GETTING THEREA Poem by VolGETTING THERE
What is it about the power of dogs to own so much of us? Here, Blondie! Here, Blondie! She was my best friend before I even knew what that meant. That golden bag of barks followed me everywhere, like to the combo police and firehouse across the field behind our home. The only sidewalk I could get to was there for me to ride my trike round and round while she would bounce and flip, and turn around then nip at my butt. “Blondie! You pinch too hard!” There were tons of storied adventures we shared in that Appalachian coal town, but the last one haunts me. Dad was big, tall, stentorian in his decrees, and swift with judgement. Fire and brimstone flew from his pulpit; it was there I learned “The fear of God.” His eyes bent to mine, finger at my nose, “Get down off that lumber, boy!” It was scripture and I knew the next time, I’d have to be sure he was not at home. “Blondie! Let’s go, girl,” that stack was my Eve’s Apple, and I had to know. So when the side below my little legs gave way and buried us, I knew fear, and the wrath of God was coming! A passing soldier saw what happened and carried me to the comfort of mom’s arms. As a Holy Roller preacher’s kid, I well knew disobedience was a cardinal sin, and was well acquainted with its consequences, too. Dad never said a word, and neither did I… about Blondie under all that wood. So, when it was time, I opened the door, “Blondie! Blondie! In the darkness of my heart, I knew she would not come. I think you have to grow old to understand the problems of a Gospel so perverted that it teaches sin and fear before love as a means to God.
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