My father and Solzhenitsyn clearing thicket in the woods behind the new house in Parkersburg, West Virginia. Hard work. My father in cowboy hat, windbreaker, jeans, worn oxfords. Solzhenitsyn, in prison-issued denim frock coat. Strange bonnet of beard under jawline. Hair like beeswax brushed with pine combs.

My father takes a photograph to prove it all. Solzhenitsyn bending at the waist, pouring gasoline into rototiller. I, standing behind wheelbarrow, tip of index finger touching the fluted metal edge of the wheelbarrow tray, warily.

The seed, Aleksandr, the seed! my father crowing to Solzhenitsyn about me, his only boy, lurching through woods behind wayward tiller.

{One autographed picture, ….. Hank Aaron. Signed “Hank Aaron.”}

{One autographed picture, ….. Mel Farr. Signed “Best wishes, Mel Farr.”}

{One autographed picture, ….. Bart Starr. Signed “Best wishes, Bart Starr #15.”}

{One autographed baseball {{signatures reproduced}}, ….. Jim Palmer. Mike Cuellar. Pat Dobson. Dave McNally.}

{One autographed picture, ….. Gene Washington. Signed “Here’s wishing you a speedy recovery, Gene Washington #84.”}

Adam was a farmer. Cain was a welder. Enoch painted pictures for his children. The great task in life is to realize that your father was right and then to do wrong. It’s your only chance to become someone you haven’t already met.*

Do you know the story of the boy who cried wolf? my father, asking Solzhenitsyn, quietly, about me, who throws up at school from anxiety.

Me, his son, sitting nearby the two of them on nylon Steelers jacket laid over dirt and mulch, eating his bread on a slope in the woods.

–Eh, Mr. Poet, is it you? my father calls out to me cheerily. How do we like the world to-day?

(*L. Sutin's.)

Practice emails to the Academic Vice President at Malaiseville U. I’ll send one before my contract is due. I’m not retiring. I’m quitting. And what did I expect?

"My father had a building named after him," I'm telling my wife.

"When you talk like this," she says. 

And starts the blender for her smoothie.

"DOLPH SAYS I’M A SLOW PROCESSOR," I shout.

She’s looking at me, her heart full of secrets.

*

Tom—

I have decided to leave MU. I won’t be signing my contract. I signed my first at 26 and my last at 58. It’s been a good run.

Thank you for the

*

Tom—

Dr. M-,

After a lot of thought, I’ve decided not to return next year. I won’t be signing my contract. I signed my first contract at 26 and my last at 58. It’s been a good run. I’m grateful. Time for something new.

All the best,

Vic A.

*

Tom—

I won’t be signing my contract. I’ve decided not to return next year. It’s been a good run. I’m grateful for all of it, but I’ve decided it’s time for something new.

Best,

Vic

*

Tom—

It’s been a good run. I’m grateful. Time for something new.

Vic  

*

Dr. M- and Dr. S-,

This is confirmation that I will be resigning from Malaiseville at the end of my current contract. It’s been a good run. I’m grateful. Time for something new.

All the best to you and MU.

Vic

*

More to be said, but take the high road. Done is done.

Bird Report

Heavy rain and a lone turkey buzzard on the ridge line of a barn on Cortsville. Just at the edge of the peak on the barn’s eastern side. Wings out, drying. The bird faces me as I approach.

And then, I swear, this oddity: as I pass, the bird rotates such that it continues facing me as I go. Bird steps. Counterclockwise. Wings spread. A benediction. I check in the rearview mirror: the bird still watching as I drive away, wings still outstretched.

Aw, brother. Thank you.