Poetry | Missing Those Who Left Us

Another Boxelder Bug Variation

          in memory of Bill Holm, 1943-2009

Every year we have an influx of boxelder bugs. Some of them overwinter. They are harmless and reassuring. They always remind me of Bill Holm and his “Boxelder Bug Variations”—the book, the musical and his rip-roaring personality. 

Not many of them are here this winter. One morning last week I noticed that there was only one boxelder in our kitchen, the room where they usually show up. This one was much larger than usual, but it had the standard regimental-looking red trim and dusty black wings. This same bug showed up three days in a row. It had a very distinct swagger as it crisscrossed the kitchen. Finally, today, I took out our big magnifying glass and got down as closely as I could to him to take a look. He appeared to communicate with me, by a kind of semaphore, waving only his left front leg, in a set pattern. I sort of recognized the rhythm—a subtle wavering, like water flowing, then a few bold strikes through the air, then back again—almost as if he were conducting—Wait! I recognized the tune—Yes! It was the Blumenfeld Etude for the Left Hand. I’d heard several recordings of it but the only time I’d ever heard it live was when Bill Holm played it before a poetry reading–he’d injured his right hand chopping wood a month before that. Could this be? Was this Bill come back in the form of a boxelder? I would think he’d be assigned a more elevated state…but maybe this was his choice, or maybe God’s idea of a good joke! I looked again closely with the magnifying glass—no beard no ruddy cheeks—the only resemblance was his size. This box elder had red eyes, but so do all box elders—once, at a conference, I’d seen Bill the morning after a bunch of us had gone out carousing, and Bill had quaffed prodigious amounts of vodka—his eyes were noticeably red that morning.

Bill had stopped communicating. I let him crawl up on my hand. I could barely feel his scratchy feet on the flesh of my fingers then my palm. I sat there and let my mind drift with him resting in my hand. I thought of the photographs I’d seen of Iceland and its stark beauty and the one photo I’d seen of Bill’s house in Iceland. I imagined immersing myself in the hot springs in
Landmannalaugar in the dead of winter….I floated off into sleep. 

When I woke, I saw that Bill had left my hand. I look forward to spending more time with him– before spring comes when I imagine he’ll go outside again. In the meantime, I’ll have to keep a close eye on our cat, Katniss. 

I looked up boxelders—their scientific name is boisea trivitata—fittingly musical, don’t you think?

Louis — That’s L-O-U-I-S

     in memory of Louis Jenkins (1942-2019)

He blew into town without fanfare from somewhere across the lake. He began studying the locals and learned their lingo. He took a wife and they had a son. He worked, mostly at night, and rarely left the house during the daytime, and never in winter. He seemed shy but was actually quite gregarious. He was a pretty good storyteller. Someone said you should write these things down, so he did.  No one knew what to call what he wrote—they weren’t poems, they weren’t exactly stories. They just sort of sneaked up on you. Someone else said you should come out with a book, so he did. It was called “A Bear Walks Into a Bar.” Each story started with that exact phrase: “A bear walks into a bar….” He was a peaceful person but there’s a story that when five thugs cornered him in an alley once, he didn’t say a word–just bared his teeth and they took off running. He had a deep pleasant voice, with a slight lilt. A famous man overheard him and asked him to read on the radio. He did this and many people listened. Another man, quite famous, took a shine to his stories and the two of them went on tour together, making up ridiculous stories for big audiences. It was said that he shunned the limelight unless it was coming from a lighthouse. You’d often find him standing at a high place, looking out over the harbor. No one could figure out what he was looking at. 

I realized that I hadn’t heard from him for a while. Sometime right after the winter solstice, I got word that he’d “left the building.” An empty seat in the Parliament of Poets. But I think he’ll still be around us for a while. If you look up at the night sky you’ll see his distinct outline. You can still talk to him. He was always a good listener.

As I said, he had a cheerful, mellow voice. There’s a recording of a talk he gave on “The Death of the Ampersand.”  His wife and his son have some really funny stories about him—they all start with the phrase “A bear walks into a bar…” You should read his stories…or poems, or whatever they are. They’ll cure what ails you.

    © Ken McCullough