in excruciating pain. My heart ached for my companion. I was present to only one thought: there is nothing wrong with my dog. After all, the buckshot had missed all of his internal organs, his head, and both front legs. Farley was just broken.
I looked down at him again. A financial responsibility of this magnitude concerned me, but putting a price on how much I valued this precious animal made me feel guilty. I struggled with the thought of having a crippled pet to care for, and that made me feel guilty. But I couldn’t do it. I kept thinking: there is nothing wrong with my dog… I can’t put him to sleep… I love him. The decision was mine. I decided to pin his leg and nurse him back to health once again.
Two days later, Farley went in for his first surgery. It lasted three hours. I took him home to the guest house, where the two of us lived behind my parents’ home. I slept every night on the floor with him. I wrapped a dish towel under his belly to help him outside to go to the bathroom. I gave him aspirin every four hours and changed his bandages twice a day. Some days the living room, where we slept, would smell of rotting flesh as the wounds oozed and healed. I didn’t care; I loved him so much.
I gently rubbed his paw and looked into his glazed, watery eyes as he fought the medication I gave him for the pain. After two weeks, the veterinarians decided that the leg was deteriorating more than it was healing. We were going to have to amputate the leg after all.
The second surgery took only two hours. I was angry and heartbroken that my perfect, beautiful boy was going to be malformed. However, I was quite surprised with the results of the amputation. Once I got past the disfiguration and the apprehension over his shaved hip, I was impressed with the recovery of an animal after an amputation; he was up and around that very day!
Because Farley was a large breed dog, the vets told me the likelihood of hip problems would be greater. Additionally, because he would have to support so much weight on only one back leg, his life expectancy had been reduced to four years. So I started researching hip dysplasia, a common degenerative joint disease, especially with large breed dogs, and found that glucosamine and chondroitin would benefit his recovery. I began putting powder on his dog food which strengthened his hip immensely to increase his life expectancy. Farley continued to ride in the back of my pickup. “Load up” was replaced with “Paws Up” so I could give him a boost into the back of the truck. He never passed up a chance to run, hike, or swim, but his favorite remained playing soccer with his bowling ball.
It took over a year (from the time of the shooting) to get the neighbor on trial for his illegal behavior. Although I won my restitution case for over $5,000 in medical bills, I have never seen a dime. Because the Idaho State laws place more value on livestock than my pet’s life, the man was not found guilty of anything other than “illegal discharge of a firearm”.
The entire dilemma gave me a greater appreciation for what parents go through with a child in desperate situations. Certainly, an animal is no comparison to that of a child. However, I discovered that the painful and emotional decisions for those we love – are never easy.
If I had to change anything, it would be to choose amputation as a first option. I would not hesitate to advise someone if they were faced with a similar situation. The animal’s ability to recover is no comparison to that of a human because there are no psychological, emotional, or physical processes to struggle with and therefore, the animal adapts immediately.
Additionally, I had to accept the fact there are angry, unreasonable individuals who turn to violence as a solution to their problems. This man received a fine for illegally firing a gun, but more important - he could have killed someone in my family. I simultaneously feel disgust and sympathy for someone who has such little respect for life and lacks the humanity to fully understand the damage he caused to me and to those I love.
* * * * * * * *
I had Farley for eight years after the accident, despite the four years the veterinarians gave him. We had a wonderful, eventful life together. On September 9, 2007, I snuck out for a morning hike at Table Rock, leaving Farley sleeping quietly in the den. I came home from my hike to discover my Farley-dog lying in his own vomit, and he was barely breathing. I believe his insides had given out on him. I was heartbroken. It was time to say goodbye to my beloved friend.
As my boyfriend and a neighbor loaded my 120-pound companion into the back of a Jeep, I crawled in next to him, and we cuddled together in the warmth of the sun for a final, beautiful fall day together. I held his big black paw and spoke to him all the way to the clinic. I held that big black paw until he took his last breath, and I was honored to be there for him as he left this world. He would have been nine years old in December.
Farley was truly the love of my life. Unconditional love is rare to find from other human beings, and animals just give it freely. Even though our adventures together had been bitter-sweet for nearly a decade, I believe that the harder the road is to travel, the more appreciative you become of the journey. His love will be with me forever.
So maybe the neighbor did me a favor – bringing me closer to an animal than I could have ever imagined. Regardless, I had to find a way to reconcile my feelings. This was such an unusual and cruel event in my life, but it was easy to endure with the love of my Farley-dog there by my side.
What Has Become of Pearl
by Rochelle Cunningham
© June 2009
During the turn of the nineteenth century, Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Today, the locals and tourists attempt to find remnants of the once thriving town that exists now only as legend of a ghost town.
A large, brown historical marker midway up Freeze Out Hill invites the curious to discover the history of Pearl. Further down the road, located at the top of Freeze Out Hill on highway 16, there is a sign encouraging a short nine mile drive to locate the old mining town. Pearl is situated in a swath of land that separates the Emmett valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend; located 9 miles from the Emmett Highway and 4.5 miles from the Horseshoe Bend Highway at an elevation of 4,300’.
Like many mining towns there is an extensive history of productivity and price collapses that affected both miners and the activity of the particular mines.
Pearl remains a local secret as there is nothing left to show for her prominent days. The only thing surviving is a handful of mine openings and a few foundations of old town structures, now overgrown with native vegetation. Most drive past the area where the town once showcased three general stores, a drug store that kept two full time doctors in demand, two hotels, a restaurant, a barber shop, a black smith shop, a bakery, a post office, a livery stable, a church, a school, and an International Order of Odd Fellows hall. Today, only a few pieces of broken concrete rest quietly in the shade of the tall Lombardy Poplars. This marks the location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand.
Although some of Pearls history has been documented, most comes by way of legend. For instance, Pearl (Gilbert) Robeson – now deceased- was the first born child in the area in 1896 for which they gave the town its name. In 1892, the first interest of mining was developed and shortly after in 1894 roads began to develop from Boise and Caldwell leading to the town of Pearl. In 1908 the town began to show sign of deterioration as Pearl lived through the final collapse of the gold rush. However, many residents continued to live in the area and raised families for several years after the town went extinct. The last major mining exploration Pearl experience was in 1980 when the TRV Minerals Corp and Sunshine Mining Co tested for lucrative veins just outside of the old town.
The Pearl land is no w privately owned by many. Among those who have raised their families in the area are the Cunningh am’s, the Bean’s, and the Burkhart’s. The Burkhart landowners, whose father (Joe Sr.) was among the generation raised in the original town; he arrived at age four in 1912. They are the only family still maintaining close ties to their land.
The area known as Pearl now attracts enthusiast of all kinds as well as those curious to its history. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty road to take them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. And throughout the changing seasons, signs of target practicing and hunters are evident.
Pearl’s past was influential in attracting opportunity for many in the early nineteenth century. Today it serves a quiet, serene place to escape from the demands of city-life. There are those who love the land because it holds a certain historical value to their heritage, while others appreciate the simple, yet beautiful topography of the rugged landscape. And some are simply curious; hoping to uncover any lasting secret they might happen across during a short drive or an afternoon walk in search of what has become of Pearl.
Sources Consulted
Flannigan, Jim. “Gem County’s Ghost Town.” Messenger-Index: compiled by the Gem
county Chamber of Commerce. (1957).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (September 29, 1955).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (May 8, 1952).
Unknown. “The West View District.” Caldwell Tribune (June 3, 1983).
Unknown. “Pearl.” Emmett Messenger Vacation Issue. (Summer, 1959).
Wells, Merls. "God Camps and Silver Cities." Idaho Bureau of Mines and Geology
No. 22 ed.: Pamphlet. (1977).
Woodward, Tim. “The revival of Pearl – gambling on a ghost town.” Idaho Statesman
(July 13, 1980).
© June 2009
During the turn of the nineteenth century, Pearl flourished as an Idaho mining town and home to more than 1,300 residents. Today, the locals and tourists attempt to find remnants of the once thriving town that exists now only as legend of a ghost town.
A large, brown historical marker midway up Freeze Out Hill invites the curious to discover the history of Pearl. Further down the road, located at the top of Freeze Out Hill on highway 16, there is a sign encouraging a short nine mile drive to locate the old mining town. Pearl is situated in a swath of land that separates the Emmett valley from the town of Horseshoe Bend; located 9 miles from the Emmett Highway and 4.5 miles from the Horseshoe Bend Highway at an elevation of 4,300’.
Like many mining towns there is an extensive history of productivity and price collapses that affected both miners and the activity of the particular mines.
Pearl remains a local secret as there is nothing left to show for her prominent days. The only thing surviving is a handful of mine openings and a few foundations of old town structures, now overgrown with native vegetation. Most drive past the area where the town once showcased three general stores, a drug store that kept two full time doctors in demand, two hotels, a restaurant, a barber shop, a black smith shop, a bakery, a post office, a livery stable, a church, a school, and an International Order of Odd Fellows hall. Today, only a few pieces of broken concrete rest quietly in the shade of the tall Lombardy Poplars. This marks the location where the Brambly Hotel used to stand.Although some of Pearls history has been documented, most comes by way of legend. For instance, Pearl (Gilbert) Robeson – now deceased- was the first born child in the area in 1896 for which they gave the town its name. In 1892, the first interest of mining was developed and shortly after in 1894 roads began to develop from Boise and Caldwell leading to the town of Pearl. In 1908 the town began to show sign of deterioration as Pearl lived through the final collapse of the gold rush. However, many residents continued to live in the area and raised families for several years after the town went extinct. The last major mining exploration Pearl experience was in 1980 when the TRV Minerals Corp and Sunshine Mining Co tested for lucrative veins just outside of the old town.
The area known as Pearl now attracts enthusiast of all kinds as well as those curious to its history. It is a popular biking road, out of the mainstream of traffic. Motorcyclists and site seers enjoy the quite, dusty road to take them from the hustle and bustle of the city for an afternoon drive. And throughout the changing seasons, signs of target practicing and hunters are evident.
Pearl’s past was influential in attracting opportunity for many in the early nineteenth century. Today it serves a quiet, serene place to escape from the demands of city-life. There are those who love the land because it holds a certain historical value to their heritage, while others appreciate the simple, yet beautiful topography of the rugged landscape. And some are simply curious; hoping to uncover any lasting secret they might happen across during a short drive or an afternoon walk in search of what has become of Pearl.
Sources Consulted
Flannigan, Jim. “Gem County’s Ghost Town.” Messenger-Index: compiled by the Gem
county Chamber of Commerce. (1957).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (September 29, 1955).
Riggs, Sam. “Looking Back.” Emmett Messenger (May 8, 1952).
Unknown. “The West View District.” Caldwell Tribune (June 3, 1983).
Unknown. “Pearl.” Emmett Messenger Vacation Issue. (Summer, 1959).
Wells, Merls. "God Camps and Silver Cities." Idaho Bureau of Mines and Geology
No. 22 ed.: Pamphlet. (1977).
Woodward, Tim. “The revival of Pearl – gambling on a ghost town.” Idaho Statesman
(July 13, 1980).
Where Will You Play Tomorrow
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
Boiling a guilt slurry
Stirring life, shackles
Untied through broken
Lead – click click
Choking on rot of rising
Pride. Smell
Of red finger nail
Polish behind a dusty screen door
Waving good-bye, crook in the knee
Watching an El Camino
In a rearview dream
Guitar strings
Hammer out permission of
Fights; flights; and cats
In the cradle
You can still cut my French toast for me
Unscrupulous teddy bear! Troublesome
Light shatters the turning pages
Will I ever wake to see you
Watching over me? You were
Right. I should have always
Let you be
Right next to me
Clawing…
Away at my inside
Pang pang on the glass, step on the gas
Rescue her from the cracks
She could never understand
Envied instead – a search for truth
That came to be
How I needed Them both
There: they’re inside of me
© 2008
Boiling a guilt slurry
Stirring life, shackles
Untied through broken
Lead – click click
Choking on rot of rising
Pride. Smell
Of red finger nail
Polish behind a dusty screen door
Waving good-bye, crook in the knee
Watching an El Camino
In a rearview dream
Guitar strings
Hammer out permission of
Fights; flights; and cats
In the cradle
You can still cut my French toast for me
Unscrupulous teddy bear! Troublesome
Light shatters the turning pages
Will I ever wake to see you
Watching over me? You were
Right. I should have always
Let you be
Right next to me
Clawing…
Away at my inside
Pang pang on the glass, step on the gas
Rescue her from the cracks
She could never understand
Envied instead – a search for truth
That came to be
How I needed Them both
There: they’re inside of me
Bibles & Hymn Books exchanged by my parents when they were married in 1968.
Lady LesBois
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
Wrinkles appear; pronounced.
Her epoch hands
surround a tranquil valley.
Dingy nylons sag
Around the waist
of barren foothills.
Cotton. Old jewelry.
Clings tightly to fading
Bronzed skin.
Rose buds covet lingering
pink – a silken sleep
is coming. The wind is waltzing
Pinning gray hair back.
Having already packed
And moved away
to Arizona. Returning next year
Fingernails painted green
to cradle her tender valley.
© 2008
Wrinkles appear; pronounced.
Her epoch hands
surround a tranquil valley.
Dingy nylons sag
Around the waist
of barren foothills.
Cotton. Old jewelry.
Clings tightly to fading
Bronzed skin.
Rose buds covet lingering
pink – a silken sleep
is coming. The wind is waltzing
Pinning gray hair back.
Having already packed
And moved away
to Arizona. Returning next year
Fingernails painted green
to cradle her tender valley.
The Island
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2007
We discovered each other
On the shifting tides. Before long
I invite you to share my island
Contentment dappled the sand
The breeze whispered calm with Jasmine
A vague scent of future would catch us
Waltzing in the consenting moonlight
Initially embracing pleasure – we come
To share our dreams. They seem to fit
As we talk of sailing away
Eventually. To unfold in loves admission
Then – out of your darkness
Came a shovel - you thrust it
Into my hands: Together we’ll build a better Island!
Reluctantly – I agree
I watch your words reverberate and slither
Down the poised cliffs beyond
Who hold their breath and arch their backs while
I choke on the sounds of their rumble
Confused. As my treasures
Already I have given freely, begin to
Hide beneath unnerving silhouettes. While
Hedonistic desires strangle the salty air
A handle lies dead across my palm. I tighten
My grip and asphyxiate my senses who
Screech from behind painted feathers
Now headed for higher ground
A murky shadow crawls across the narrow
Strip of beach and I hear your voice. This time
Through a peculiar rain: I will take care of our dreams
– If you will trust me
And I did.
And time swept over the island – while I stood
Helpless. Watching your promises wither
The fleshy palm trees. Your lies fill the holes
Where the innocent sand crabs used to play
Yet shamefully beside you
Apprehensively hopeful – I find myself
Powerless to the vitality escaping me.
I continue to dig
With callused hands
Aching back. Emptied soul. I watch
A receding tide with confused
Desperation. I beg of you to relent
A melancholic moon has been watching.
She casts an unfavorable light on your nakedness
While you stand - shovel in hand
Promising - - - promising to stop
But I am too exhausted to continue on
I weep while your blackness engulfs my island
I feel all essence collapsed and burning
You are going to swallow me alive
– I swim away
I did not know.
I loved a Pirate.
© 2007
We discovered each other
On the shifting tides. Before long
I invite you to share my island
Contentment dappled the sand
The breeze whispered calm with Jasmine
A vague scent of future would catch us
Waltzing in the consenting moonlight
Initially embracing pleasure – we come
To share our dreams. They seem to fit
As we talk of sailing away
Eventually. To unfold in loves admission
Then – out of your darkness
Came a shovel - you thrust it
Into my hands: Together we’ll build a better Island!
Reluctantly – I agree
I watch your words reverberate and slither
Down the poised cliffs beyond
Who hold their breath and arch their backs while
I choke on the sounds of their rumble
Confused. As my treasures
Already I have given freely, begin to
Hide beneath unnerving silhouettes. While
Hedonistic desires strangle the salty air
A handle lies dead across my palm. I tighten
My grip and asphyxiate my senses who
Screech from behind painted feathers
Now headed for higher ground
A murky shadow crawls across the narrow
Strip of beach and I hear your voice. This time
Through a peculiar rain: I will take care of our dreams
– If you will trust me
And I did.
And time swept over the island – while I stood
Helpless. Watching your promises wither
The fleshy palm trees. Your lies fill the holes
Where the innocent sand crabs used to play
Yet shamefully beside you
Apprehensively hopeful – I find myself
Powerless to the vitality escaping me.
I continue to dig
With callused hands
Aching back. Emptied soul. I watch
A receding tide with confused
Desperation. I beg of you to relent
A melancholic moon has been watching.
She casts an unfavorable light on your nakedness
While you stand - shovel in hand
Promising - - - promising to stop
But I am too exhausted to continue on
I weep while your blackness engulfs my island
I feel all essence collapsed and burning
You are going to swallow me alive
– I swim away
I did not know.
I loved a Pirate.
Anthony and Rochelle; Oregon Coast 2005
A Delicate Breath
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
It was a day like today. It felt like babies smell.
Innocence reeking of a peculiar stench. Feeling
Of a strong desire to be
With someone like you.
Knowledge cascades over the daylight. Distorted. Begging. Clawing.
Hanging on my spine, until a brief sigh
On the westward wind tunnels an escape.
I watched your name tip-toe across yellow tulips. I whisper it
Quickly to myself, looking about to see
If they heard me
Sober shadows protect me while I slip away
Somewhere I shouldn’t. The damp grass is a pillow
Of reminiscence, somewhere in time
With someone like you
Reflections remain planted
Firmly in their prints – refusing to surrender. I wait
For eyes Tender blue. Summer green. Please, not of drowning brown.
The wilting moss knows my pain as I raise my face to be
Welcomed; in some truth of the day. Instead, received
By a muted rain – appearing
Before me, where I smell a moment of trust.
Through a delicate breath
On a day like today
With someone like you
© 2008
It was a day like today. It felt like babies smell.
Innocence reeking of a peculiar stench. Feeling
Of a strong desire to be
With someone like you.
Knowledge cascades over the daylight. Distorted. Begging. Clawing.
Hanging on my spine, until a brief sigh
On the westward wind tunnels an escape.
I watched your name tip-toe across yellow tulips. I whisper it
Quickly to myself, looking about to see
If they heard me
Sober shadows protect me while I slip away
Somewhere I shouldn’t. The damp grass is a pillow
Of reminiscence, somewhere in time
With someone like you
Reflections remain planted
Firmly in their prints – refusing to surrender. I wait
For eyes Tender blue. Summer green. Please, not of drowning brown.
The wilting moss knows my pain as I raise my face to be
Welcomed; in some truth of the day. Instead, received
By a muted rain – appearing
Before me, where I smell a moment of trust.
Through a delicate breath
On a day like today
With someone like you
Photo by Anthony
Your Mother's Secrets
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
In your youth, you may not understand
But someday these words in time
Will weigh more than ever before.
Take a moment to look into the eyes
Of your mother. See her secrets,
The quiet whispers that rest on her lips.
If you are lucky – she will unlock this place where you
Are not tall enough to see over. Only she can decide
What hush-hushes are hers.
If she stirs her heart for you to listen --- then listen
These moments are more precious than stories
Untold. Know she has invited you
To a place you may never
Fully appreciate; part of something
You may never understand. Know
That she has been to places,
Experienced many things.
She has lived in ways
That you may come to see her
Differently. Understand her – more deeply. Love her
More freely. For make no mistake,
Some day the gate will surely close. She will stand
On the other side: wave good bye. Did you come to know –
All there is to know?
She’ll be gone – and you left with questions
That can no longer be answered. If you would
Have only looked into
Her eyes. Gather those fortunate days
When she will say: Come sit by my side,
I have something to tell you.
© 2008
In your youth, you may not understand
But someday these words in time
Will weigh more than ever before.
Take a moment to look into the eyes
Of your mother. See her secrets,
The quiet whispers that rest on her lips.
If you are lucky – she will unlock this place where you
Are not tall enough to see over. Only she can decide
What hush-hushes are hers.
If she stirs her heart for you to listen --- then listen
These moments are more precious than stories
Untold. Know she has invited you
To a place you may never
Fully appreciate; part of something
You may never understand. Know
That she has been to places,
Experienced many things.
She has lived in ways
That you may come to see her
Differently. Understand her – more deeply. Love her
More freely. For make no mistake,
Some day the gate will surely close. She will stand
On the other side: wave good bye. Did you come to know –
All there is to know?
She’ll be gone – and you left with questions
That can no longer be answered. If you would
Have only looked into
Her eyes. Gather those fortunate days
When she will say: Come sit by my side,
I have something to tell you.
Yellow Roses of Pearl, Idaho
Small Town Eyes
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
I moved away, several times in fact
The new still feeling the same
As though Columbus had already arrived
Again; smoggy sunset evenings painted iridescent
All of which they had long ago decided
To trade for blue.
Strangers became neighbors. Friends
With a different view
Would say to me,
It never used to be this way.
Some spoke of concrete
Growing in the night
And the iron jaws
Contracted to eat away--
Gluttonous appetites devouring
What history survived
The marsh lands gone under an echo
Of red parking lights and Java neon
And I hear them say,
It never used to be this way.
And what of the farmers’ rows? A beauty smelling
Of plastic and carbon blue. As the awnings
Hold hands with yellow lines and stare out at you.
But I thought it fine – as I look around
Quiet. Polished. Available. Conveniently dead.
When I return to my home town
I catch myself taking it all in
And still disbelieving.
I feel myself say,
It never use to be to be this way.
© 2008
I moved away, several times in fact
The new still feeling the same
As though Columbus had already arrived
Again; smoggy sunset evenings painted iridescent
All of which they had long ago decided
To trade for blue.
Strangers became neighbors. Friends
With a different view
Would say to me,
It never used to be this way.
Some spoke of concrete
Growing in the night
And the iron jaws
Contracted to eat away--
Gluttonous appetites devouring
What history survived
The marsh lands gone under an echo
Of red parking lights and Java neon
And I hear them say,
It never used to be this way.
And what of the farmers’ rows? A beauty smelling
Of plastic and carbon blue. As the awnings
Hold hands with yellow lines and stare out at you.
But I thought it fine – as I look around
Quiet. Polished. Available. Conveniently dead.
When I return to my home town
I catch myself taking it all in
And still disbelieving.
I feel myself say,
It never use to be to be this way.
Oregon Lake: 2007
Switzerland
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2007
Watch the brilliant teal serpent
Threading a sigh
Meandering through gardens of towns
folk
Toppled devotion – organic generations
Of perfect harmony. Cultivated rows
Entwined in silken soil
Listen – jazz softly rises up from
courtyards; tears
Fall on archaic structures
Of gold – and God; where thousand-year-old fingers
Carved overwhelmingly – stealing their faith.
Crimson petals twist
and pour
Out of discernible window boxes
Onto slate green streets
below. Above
The Alps tower with snow-caps
Peering down on bullion rooftops.
Jeweled windows of painted faces
Looking out from the ubiquitous Clock Tower
See. Even the
Elderly steal a kiss – or a moment
On a park bench and watch
As a teal river
Slithers
quietly
past.
A Dreaded Encounter
by Rochelle Cunningham
© March 2009
Last fall…
He asked for my phone number. My father’s condition with cancer had taken a turn for the worst, so dating wasn’t exactly a priority for me. But someone had made me laugh for the first time in quite a while. It felt good to smile. He had done that for me on the few occasions when I stopped into the campus convenience store for a coffee re-fill. Instead of giving him my number, I took his.
Richard. 731—0580. I folded the piece of paper in half, and in half again, then stuck it into my coat pocket. I called him a week later. We spoke on the phone a couple of times, but my life was too busy for any kind of a social commitment. Fall turned to summer – summer to winter – winter to a new semester and I was busy on a different side of the campus where I re-filled my coffee elsewhere.
Just yesterday…
I ran into him again for the first time since last fall. He did a double-take as I handed him the cash for a bottle of water and a pack of Juicy Fruit. It must have been the dread-locks in my hair.
“Oh. Hey!” he said to me.
“Hello Richard.” I replied.
“So. Did your dad actually die?” He asked. I felt my mouth gape open so far that I recognized my teeth tingling from the cold central air entering my mouth. Did he really just say that to me?
“He… no, he’s fine. Well, not fine, but we’re all hanging in there.” I felt like I had taken a slug to the chest.
“How’s your mom?” His line of questioning was as though we had never met – and his eyes kept darting toward my hair.
I was still regaining emotional consciousness as I reeled in my bulging eyeballs and said, “She’s good.”
“So, they’re still together?” He asked as he looked at my hair – again.
“Yes. Thirty-seven years now.” I answered, staring at him as if he were suffering from amnesia. These were things we had already talked about.
“You have brothers and sisters?” he asked, surveying my hair and looking back at the cash register, randomly flipping the black, plastic money holders. Finally he handed me my change. I smiled at him, feeling a bit sorry for him and his uncomfortable behavior.
“Yes. Three brothers and two sisters,” I replied as I put the change in my coin purse.
“From the same parents?” He asked.
“No. But that’s a long story,” I said, putting my gum into my back pack and zipping it up, “it’s kind of a mess.” Just as I slung my back pack over my shoulder he said:
“Yes I can see that from your hair.” WHAM! The opening he was waiting for… and he ran me over again.
I stood there, frozen, in one of those moments in time that feel like a scene from the Matrix: just you and the idiot you’re facing off with and no one else exists –only silence and floating debris between the two of you. But when the moment ended, when the sound came back from the Matrix scene and I was grounded in reality – I had nothing, no idea how to respond, so I settled with:
“I’ll see you around, Richard.”
After I walked away…
I wasn’t sure how to react to Dick’s insensitive remarks. I already knew that having dread-locks would make people uncomfortable. I discovered this the first time my sister saw my new do. She had no problem making her disapproval known as she curled up her top lip and look at me through raised eyebrows:
“Well that outta narrow down the men that you attract,” she said with a sarcastic tongue. She was right. However, I wouldn’t appreciate the weight of her keen observation until that afternoon with Dick.
The reality is that some people are simply not fond of dread-locks for whatever reason. I respect and appreciate their opinions. I can even admit that I knew there would be a plethora of reactions when I committed to having them; reactions like those of my bold and honest little sister. What I didn’t expect was how someone could look at me and see only hair.
The encounter with Dick became clear: my dread-locks served as a filter… a filter for the caliber of individuals that I want to surround myself with – or at the very least filter out of my world. I decided that if I ever got another reaction like Dick's, I will simply remind myself of the valuable time I could be saving by not investing in another dreaded relationship.
Barred
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2008
They took you away
In handcuffs today
In the boat,
On the water,
Under a reservoir sky.
I get in my car
And buckle down
Through three
County lines,
Foothills and fog
Coming down
Old Freezout Way—
All that space
so much
Space
I reached for your hand
Prevention
Shares a pillow
Asleep
in a room
You once called out ‘Next to,’
And you
In your cold cell
Call
collect
To say that you’re fine.
Our family lies
Through a telephone line.
So this
is home for awhile?
Really?
When I laugh
I hear – in my head first, the reverb,
The long hour fielding shadows,
Walking
the worn path
Of old carpet. I was with you today
And hardly--
Alone in my head,
in a car port,
In hallway instead, awaiting
The next time we embrace
In distant cold.
Detached
and bound
through strangling wire
Jake, Rochelle, Pop, Mom, & Dub
Christmas in Pearl '06
Christmas in Pearl '06
67 In Pearl
67 In Pearl
I watch, as you plant Iris’s down your driveway
Tomorrow we celebrate the day of your Birth
Granted more time for lessons and stories
Unwrapped by those who come to listen
Another year of your footsteps upon this Earth
An occasion worthy of reflection and gratitude
Coveting the future minutes, we may not Get
Able to share in the splendor of our love
Uncertain of birthdays to come
Each moment lived in its fullest – no intent of Regret
A whisper in the wind reminds me to thank you
For all the fires you’ve built to keep us Warm
To honor – you… who gave me life
If not for your breath
I would not have one of my Own
Rich beyond measure, I sit on a carpet of green
Planted with your old Hoe
At night I rest my weary head
In a home built of two weathered hands
By a great man I have come to Know
My provider, my protector, my mentor, my Pop
The man who knows only of Giving
Do you know what a strong and gentle creature
You are? You who carries a torch of kindness
For those who have passed, and those still Living?
Today I knew joy - as I held the sheets to my face
The ones that dried in the summer breeze of Pearl
Seizing another moment of gratitude
You have created more than just a dwelling for us
But an entire World
I wish you Happy Birthday and offer my many thanks
Birds and crickets, lakes and lizards –your vision for living, I share too
For all the little moments taken to cherish each other
They will remind me for lifetimes to come
Of how much I dearly love
and appreciate you.
June 29, 2009
A Fall From Grace
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2009
First on the scene, the last one in bed.
Right up to the edge, and left at the next chance.
Tomorrow may not wait – will you?
Like a promise hanging from the back of your throat.
When the wailing ends, tears dry in a wrinkled trench.
What if the cure is worse than the disease.
Is it time to let go? Time to watch it disappear, to fall from grace?
Death whispers, like an icy breath on the back of my neck.
The more I learn, the less I understand.
And emptiness fills the hollow spaces of my mind.
Lifting the skirt of life, exposing her secrets.
Bind the pale light with a knitted lead ribbon.
Guitar strings break the rhythm, and darkness bleeds through.
So let it go. It’s time to let go, to disappear from grace.
Come back home, come to mama. This time you’ve gone too far.
Conversations never happen, secrets die between the lines.
It only matters if it’s true.
Fill in the blank spaces with smoke, with gentle smolder.
Wake up! You drifted off to sleep in a heat wave
Who wanders around in a brown sugar desert, dripping of humility?
Let go. You have to let go, to fall from grace.
I don’t have it anymore, it ran through my fingers long ago.
Messages a million miles a minute, trampling our souls.
With heavy hearts they ride around on iron butterfly wings.
And charm and grace were last seen playing alone.
Lost in a moment, dripping like honey from a rain barrel.
Lick the blood from your lips, and hold your cards up.
It’s time to let go. It’s time to fall… to fall from grace.
© 2009
First on the scene, the last one in bed.
Right up to the edge, and left at the next chance.
Tomorrow may not wait – will you?
Like a promise hanging from the back of your throat.
When the wailing ends, tears dry in a wrinkled trench.
What if the cure is worse than the disease.
Is it time to let go? Time to watch it disappear, to fall from grace?
Death whispers, like an icy breath on the back of my neck.
The more I learn, the less I understand.
And emptiness fills the hollow spaces of my mind.
Lifting the skirt of life, exposing her secrets.
Bind the pale light with a knitted lead ribbon.
Guitar strings break the rhythm, and darkness bleeds through.
So let it go. It’s time to let go, to disappear from grace.
Come back home, come to mama. This time you’ve gone too far.
Conversations never happen, secrets die between the lines.
It only matters if it’s true.
Fill in the blank spaces with smoke, with gentle smolder.
Wake up! You drifted off to sleep in a heat wave
Who wanders around in a brown sugar desert, dripping of humility?
Let go. You have to let go, to fall from grace.
I don’t have it anymore, it ran through my fingers long ago.
Messages a million miles a minute, trampling our souls.
With heavy hearts they ride around on iron butterfly wings.
And charm and grace were last seen playing alone.
Lost in a moment, dripping like honey from a rain barrel.
Lick the blood from your lips, and hold your cards up.
It’s time to let go. It’s time to fall… to fall from grace.
Let It Rise
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2009
This conversation is over
No need to seek your guidance
Your opinion is nothing to me
Turn it upside down, shake it out
Whatever falls to the ground
Will lead me, back to you
For years I envied you
Looked to you for direction, for guidance
Who are you? Who are you?
Let it ride, let it rise.
The smoke will clear… no point in looking back.
A new day – A new day will appear.
The last one out, shut off the fucking lights
Don’t forget to feed the dog
We won’t be back to see you off
Tire tracks in the snow will lead us to you
If you could just stand still
Fingers clenched around a long-neck bottle
Because the last one standing does not win
We just let him think he will
Who are you? Who in the hell do you think you are?
Let it ride, let it rise.
The smoke will clear… no point in looking back.
A new day – A new day will appear.
Alone in your head, alone at our table.
Get past the holes in my face, the color on my back.
You've already painted the spaces foul
Your judging lips lead me to you
Sleepless nights help me to see
It will never be the same as it was before
Gotta catch the truth before it disappears
Convictions that hiss with laughter
Who are you? Who are you supposto be?
Let it ride, let it rise.
The smoke will clear…
There’s no point in looking back…
Because in another day, you will appear to me
© 2009
This conversation is over
No need to seek your guidance
Your opinion is nothing to me
Turn it upside down, shake it out
Whatever falls to the ground
Will lead me, back to you
For years I envied you
Looked to you for direction, for guidance
Who are you? Who are you?
Let it ride, let it rise.
The smoke will clear… no point in looking back.
A new day – A new day will appear.
The last one out, shut off the fucking lights
Don’t forget to feed the dog
We won’t be back to see you off
Tire tracks in the snow will lead us to you
If you could just stand still
Fingers clenched around a long-neck bottle
Because the last one standing does not win
We just let him think he will
Who are you? Who in the hell do you think you are?
Let it ride, let it rise.
The smoke will clear… no point in looking back.
A new day – A new day will appear.
Alone in your head, alone at our table.
Get past the holes in my face, the color on my back.
You've already painted the spaces foul
Your judging lips lead me to you
Sleepless nights help me to see
It will never be the same as it was before
Gotta catch the truth before it disappears
Convictions that hiss with laughter
Who are you? Who are you supposto be?
Let it ride, let it rise.
The smoke will clear…
There’s no point in looking back…
Because in another day, you will appear to me
Vanish
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2009
I can’t escape… Everything reminds me.
Blessed be my disappearance. Until
The panic chills me awake. I can not see.
I cannot breathe when you are near.
Swallow a bitter taste of sweetness
That lingers in the morning shadows,
Slicing through the delicate layers
Of One trying to live on love alone.
The pain comes,
The pain goes.
Eros fed it to my soul, I starved
I started over.
© 2009
I can’t escape… Everything reminds me.
Blessed be my disappearance. Until
The panic chills me awake. I can not see.
I cannot breathe when you are near.
Swallow a bitter taste of sweetness
That lingers in the morning shadows,
Slicing through the delicate layers
Of One trying to live on love alone.
The pain comes,
The pain goes.
Eros fed it to my soul, I starved
I started over.
On Bended Knee
The Keewaydin Park Library Experience
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2010
My first experience in a library was one of awe and humility. I stood there – fixed in my footsteps, silently looking around at thousands of books. My eyes wandering over the rigid soldiers in all shapes and sizes, lined up shoulder to shoulder in elegant bindings to guard the many accounts of the past. Both truth and fiction sat patiently, staring back at me. I had discovered a connection to something larger than myself. I was like the sinner on bended knee in gratitude to her creator. At the tender age of eight, I did not fully comprehend what it meant to be caught in such a moment, though I knew I had entered a place of true greatness.
Certainly at such a young age my grasp of history was limited. I had not learned until adulthood that 30,000 clay tablets were discovered in ancient Mesopotamia; these 5,000 year-old tablets represented one of history’s earliest library concepts. What I was aware of, however, was how I felt standing there in that little, reverent Keewaydin Park Library somewhere outside of Kennewick, Washington. I felt more at home for that brief moment, than I had anywhere else up to that point in my young life. And I carry that appreciation with me still today.
Understanding the survival of public libraries, a struggle that dates back as far as the middle of the second century B.C., compels me to treasure our contemporary book depositories all the more. This could be why my favorite libraries are those that smell like an old bookstore. Such libraries aspire to celebrate age and the ability to unveil centuries of hidden mystery rather than mask it with the scent of modernity or newness.
Walking the aisles of books, I allow my nostrils to fill with nostalgia of libraries past, just as I did as a child. I offer thanks to the ancient Egyptians and their papyrus scrolls from 1300 B.C., paying tribute to all those who persevered throughout history to bring us the libraries of today. I can’t help but breathe in every facet of what a library has to offer and steal private, intimate moments to appreciate their existence. I run my fingertips over the beautiful spines and touch the pages of books that have had relationships with countless others before me.
I cannot pass through a library without being reminded of my childhood experience; a transcendence that lives with me still today. Coveting time not afforded in a single human existence, I mourn the printed brilliance that will remain unchartered. While I question which book to begin with, I wonder which will be the last one I will ever hold. And yet there is such comfort within the walls of a library. I can still be found sitting on the floor, just as I did when I was eight years old, hiding among the safety of the books and looking up at the miles of voices begging to be heard.
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2010
My first experience in a library was one of awe and humility. I stood there – fixed in my footsteps, silently looking around at thousands of books. My eyes wandering over the rigid soldiers in all shapes and sizes, lined up shoulder to shoulder in elegant bindings to guard the many accounts of the past. Both truth and fiction sat patiently, staring back at me. I had discovered a connection to something larger than myself. I was like the sinner on bended knee in gratitude to her creator. At the tender age of eight, I did not fully comprehend what it meant to be caught in such a moment, though I knew I had entered a place of true greatness.
Certainly at such a young age my grasp of history was limited. I had not learned until adulthood that 30,000 clay tablets were discovered in ancient Mesopotamia; these 5,000 year-old tablets represented one of history’s earliest library concepts. What I was aware of, however, was how I felt standing there in that little, reverent Keewaydin Park Library somewhere outside of Kennewick, Washington. I felt more at home for that brief moment, than I had anywhere else up to that point in my young life. And I carry that appreciation with me still today.
Understanding the survival of public libraries, a struggle that dates back as far as the middle of the second century B.C., compels me to treasure our contemporary book depositories all the more. This could be why my favorite libraries are those that smell like an old bookstore. Such libraries aspire to celebrate age and the ability to unveil centuries of hidden mystery rather than mask it with the scent of modernity or newness.
Walking the aisles of books, I allow my nostrils to fill with nostalgia of libraries past, just as I did as a child. I offer thanks to the ancient Egyptians and their papyrus scrolls from 1300 B.C., paying tribute to all those who persevered throughout history to bring us the libraries of today. I can’t help but breathe in every facet of what a library has to offer and steal private, intimate moments to appreciate their existence. I run my fingertips over the beautiful spines and touch the pages of books that have had relationships with countless others before me.
I cannot pass through a library without being reminded of my childhood experience; a transcendence that lives with me still today. Coveting time not afforded in a single human existence, I mourn the printed brilliance that will remain unchartered. While I question which book to begin with, I wonder which will be the last one I will ever hold. And yet there is such comfort within the walls of a library. I can still be found sitting on the floor, just as I did when I was eight years old, hiding among the safety of the books and looking up at the miles of voices begging to be heard.
Use Your Words
by Rochelle Cunningham
I have always loved words.
I have blanketed myself underneath of them, for protection, for love, for acceptance. I have kept company with the words in my head, on paper, secret words that were all mine to do with as I wish. Words that made sense to me and explained the painful events around me: that changed over time with new experiences and new understandings. Words that never betrayed me even when I would make unrealistic demands of them, rearrange them, manipulate them, convince them to console me; to be mine. And they did. I learned to create perfect relationships where we agreed on most everything. I did this in order to embrace changes in my life.
Because we moved a lot, I have only snippets of the many places in my young mind’s eye. There were sliding doors leading to a back yard with a rusted trampoline; a spiral staircase carpeted with olive green shag that led to my bedroom where a summer breeze would whisper through lemon-yellow sheer drapes; a single-car garage that smelled of gasoline and spoiling peaches; a little white dishwasher that had black tentacles that hooked up to the kitchen sink faucet; a drafty trailer house where I walked to a school that I attended only long enough to receiving a paddling for taking a watermelon Jolly Rancher candy from a teacher’s desk.
The move to Washington is where I discovered how to retreat into the blank pages of my early school notebooks. It was here I could find myself – find a sense of freedom, if only for a time.
I needed a place to escape. From my sisters, from my angry, unhappy mother who kept company with my step-father who was an equally miserable human being that I called Dad, and from a life where I felt alienated. All I ever remember wanting was to be near my Pop, but I had two dark keepers who knew of my hearts happiness and made that impossible. I chose to have love affairs instead. Yes. Even at eight years old, I had love affairs.
I fell in love with flowers, butterfly wings, the snarled bark of an elm tree, the drops of water glinting on a spider’s web, the mysterious colors of the sunrises and sunsets, the smell of bread, or dusty summer rains, or the first cut grass of summer. I was in love with boys with brown eyes, or blue eyes, or kind smiles. I loved watching my Grandmothers delicate tissue paper skin as she crocheted, or the way my pillow smelled after my father laid his head on it to say good night to me. And I wanted to capture and preserve them on white, blank paper canvas.
This is how I survived my childhood. Observation and separation. I learned to become a social child, while remaining a lonely child. I learned to make friends easily, while enjoying my time alone. I learned to disappear inside of my mind, inside of my words. I would learn to use language as a way to understand and express myself, to indulge in fantasy and blur the lines of painful reality onto the pages of my notebooks – and eventually to my journals, then to my fiction and non-fiction. I would find happiness among the words I met and made friends with – trusting only those who would acquiesce.
I have always loved words.
I have blanketed myself underneath of them, for protection, for love, for acceptance. I have kept company with the words in my head, on paper, secret words that were all mine to do with as I wish. Words that made sense to me and explained the painful events around me: that changed over time with new experiences and new understandings. Words that never betrayed me even when I would make unrealistic demands of them, rearrange them, manipulate them, convince them to console me; to be mine. And they did. I learned to create perfect relationships where we agreed on most everything. I did this in order to embrace changes in my life.
Because we moved a lot, I have only snippets of the many places in my young mind’s eye. There were sliding doors leading to a back yard with a rusted trampoline; a spiral staircase carpeted with olive green shag that led to my bedroom where a summer breeze would whisper through lemon-yellow sheer drapes; a single-car garage that smelled of gasoline and spoiling peaches; a little white dishwasher that had black tentacles that hooked up to the kitchen sink faucet; a drafty trailer house where I walked to a school that I attended only long enough to receiving a paddling for taking a watermelon Jolly Rancher candy from a teacher’s desk.
The move to Washington is where I discovered how to retreat into the blank pages of my early school notebooks. It was here I could find myself – find a sense of freedom, if only for a time.
I needed a place to escape. From my sisters, from my angry, unhappy mother who kept company with my step-father who was an equally miserable human being that I called Dad, and from a life where I felt alienated. All I ever remember wanting was to be near my Pop, but I had two dark keepers who knew of my hearts happiness and made that impossible. I chose to have love affairs instead. Yes. Even at eight years old, I had love affairs.
I fell in love with flowers, butterfly wings, the snarled bark of an elm tree, the drops of water glinting on a spider’s web, the mysterious colors of the sunrises and sunsets, the smell of bread, or dusty summer rains, or the first cut grass of summer. I was in love with boys with brown eyes, or blue eyes, or kind smiles. I loved watching my Grandmothers delicate tissue paper skin as she crocheted, or the way my pillow smelled after my father laid his head on it to say good night to me. And I wanted to capture and preserve them on white, blank paper canvas.
This is how I survived my childhood. Observation and separation. I learned to become a social child, while remaining a lonely child. I learned to make friends easily, while enjoying my time alone. I learned to disappear inside of my mind, inside of my words. I would learn to use language as a way to understand and express myself, to indulge in fantasy and blur the lines of painful reality onto the pages of my notebooks – and eventually to my journals, then to my fiction and non-fiction. I would find happiness among the words I met and made friends with – trusting only those who would acquiesce.
Virtual Fantasy
by Rochelle Cunningham
©January 2010
I remember some things...
About an old lover. Familiar
Electric currents
Pass incognito, beneath my covers
Hearing his laugh unchanged
Nor his walk, nor his wit
I can still feel his mouth - There
On the back of my neck
And I feel him infect me
From behind his duality
Leaving my mind & breast
Trying to out-run this - My fantasy
Stealing a moment to see him
Curious, I take another peek
Allowing myself the thrill
Cautious of what I seek
Hearing familiar sounds
That would have taken us away
Trembling with a heat and frenzy
Still seeing that long, stretch of highway
Careful to control my desire. As it merges
Into wreck-less abandon
Aware of my stinging black tail
That transforms not, into a dark phantom
Deep in my thoughts
I glimpse an obscure future
It is beginning to smell - And taste
Of this ... My past lover
~ R
©January 2010
I remember some things...
About an old lover. Familiar
Electric currents
Pass incognito, beneath my covers
Hearing his laugh unchanged
Nor his walk, nor his wit
I can still feel his mouth - There
On the back of my neck
And I feel him infect me
From behind his duality
Leaving my mind & breast
Trying to out-run this - My fantasy
Stealing a moment to see him
Curious, I take another peek
Allowing myself the thrill
Cautious of what I seek
Hearing familiar sounds
That would have taken us away
Trembling with a heat and frenzy
Still seeing that long, stretch of highway
Careful to control my desire. As it merges
Into wreck-less abandon
Aware of my stinging black tail
That transforms not, into a dark phantom
Deep in my thoughts
I glimpse an obscure future
It is beginning to smell - And taste
Of this ... My past lover
~ R
Sunday, May 30, 2010
"Hit It"
by Rochelle Cunningham
© 2009
1979.
Nine o’clock in the morning and the pavement was already hot on her bare, little legs. She sat on the sidewalk in denim cut-offs and a yellow tube top. Tightening the yellow marble rubber-band do-hicky holding her ponytail in place, she wondered if she was ready for her sister to pull her around on roller skates behind their bicycle. They liked to pretend they were water-skiing. Somewhere they had seen this: people floating in the water behind a boat, just their heads bobbing around until they said the magic words “Hit it!” Then, seconds later they were magically standing on top of the water, scooting around like someone in socks on a hardwood floor.
This is how they saw the neighborhood; skiing around the block. As long as she held on to that rope, she could see all the things her sisters saw. Today was her day. She would show them how she could ski behind that bike too.
She reached down to tighten the red leather strap attached to the heel of the metal skate. They weren’t staying on her feet because they weren’t her skates. She was borrowing them. Like everything in her life, she had them handed down to her. And like everything in her life, she had to wait her turn. Wait her turn to see, wait her turn to go, wait her turn to play, wait her turn to show them what she could do. This happened to her because she was the youngest of three sisters. But today she was going to take her borrowed skates that were too big for her and she was going to show them all. So they just had to stay in place. If she said “Hit it!”, and she wasn’t ready, they would never give her another chance.
Her oldest sister was always mad and she was getting mad at her. She could tell by the way she squirmed on the sparkly banana seat, balancing the bike from one foot to the other and looking over her shoulder in disgust. Why did they always think she couldn’t do anything? She could do stuff.
The other older sister with silver caps on four of her front teeth was busy twirling her baton in front yard. Every once in a while, standing there in her neon pink competition swimming suit, she would say something to pester their angry-big sister, then she would grin and her teeth would sparkle like the silver handle of the baton she tossed in the air. Those two were always at it.
“Are you ready, yet?” Angry Sister asked her.
“Just about. They don’t fit me.”
“You’re gunna get hurt and Mama’s gunna be mad,” Silver Teeth said to her little sister.
“Shut up stupid. You don’t know what will happen,” Angry Sister shot back.
“OOohh…I know you’re gunna get it.” Silver Teeth taunted in her best know-it-all voice.
She was out of time. Any minute now Angry Sister was going to throw the bike down and chase Silver Teeth until she caught her and beat the crap out of her. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Angry Sister looked away from Silver teeth and turned her attention to her baby sister. “Do you remember what to do?”
With big, scared eyes she looked at her sister and nodded. “Ya. I remember.”
Angry Sister turned away and straddled the bicycle. She walked the bike forward until the jump rope tightened. One end was tied to the back of the sparkly banana seat and the other end was in the hands of her little sister. “You ready?” she asked her sister without looking as she spun the peddle to get her right foot into the ‘go’ position.
With her butt on the sidewalk, her knees to her chest, and a rope between her legs, she held the wooden handle of the jump rope in her chubby little hands. The five-year-old took a final breath and said, “Hit it!”
* * * * * *
© 2009
1979.
Nine o’clock in the morning and the pavement was already hot on her bare, little legs. She sat on the sidewalk in denim cut-offs and a yellow tube top. Tightening the yellow marble rubber-band do-hicky holding her ponytail in place, she wondered if she was ready for her sister to pull her around on roller skates behind their bicycle. They liked to pretend they were water-skiing. Somewhere they had seen this: people floating in the water behind a boat, just their heads bobbing around until they said the magic words “Hit it!” Then, seconds later they were magically standing on top of the water, scooting around like someone in socks on a hardwood floor.
This is how they saw the neighborhood; skiing around the block. As long as she held on to that rope, she could see all the things her sisters saw. Today was her day. She would show them how she could ski behind that bike too.
She reached down to tighten the red leather strap attached to the heel of the metal skate. They weren’t staying on her feet because they weren’t her skates. She was borrowing them. Like everything in her life, she had them handed down to her. And like everything in her life, she had to wait her turn. Wait her turn to see, wait her turn to go, wait her turn to play, wait her turn to show them what she could do. This happened to her because she was the youngest of three sisters. But today she was going to take her borrowed skates that were too big for her and she was going to show them all. So they just had to stay in place. If she said “Hit it!”, and she wasn’t ready, they would never give her another chance.
Her oldest sister was always mad and she was getting mad at her. She could tell by the way she squirmed on the sparkly banana seat, balancing the bike from one foot to the other and looking over her shoulder in disgust. Why did they always think she couldn’t do anything? She could do stuff.
The other older sister with silver caps on four of her front teeth was busy twirling her baton in front yard. Every once in a while, standing there in her neon pink competition swimming suit, she would say something to pester their angry-big sister, then she would grin and her teeth would sparkle like the silver handle of the baton she tossed in the air. Those two were always at it.
“Are you ready, yet?” Angry Sister asked her.
“Just about. They don’t fit me.”
“You’re gunna get hurt and Mama’s gunna be mad,” Silver Teeth said to her little sister.
“Shut up stupid. You don’t know what will happen,” Angry Sister shot back.
“OOohh…I know you’re gunna get it.” Silver Teeth taunted in her best know-it-all voice.
She was out of time. Any minute now Angry Sister was going to throw the bike down and chase Silver Teeth until she caught her and beat the crap out of her. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Angry Sister looked away from Silver teeth and turned her attention to her baby sister. “Do you remember what to do?”
With big, scared eyes she looked at her sister and nodded. “Ya. I remember.”
Angry Sister turned away and straddled the bicycle. She walked the bike forward until the jump rope tightened. One end was tied to the back of the sparkly banana seat and the other end was in the hands of her little sister. “You ready?” she asked her sister without looking as she spun the peddle to get her right foot into the ‘go’ position.
With her butt on the sidewalk, her knees to her chest, and a rope between her legs, she held the wooden handle of the jump rope in her chubby little hands. The five-year-old took a final breath and said, “Hit it!”
* * * * * *
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