Gollum

Before Gollum had tasted

the power of The Ring,

when he still had family with whom

to sing in the Gladden Fields, when

things like friendship, honor, love

and joy would bring

all the happiness of spring, 

do you suppose he considered how a

ring – a small, pretty, shining

thing could change a man?

Did he think his first

drink of power would be

a thing so easily imbibed,

how it changed

a man inside

from what he’d been

to something he despised?

Before it split his soul in two,

before his craving really grew

into a wolf howling at

the moon in the darkness

of the Misty Mountains,

did he think he might

one day loathe the light?

Did he consider

wrong from right

or did he only ask for more?

Did he grieve his own lost soul

as his father surely did when

he crawled into his hole

to find that bloody ring?

And when he clawed his way

over friends and good intentions,

and he claimed The Ring his own,

he’d lost what really mattered

and died in flames alone.

Do you think as he lay dying,

precious ring clutched in his hand,

he wished he’d never seen it?

Did he ever understand?

Poor Monster

In the quiet morning,
beneath the cashmere calm,
behind the dog's soft snoring
and the purring knead
of pink-ed flesh,

a chill threatens
from the door
that won't quite close.
The wind
teases the cracks
around the casement,

searches for purchase
on the slippery ledge,
its sucking need just
outside.

The winter sky
has gone dull white,
a rictus that sucks
the color from the earth,
and no thousand trees'
brown fingers can
pull it back.

It is the season
that signals death,
when the weak tire
of waiting and the strong
grow tired.

It perches on the sill,
spies through the shutters
ruffles it feathers
and waits for the shattering.

Poor Monster.

It is consumed with lonely
and it wants only you.
Wrap yourself in dread
and wait for the
final signal bell.

The last train leaves at dusk.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

August 12, 2007

The Weight of Water

The wind whispers secrets soon to

be revealed.  Pushes him along.

There is no cure.

He shuffles. Small steps. Unsure

for the first time

in forever

whether he can make the hill.

Pail in hand, he bends, turns

the spigot, spends 

precious minutes.

Watches water fall. Rinses

out the larvae and the slime.

Fills the pail and after

a time convinces himself to stand.

Physics is cruel. And a body at

rest remains. He moves forward.

Pours water for the cats,

seed for the birds, feed for the possums

and raccoons. Corn for the deer.

Meat for the dogs.

They need. They all need to live, he says.

Everything is creation or calamity

and he the only thing between.

What will they do when he is gone?

It is hunger that drives him

though he does not eat. He is shrinking

and I think he may shrink into the earth

when his credits and balances are due.

He is winded, his time near its end.

He passes me the pail. I bend.

Turn the spigot.     Water falls.

~ Elodie Pritchartt

March 9, 2012

Suicide is Painless

People will go to any lengths for fame, won't they? In the May, 1800 edition of a Natchez Newspaper, Thomas Thackwood advertized his upcoming public suicide by pistol -- one shot for the abdomen and another for the brain (his own, that is), promising his audience plenty of staggering, convulsing and grinning.

Heck, if you've got nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon, why not?

"C'mon, honey! Grab the kids. Let's go to the killin'."

Not to be outdone, however, he warned readers not to be taken in by claims of Mr. Touchwood, whose public hanging, Thackwood claimed, would only be staged.

I don't blame him. If I'm going to a killing, it better be the real deal.

You can read the ad here.

And, yeah, I couldn't resist: Mr. Thackwood went out with a bang.

*Posted by Elodie

*Photo not the man in the story. Just an old photo.

The Phantom of Kingston Road

The first time I noticed him it was the holidays – I can’t remember if it was Thanksgiving or Christmas. I was driving home on Kingston Road when I saw the little white dog running down the road after a car. I slowed my car and he started running toward it. Then another car passed. His ears perked up as it neared; then as it blew past, he ran after it.


It was obvious what had happened; it broke my heart. How could someone just dump a little dog like that? You could almost hear him shouting, “Wait! Wait! You forgot me! Come back.”


As the car drove on, he gave up and trudged back toward his post by the gate where he’d been left. He couldn’t have weighed more than ten pounds. He was just a little terrier mix, cute as could be and desperate to find his family.


I parked my car and got out. He stopped, eying me -- wary and distrustful. Remembering all the dog advice I’d heard throughout the years, I tried to make myself as unimposing as possible, and crouched down on my knees, holding out my hand.


“Come on, fella,” I coaxed in my highest singsong voice – the one reserved for babies and pets. It almost never fails. “Come on, baby!”


But he wouldn’t come. If I tried to inch closer, he ran away, refusing to be bribed with kindness. So I went home to get something more tempting. I came back with cold cuts from the fridge. But he was adamant. All he wanted was his family, who he was certain were in the next car coming down the road.


The weather forecast for later in the week was for below-freezing temperatures. Lying in my warm bed, I wondered how he’d make it. The next day, my father and I set out a humane animal trap, baiting it with leftover roast and hiding it behind some branches so it wouldn’t be stolen. But no matter how many days we left it freshly baited, he wanted nothing to do with it.


In the meantime, we and several other area residents began putting out food and water for him, comparing notes on our efforts to catch the little scamp. Somehow he survived the cold weather, even seeming to thrive. He moved up onto the embankment by the road, where he’d sit like a proud watchdog, guarding his little kingdom by the Kingston Road, but still chasing after passing cars, certain his family would finally stop. Hope must spring eternal in the canine heart, too.


Every day on my way to and from town, I’d hold my breath, hoping he hadn’t been hit by a car. Often, I’d not see him at all, and wondered what had become of him. Then one day there he’d be, watching for cars and running after them, day after day, then week after week, the little white, elusive phantom of Kingston Road. I dubbed him “Phantom” in my mind, and saluted his "dogged" persistence. Some days he looked so cocky and proud I laughed aloud, and began to look forward to seeing him surveying his little kingdom.


Finally one day about three months later as my father crested the hill, he saw what we’d all been dreading. Phantom lay beside the road, perfectly still while a kind and concerned woman bent over him, looking for signs of life. He lay breathing but unconscious and broken. Daddy took him to the vet where he died later that night. It was painful and it was sad and it was all so unnecessary.


I often wonder about the people who left their little dog by himself on the side of the road at holiday time. I wondered if they ever traveled down Kingston Road and saw him bravely trying to recapture his people. I wondered if they had a happy Christmas. There are crosses along Kingston Road where people who’ve died in automobile accidents are honored, their memories cherished. There is no cross for Phantom; only regrets.


I regret not calling the Humane Society – something that in all my efforts, hadn’t occurred to me. I don’t know why. Perhaps they’d have been able to catch him and prevent a senseless death.

In lieu of a roadside memorial for Phantom, I think I could honor his memory best by asking you, Reader, to make a donation to the Natchez Adams County Humane Society. And, please, please, don’t leave your pets to die painfully on a lonely road. The phantom of Kingston Road will haunt me for years to come.

http://www.natchezpetadoptions.org/

Natchez Adams County Humane Society
475 Liberty Road
Natchez, MS 39120
601-442-4001

Mailing address :

P. O. Box 549
Natchez, MS 39121

Falling Leaves

Perhaps it would be better if I don’t speak.

Reflect the silence back into the water,

listen to the evening come to help the night begin its dark trip behind the  sun.

The winter apples turn.

Fall nudges summer gently to the side,

and the light burns amber, realigns itself

so shadows  lengthen early.

The pages of this book that will not

be lain aside rustle toward its solitary end.

The dead revisit, though they are far away.

Anticipation turns to fear

that winter will not forgive.

Silence becomes prayer.

Breathe the honeyed quiet,

and brace yourself for the tilting

of the world.

So long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Good Night...

I bet I've lost over 35 friends and parents of friends in the last ten years.  Sometimes it seems as though I have more dead friends than live ones.  And this past week, I lost a really special friend, Andre Pascalis Volant de La Barre of New Orleans.  

I only knew Andre for the last ten years of his life.  He was -- shall we say -- special.  Andre was handsome, brilliant, funny, outrageous and, most of all, kind.  He was one of the kindest people I've ever known.  I saw Andre clothe people who needed clothes, feed people who needed food, give encouragement and spiritual support to those who needed it most.

Andre was from New Orleans.  I'll post his obituary here, for there is nothing I can add, except that I've added a few stories told about him at the party honoring him after his funeral services.  My wish is that you all meet and know someone as special as Andre.  And recognize that person for who he or she is while they are still alive.

Andre, here's to the memories:

Andre Pascalis Volant de La Barre

Obituary Guest Book "an incredible man. thank your for your bright and generous..." - scott symmank View Sign Andre Pascalis Volant de La Barre, beloved event planner and philanthropist, passed away Thursday, November 2, 2017 at the age of 59. Mr. de La Barre, the eighth generation of de La Barres in Louisiana, was preceded in death by his father, Francois Duffossard Volant de La Barre. He attended De La Salle High School, Louisiana State University, and the Parsons School of Design in New York City. In addition to his work in architecture and design, he planned many of New Orleans' best-remembered events for more than thirty years.  He was one of the Millennium Monarchs for the Krewe of Shangri-la. Mr. de La Barre was an enthusiastic community advocate and patron of the arts. His work benefitted a multitude of nonprofits, including: Save Our Cemeteries, the Audubon Institute, Planned Parenthood, Human Rights Campaign Fund, the New Orleans Opera Association, Liberty House, Southern Repertory Center, the New Orleans Museum of Art, the National Council of Negro Women, the National Council of Jewish Women, Preservation Resource Center, the United Services for AIDS Foundation, and the Vieux Carré Property Owners' and Residents' Foundation. "His Royal Highness" will always be remembered for the depth of his generosity, his razor-sharp wit, his ability to fill any room with laughter, and that time he wore cow print pants with his tuxedo jacket.  Survivors include his mother, Mary Giovingo de La Barre; his sister, Maria Carmen de La Barre; his godchildren, Logan Carmen de La Barre-Hays and Sales Volant de La Barre; and his cherished weimaraner, Camelot. Relatives and friends are invited to attend the Memorial Service at LAKE LAWN METAIRIE FUNERAL HOME, 5100 Pontchartrain Blvd. on Monday, November 13, 2017 at 6:00 p.m. Visitation will begin at 4:00 p.m. until service time. Interment will be private. To view and sign the online guest book, visit www.lakelawnmetairie.com. Also, please enjoy these memories that were shared by his friends: