For Frank April 2012
Welcome Friends! To the rolling green hills of Ryder Lake
Here in the heart of the mighty Fraser, valley, that is…
Let’s say the year is 1979.
We are gathering here today at Maggie’s Farm,
The band is setting up on a flatbed stage
Out behind Red Hare’s barn.
It’s the crack of noon and the weather’s fine…
It’s gonna be a humdinger!
It’s an annual birthday party for the Hares and the Dares
Formerly hosted on the farm in Yarrow,
Now held here in the arms of the mountain.
There’s a familiar assortment of rounders and hippies
Neighbors and friends come out of the woodwork,
Situate themselves on wooden benches and lawn chairs
Of every dent and varietal,
Trying to recall if it’s their fifth or sixth year in a row.
Clear memories are obscured
By Red’s homemade strawberry wine and
Not helped in the least by the
Passing of pungent homegrown and sinsemilla.
These are the times we’ll never forget but
Can’t quite remember.
The front field fills with cars, trucks, Harleys
Tom & Anya’s VW camper
We play our own soundtrack
We take our youth and beauty for granted
We sing ‘we are stardust, we are golden’ and we are.
Under that cerulean sky of our glory days,
A laugh riot of shiny children run
Through tall grasses in the back field
A tongue-lolling pack of dogs at their heels,
Panting wide smiles, leaping long
Amid the buzzing of bees, still abundant,
And countless birds, mostly robins and sparrows,
The odd Stellar Jay, darts in and out of
The fragrant wonder that is Maggie’s garden.
A hummingbird hovers, amused and curious
As the peace is perennially disturbed
By revelers from 8 weeks to 88 years old,
Who catch up with those we haven’t seen
In far too long. How is your Mom doing these days?
Did you hear that Harold passed last month?
Where does the time go?
The men prepare an ember fire pit, as good men will,
Seven sockeye salmon wait on ice, beneath beat-up
Coolers of Canadian beer
Strategically placed to encourage
The inevitable corn-shucking to come.
Salads of every conceivable combination
Arrive, carried in the careful hands of
The women who made them,
Before they dressed the little ones
To the drifting promise of morning coffee.
They bring carrot cake and rhubarb pie,
Still warm from the oven
They see your hopeful face and smile, saying
“Here, have a cookie to tide you over…”
Years later, Red, Maggie, Dylan and Dakota
Seem to be everywhere all at once
They greet new arrivals, run endless errands,
They lay a blanket on the grass for Shannon’s baby
(Which my spoiled dog curls up on, appreciatively)
They fetch a sturdier chair from the kitchen
For Irene’s aunt, who’s just had her other hip done.
Musicians haul their gear out and up,
Recount the best and worst of recent gigs,
A little hair of the dog in their coffee,
They tune up and smoke up and drink up til
Some keener cracks open his case and starts up.
Before long, the volume’s undeniable
And the air is electrified, but for now
A mandolin chirps through the chorus of ‘I’ll Fly Away’
and that sweet little red-haired baby, named Fleita
Starts dancing, her feet planted, knees bending
In a wide-eyed, balanced bob. Even Irene’s Aunt
Who frankly, would prefer a little Lawrence Welk
Has to admit, it’s a damn catchy tune.
I know the feast is being offered up when
My dalmatian disappears beneath the table.
Years of experience have taught her that
Location is everything and her proximity
Promises exotic fare she never scores at home.
If it hits the ground, it goes to the hound!
Once the dishes have been cleared, my dog will
Follow the tasty, sticky children around hopefully.
Her gentle, mute appeal to their generous nature
Belies the steely stealth with which she will snatch
An unguarded piece of fish from any viable plate.
I shout her name, spew a shower of cake crumbs,
In yet another vain attempt to avoid the fallout
Sure to follow her gluttony. Tomorrow’s
Walk will no doubt produce a rainbow of remnants in
Various shades and textures…but I digress :)
The old days flicker past often and at odd times
Polaroids of the past pull me back and away…
Maggie’s warm smile lighting up her whole being,
The ongoing art of her wild, wind-blown hair,
Red’s loping gait and his Yosemite Sam ‘stache.
He’s leaning over his congas now, listening
To the sound of the best years of our lives
Sometimes glancing up to watch his wife
Barefoot, dancing up the dust in the yard
With a hundred like-minded yahoos.
Our children now hang from the open window
Of the loft above, they animate the moon glow
of the starry night that glimmers all around us,
deep in the dark blue satisfaction of day’s end.
So here we are again…we hear it still…
The sound of a thousand friends, enchanted
By the warm din of chatter and live music
By the rhythm of our small town rituals
By the bonds of our ongoing friendship.
Today we gather to celebrate the life and art full times
Of our dear friend Frank, aka Red Hare.
We gather to remind ourselves
Of the great gift of each other’s company.
We will always revisit and revise the summer of our lives.
We go way back, you and I
To when we were embroidered with potential
When we were dizzy with privilege
When we were bulletproof
When we were young.
Red Hare
