Beyond the Woodshed by Jerry Bouma

Beyond the Woodshed

A Series of Reflections Jerry Bouma

Cloud Publishing Vancouver

Copyright © 2019 Jerry Bouma

Beyond the Woodshed: A Series of Reflections

ISBN: 978-0-9693281-8-6

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or any means including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical means with the prior written consent of the author.

Table of Contents

1. Foreword..........1

2. Early Reflections..........3

3. Time of Day Series..........16

4. Current Reflections..........30

5. About the Author..........43

Editors Note

The works contained in this collection is a story that speaks to the very heart of our country. To have an intimate knowledge of piling wood, picking apples, walking the land counting cattle, harvesting crops, running for miles and miles on the back roads over hill and dale, and going on to be at the heart of the essential business of growing food and managing the structures involved. What could be more full of soul and history?

Maybe it was because Canada’s most iconic and mysterious painter, Tom Thomson, grew up and is buried in the very same part of the world that Jerry Bouma also has the eye of an artist. Between meetings, between runs, he was connecting the dots in a different way. Start with the poem ‘Father sent me out to count the cows’; then take your shoes off and listen to the winter wind howling through the orchard; put your phone down and nod in agreement when you read The Digital Men; or imagine the different seasons, the time of day and changing light when your read and reflect on the ‘Time of Day’ series.

Susan Edwards

Foreword

One of my tasks as a young boy was to keep the woodshed closest to the stove well supplied with cut wood. This meant moving wood on a regular basis from a larger storage shed located further away to the woodshed near to the kitchen. It was tedious work. I did not mind the work, but while my hands and feet where in constant motion, my imagination was even busier. It never stopped - I was in a perpetual state of being “beyond the woodshed.”

Early Reflections

I grew up on a farm in rural Ontario, just north of the small village of Leith. Our farm had a special beauty. Distinguished by a cut granite house built by Scottish masons, it overlooked the surrounding countryside. We could see for miles. We could see the ships coming into the bay and heading for the Owen Sound harbour. And when they departed heading for ports unknown. We could see the clouds coming in and the change in weather before we would actually feel it. We could see the endless array of fantastic sunsets as the sun settled in the lands “across the bay” to the west. It never got tiring. And we had a wood stove in our kitchen.

Leith and the surrounding area was a magical place to grow up - located on the shores of the blue waters of Georgian Bay; adorned by lush forests full of maples and beech trees; bounded by two creeks replete with rainbow trout and the mystery of running waters disappearing into the upstream woods; and blessed with rich deep loam soils that produced hearty crops year after year. Our experiences and our imaginations were full.

Leith itself is perhaps best known as the early home and final resting place of Canada’s most famous painter, Tom Thomson. A plaque honouring his life was situated near our small rural school house. It became part of us – we imagined in some way that we were connected to this famous artist who became an everyday part of our lives. And so, each in our way became ‘artists’...

Counting Cattle

Father sent me out today

To see if all the head

Were still together – alive and well I mean.

You think it would be easy

To find them – all thirty one.

It’s just one hundred acres plus

Of hills and trees and shaded creek

More hills and trees

Where are those bloody beasts?

Don’t they know – just show their heads

I’ll count them quick be on my way

But then again...if they knew

What men can do...

I like them

Would hide then too.

What now! The creek which last week raged

In the wake of summer storm

And left me seeking for a fallen tree

To cross. Now trickles like a leaky eave.

Oh damn! I’ve been this way

Not once – no! Even twice before

I’ll circle round and search the knoll

Where forlorn cedars and sumacs grow

There’s one white head

That’s all I need

I’ll count then quick

And do my deed

No news today

I’ve got to go

This prince of dreams has thoughts to think

And dreams to sow!!

No Trespassing

What means this sign so rudely placed?

In bold black ink, in glass encased?

What ails these fields that once bore grain?

Which weeds and thorns have now replaced?

It was the best farm on the line. Her haylofts bulged; her crops were fine. Now empty barns store cold wind’s wail, And spreads the gloom beyond the sign.

The land now knows another breed. Their hands are clean, they do not seed. They call this farm their country place. To cries of spring, they pay no heed.

A heart that fears a stranger’s hand

Once had no place in rural land.

A heart that loves, no signs demand. A heart that loves, no signs demand.

Eyes Aglow

Eyes aglow

Without knowing why?

Quiet, unexposed...

Without knowing when?

Suspended in hope

Without knowing how?

I sit and wait

In the candlelight of your mind

And watch the fire

Burn brighter Or go out?

Fall

Although fall whispered softly

Hiding inside the warm breezes

She frightened

The blackbirds

And the wild geese.

Shaking the leaves

And shrinking the bushes

In the evening of the year.

‘the’!

What’s this?

THE?

So starkly painted

In ragged strokes

On the old cedar fence

Beside the red maples

Stranded...naked

Without explanation

What does it mean?

What could it mean?

What’s to be said?

Is there more?

Why and who?

Subject or object?

Brilliance or stupidity?

Art or errant script?

One word with meaning?

Or meaning with one word?

Glowing Embers

I walk the fence line

And jolt in full surprise

To see the stump

Where I and father

Had six weeks prior

Exposed this mass

To wind and fire

With added brush

To clear the line

Now smoldering still!

It shook my being

That this stump

Through relentless waves of Wind and water

With no intent to

Endure or point to make

Could speak with such clear

Measure to the

Dying embers in my heart

While smoldering

And nearly out.

Picking Apples

Who would think

That I

In the evening of the year

Would find myself

Again, here...

After all those years

In the orchards of my youth

Now picking apples!

Those luscious bits of fruit

Firm and round, Ripening

Waiting to be picked

These apples!

And you?

In orchards far away

Luscious, ripening

Waiting to be picked

As I wait

And wrestle

The bonds of an uncertain present

To seek the threads

Of an unclear future?

Must I now remain Lonely, lost

And only pick

These apples?

Orchard Retreat

Poised against night sky

A’long side our orchard retreat

The road passed row on row

To meet our eager feet.

Snow had left her lingering mark

Reticent in retreat

Warmer days are sure to come

Yet to find the springtime beat.

But keeping time to our eager feet.

Road to School

The road led me though woods

When young, and I

Knew only out and back.

A road

That seemed to move and shimmer

Bathing in the morning sun

Dancing with the vivid shadows

Embraced by the trembling orange

Of a warm summer’s close.

But on I pressed

To learn my two plus two

And more, much more.

Though in the wakening of my day

That road

Which led me

Beyond the weathered holes and dust

While through the dying green and sky

Where billowing shapes of black and grey and white

Pursued the sun!

Or was the sun in pursuit of them?

I did not know

Which moved the most.

And now in places far away

That road

Remains a fading memory

Of a distant past.

I pause and sigh,

Like those silent fields

That have given up their alms

Now resting in that morning sun.

Remembering roads behind

Roads beneath

Roads ahead

And roads yet unknown

But none so clear

As that first road to school.

The Bend Removed

I miss you bend

How I longed each day to greet you

To and fro from school

But you are gone now…

Our forefathers who built you

To curve so ever gently

Around the stately maple

That three men abreast

With arms outstretched

Could not in full, embrace.

And alongside it,

You spared the homely clump of cedars

Standing like forgotten women

Cradling bundles of snow

In their arms , the dead of winter.

Now gone.

You’ll never know how far if seems now

Walking to and fro from school.

You bend

Once meant half-way home!

But now all I see

Is a long straight road

With no relief or pause.

Why did you succumb

To the howls of chainsaws

And the mighty iron wheels

That squeezed your life way?

Will the few seconds gained

By the loss of your sweeping form

Ever replace the grace of

Your inherent gentle nature?

I miss you bend.

There is nothing like a run in the country

On a cold winter’s night

Setting out

When every fibre of your being

Recoils and begs to stay

In the shelter of that warm kitchen.

No! But go you must

To chase those dreams

Yet far away

As the last glimpse of the diminishing light

Shudders and turns to gray

Fading in the dying remnants of the day.

Quickly you are overcome

In silence, shadows and the gathering darkness

Dark clouds above. Looming

Greeted by the occasional lunar glimpse

That pierces the frozen solitude

Broken by sounds of breath

And steps, the steady rhythm

That brings the only warmth

To be found...

And run you must

Not really understanding why

Knowing somewhere and sometime

Those dreams though hazy and gray

Will lead to that brighter day.

Time of Day Series

I have always been fascinated with light and the time of day. Each part of the day has a unique hue - a special feel. The light comes at you at differing angles. And it changes from season to season.

The ‘Time of Day’ series attempts to capture these varying states. Further these poems have been written at different stages of my life. Several focus on the ‘summer’ day, since summer was such an important time on the farm. However, they are not limited to one particular summer or one specific time period. Rather the time of day serves as a metaphor for the differing stages of life.

Inky blackness

Inky velvet blackness

I look ahead

I look back

More black

To the left

And to the right

Black on black...

I feel a stirring

Ahead?

Or is it over there?

Behind?

I cannot see

I cannot feel

I wait

It’s black No horizons No relief

A barren land

No shapes or shadows

It’s black Black!

She stirs gently

Piercing the black horizon

The darkness

There too long Gathers...begins to slip away

I rise up

And look again

I see it’s not the same Colours that I’ve never seen before And shapes!

Emerging, chasing, pursuing the brightening sky.

I stand now

Transfixed

By the symphony of light and sound and colour

I have been here before

Or have I?

I ask myself and think again

Pressing forward

To greet her

Breathless...trembling

Wondering...waiting...embracing

Behold!

A brand new day.

There is something about the early morning

That grabs and steals your heart

Perhaps it is the freshness

Yes that’s it!

The gentle smells rise up

From sleeping hills and knolls

To softly nudge your senses

But then again,

The glistening of the dewdrops

Dancing across their leafy stage

With no mistake

In the meadow

And on the apple blossoms

Cannot be missed. There’s that smell again

I soak it in and try to hold

And feel the morning coolness

I shiver ever so slightly

The sun now rising, A lighter shade of red

Smiles and begins to plan its day

Today.

It will be a hot one

I think of toil and sweat ahead

The many hours...

But that smell draws me back

The waft of blossom and fresh cut hay

Jolts my senses yet again

I smile and am reminded

How much

I love early morning.

Mid-Day

We check the sky

Several times

Once again

We judge the wind

And listen carefully

Is it changing?

We are sure it ‘s not

But then again

That pause...

The uneasy shudder

That spells a shift to the east

A sign that rain may come

It hesitates

We check again

And make up our minds

We’ll take a chance

And turn the hay that

Has lain too long

It must come in.

And so we toil in earnest

With glistening brows

And blistered hands

Never losing sight of

The sky

And keeping our ears

To the wind.

Just one more hour

Then another

We begin to see the dividends

Of our toil

Steadily unfold

It was a good decision.

So much rides

On reading the signs of Mid-Day.

Mid-Afternoon

As the sun passes its zenith

Around mid afternoon

You can feel the intensity

Of the summer heat

Is just a little bit less.

A pause to reflect

But ever so quickly

Since you are still in full stride

Pursuing the day’s business

It’s time to judge how much you have done Or how little.

It’s like the third lap of the mile

One lap to go

You hear the split

And pretty much can tell

If you have a good time in the making Or not.

Or the third decade

Of a four decade career.

It’s the make or break point

Where all is going swimmingly well

Or suddenly without warning Falls apart.

The day is moving quickly

More hours behind than ahead

With no interruptions and a steady pace

Much can be done

But then, an unexpected stall or setback

And the day seems lost

So as the sun passes its zenith

Pause and reflect

How far you’ve come, and How far you have yet to go

How far you have yet to go.

The rays strike long

The sun doth set

Bare fields now dry Will soon be wet.

The air is still

With much work done And greet the hue Of the setting sun. The wagons rest

A hard day’s toil.

The lofts bulge full

Thanks to deep, rich soil

We never dreamed At the day’s outset That to this place We would ever get. Now as we wait For tomorrow’s call Long days are passing We prepare for fall.

There’s a gentle peace

When the season’s done To reflect and bask

In the setting sun.

After Sunset

It’s dark again

But this time

The darkness is not alone

It dances with A million stars

Most fixed, some falling Against the backdrop

Of a rising moon

Surrounded by a cacophony of sound

A billion crickets

And thousands of blurping frogs

That sends an endless stream of music Into the night.

This time the darkness

Feels warm and embracing

The end of a long day

Replete with silence and reflection Of a day well spent Of work that needed to be done

A time to contemplate completion

A time for dreams

Some old, some new And hopes

For things to pass and not to pass

A time to move gently Into that good night.

Questions, More Questions

Thrown into this world

Blissfully unaware

And unknowingly

Accepting our state

That we are here!

Current Reflections

Modern life is replete with imagery, irony and the unending search for meaning. It seems that as more and more information abounds, the harder it is to find wisdom. And the more challenging it is to find true purpose and community.

But the day does come

When in a startled state, we awake

Shocked by the full realization of our existence

And ask the question

Why are we here?

Why is the DNA in my domain

Not located in the depths of some ocean squid

Or in the festering darkness

Of a Calcutta slum?

It could be there, but is is here!

Legions of unanswerable questions

Followed by search for meaning

While always observing to see

Some mount the mantle of meaning

With self anointed accolades

While others find meaning and purpose

Through patience and service.

Yet others labour in futility

To finds answers

That never come

Each day extends the pain

Of the unanswered silence

That is just too much

For a suffering few to bear.

And in the end, all

Despite the chosen paths

Whether by design or default

Find themselves

Coming to the same end.

14 + 1

(Aka February 15th)

24 hours after An avalanche of salutation

Affirmation, Confirmation

Exploration

Enculturation.

Some obligatory

Some necessary

Some required

And some

Truly inspired.

May the ones

We receive

And the ones we send

Be formed by the latter

And not be limited

By the letter.

And expressed

From the heart.

Alberta, April 17, 2019

A new era

Great hopes

Rooted in lofty promises That rise

Like the ephemeral clouds

And thundering voices

Above an evangelical sermon

Can they be delivered?

In this world

Or the next?

Some see geese fleeing in response to whispers of winter

Others see geese strolling leisurely in urban domains.

From what I know of frigid winter

I’d favour those who flee asunder

But then I know enough of streets

The smell of coffee, fresh goods baked

To ponder and search for peace

Could change my searching mind

And those of rural geese.

Fleeing Geese and West 2nd Ave.

On Consciousness

I am struggling with the concept of consciousness as I am increasingly conscious of my own consciousness. It grows in mysticism and mystery.

Are we assigned our own measured portion that begins upon our birth confined to our own physicality And ends with our demise?

Or do are we apportioned a share of a larger state of being part of a bigger whole that lives beyond our all too temporal boundaries and pre-exists before we struggle on our own often desperate journeys.

And what does it mean when we meet another portion of consciousness that seems to intersect our own imbued with an uncanny sense of shared experience and understanding that seems to draw together by forces more powerful than reason?

Every day I am conscious of knowing less than I did the day before.

The Digital Men

We are the digital men Lost in our devices, Our eyes focused and fixed On our glass-cased universe, Fingers a flutter

Searching for content and data, Interesting but meaningless.

Our minds are set in worlds far away, In places with no here or there. We have friends but no kindred spirits, Contacts but no connections.

We do not know noon

Or morning or evening; Night could be day

Or day could be night; It does not matter.

The caress of a warm breeze Does not touch us

The hue of the evening sun Makes no impression. Our bodies like rusty buoys Float but are secured In silted harbours. Our self-appointed chains

Weigh heavy And keep us from Our perpetual ephemeral pursuits.

Symbols without letters, Letters without words, Words without narratives, Narratives without stories, Stories without listeners.

We are the digital men Reduced to a zero-one world.

Penn Relays 2019

I ran the Penn Relays today

A mere 48 years after I actually did

It was much easier this time

Re-creating old memories

In my mind

And on a tread mill

I led off again

The fabled 4 mile relay

Every lap broken into

15 second segments

It is easier that way

Otherwise four laps seems just too far.

The first segment - round the turn

Ending where my team mates

And friends urge us on

Then the backstretch

Always the most quiet place

Where you gather your thoughts...maybe.

Then into the Jamaican corner

Where the bongo drums

A sea of black and yellow

Observe but await the sprints

Or a colossal misstep over the water jump

An unexpected dose of entertainment.

Lap 1 done and feeling good

Stay out of trouble, keep good position

Steady, in third or fourth

Keep the pace, relax

Three more to go

No bongo drums this time round.

Two laps to go and tensions rising

Pace edging up ever slightly

Stay relaxed although

It is no longer effortless

Still in third but

It’s time to move.

Now one more to go

The pace increases and all alone

I hear the voice of a friend

And the sounds of the bongo

The crowd rises as they see

The fabled four of yet another Wildcat team

And finally the home stretch

Shrouded with rising efforts

And the crescendo of the crowd

That brings everyone home

Cementing memories for a lifetime

Or 48 years later...

Win the Penn Relays!

About the Author

Jerry Bouma grew up on a family dairy farm outside Owen Sound, Ontario. His parents emigrated from Holland in 1951 with several suitcases and nary a word of English. In 1960 they purchased one of the most beautiful farms in Grey County near the village of Leith overlooking Georgian Bay.

Jerry is the second oldest of six children. He had a great interest in such sports as hockey and baseball, however his duties on the farm precluded his involvement in team sports. As a result, he took up running in high school and by the time he was 17, he set several junior Canadian records in the 1500 meters and 1 mile run. In 1970, he became the first Canadian to secure an athletic scholarship to Villanova University, Pennsylvania during an era when it was home to some of the best middle distance runners in the world. Jerry went on to earn his B.Sc. in Mathematics as well as run the metric equivalent of a 4.01 mile.

After graduation he built on his interest in economics and farm experience by completing a graduate degree in Agricultural Economics at the University of Guelph. Subsequently Jerry has spent his entire career as a management consultant in the agriculture and food industry. He has worked in every province of Canada including the Northwest Territories.

Jerry has written hundreds of reports, proposals and produced thousands of documents over the course of his professional career. Beyond the Woodshed is his first artistic endeavor.