The Slough

The Slough

He stood on the bank of a meandering slough. It was a wide, shallow depression choked with cattails and cottonwoods. It was spring and the green vegetation and flowering dogwoods were splendid. He had been here many times, but suddenly, nothing was familiar. He thought that returning here often would provide solace and comfort. He could walk along the slough, eat fresh wild apples and watch birds in the willows and bulrushes. He had ambled along here for many years with only his thoughts as a companion.

But today, he just stood with an emptiness that he hadn’t felt before. There were too many changes that reminded him of deep losses. Fences, built by father and son, were now fallen and unkempt. The old cottonwood tree that rose along the far bank had died and fallen. And without the old McCullough chainsaw to turn it into cordwood, it was rotting away. The old corral and shed, where the twin Hereford bulls were dropped, was gone. The farmhouse, without the care of a proud and attentive farm-wife, was dilapidated.

So, with a final, sad realization that things would never be the same, he turned to walk away forever. Time, with one last tug, pulled fading memories from his hand and dropped them at his feet. Instead of picking them up again, he turned and walked away, realizing it would be much easier to just forget.

Matt Radford 

Let Reason Abide

Let Reason Abide

I have stood on the precipice; the very dark, cold, and lonely precipice of the pit. It was a pit that I could not have returned from. I would have been doomed. Decisions, grown from despair, despondency, and enmity would have obligated my soul to eternal emotional and physical affliction.

I am thankful every day that I did not slip into it. I am thankful for an unseen hand on my shoulder and a quiet whisper in my ear that somehow gave me pause; just enough pause to let reason abide for a moment and then take hold. Be thankful every day, fellow travelers, for things that have not happened. Be thankful for things you did not do. 

Matt Radford 

Little Johnny Tuttle

Little Johnny Tuttle

Little Johnny Tuttle sat quietly, head hung low, on the same old cottonwood stump. His hunched posture hinted at indifference, but his wide brown eyes converged directly on mine. A dirty, bent finger rose and lifted the brow of his well worn bowler. From below the brown rim, I could more easily see his eyes. Today, there was something different about Johnny that I couldn’t put a finger on. It was an unfamiliar, peculiar look in his eyes. I was puzzled and paused before administering my usual, merciless, teasing and taunting.

But, before I could further assess this new gestalt, he exploded in a blur and a tight fist crumpled my already misshapen nose. The sudden force knocked me squarely to my backside, where I pivoted, spun and tried to regain some balance. As I rose, a well placed heal from an old boot caught me in the sternum and reminded me that I should just stay where I landed. I felt a searing pain as muscle tore from breast bone. A warm fluid ran out both nostrils now and I was dazed and very confused. I suddenly had the distinct impression that I was being taught a very important lesson. And the teaching, it seemed, was coming from an unexpected source. 

Just moments before I had decided to wander over and administer my usually teasing to Little Johnny, as I mockingly referred to him as. I had teased him many times before. I outweighed Johnny by 30 pounds and stood at least 3 inches taller. Everyone knew, on this playground, I was chieftain. Now, I was forced to rethink my position in the playground hierarchy. I found myself on my keister, bloodied, bruised and not oriented enough to stop the continual blows that were landing squarely on my nose, lips and throat. 

Although undeserving, I was granted mercy by the three boys it took to pull Johnny off of me. The four of them rose and stepped back. The entire episode couldn’t have taken more than 20 seconds, but I felt as if I had just spent the entire day on my backside. I gathered myself, angrily, and rose to peer down at Johnny. I realized then, fully, what his eyes had tried to tell me moments before. They spoke to me: “I’m not afraid of you anymore. I’m not scared. And, I’m a helluva lot tougher than you.” All of a sudden, 30 pounds and 3 inches became meaningless. Johnny, still silent, took one big step toward me. I stepped back. I shot him a hesitant, nervous grin that he didn’t return. For the first time, in a long time, I was scared. I turned and walked away. I had some thinking to do…

Matt Radford 

Hackberry Tree

Hackberry Tree

With wounded heart and mind bereft,
not knowing where my soul was left,
I found myself on bended knee,
'neath a towering Hackberry tree.

From Celtic wood it stood above,
with fingers deep in foggy glove,
with bark now old and branches broad,
risen from Oklahoma sod.

And begging now, I hoped to know,
down which path I must go,
to which horizon he would send,
that I should reach before my end.

- Matt Radford, 2016