Bob Pyle, “Butterfly Man”

Last evening we sat at our dining room table way later than intended, talking and laughing and learning from our guests Bob Pyle and Jim Bertolino. The two had done a poetry reading here in the afternoon, sold a few books, and then at our insistence stayed for dinner. (Well, Jim who lives a six hour drive away in Bellingham was spending the night anyway, but Bob postponed his drive back to Grays River to sip and sup. And, I might add, the dinner was elegant – a pasta dish brought by friends of friends, Lynn and Michael Madigan. We are, as I have said so many times during this recovery period for Nyel, truly blessed.

Bob’s New Book of Poetry

Our conversation ranged from Netflix series we have especially enjoyed –“Foyle’s War,” “From Larkspur to Candleford,” and more recently “Downton Abbey” – to books we are reading (not so much agreement there) and road trips we’ve taken. Nyel lamented that he could not get a glimpse of Powdermilk, Bob infamous vehicle mentioned in several of his books. It was parked across the street but, from the disadvantage of his wheelchair, there was no way for a peek. I could have taken a good look, but some inexplicable and completely unreasonable streak of loyalty kept me from doing so. Go figure.

Jim Bertolino

And, inevitably, we talked about poetry. In the question and answer period following their readings, both Jim and Bob had told about their first experiences writing poetry. For both it was when they were still in their teens, high school age or just beyond.

My own memory was far different and I courageously (I thought) confessed that poetry scares the heck out of me. I blame some high school teacher who must have talked way too much about meter and stanzas and rhyme schemes. I enjoy reading some poetry but I have no idea if it’s good or not. Once in a while I even wonder if I could write a poem but the thought passes quickly.

Jim Bertolino’s New Book of Love Poems

We got sidetracked about then, but not before Bob recommended a book by Barbara Drake, and Oregon based author. He couldn’t remember the title but I see that she wrote Writing Poetry in 1983, a book widely used as a college text. I hope our library has it or can get it for me.

What I didn’t confess to the two illustrious poets at our table was that not only am I intimidated by poetry but by writers-in-general and poets-in-particular – especially successful and renowned ones. But last night at our old dining room table in the warm glow of friendship, I relearned that age-old lesson: something about putting on our pants one leg at a time.