Called Back
Today marks one hundred eighty-nine years since the birth of my favorite poet: Emily Elizabeth Dickinson.
Born on December 10, 1830, Emily lived her entire life in Amherst, Massachusetts.
A gentle reminder
She died on May 15, 1886, at the age of fifty-five -- at which time, according to her tombstone, she was Called Back.
A longtime dream came true for me in early November when I walked both in and around Emily's home place -- including the upstairs corner bedroom where she wrote the bulk of her poetry -- and trod the ground near her grave.
It's seen many winters
West Cemetery, where Emily rests between her sister and her parents, was established in 1730 -- a century before the birth of its most famous resident: the Belle of Amherst.
It was cold on the morning we arrived in Amherst for our Emily day. The cemetery was our first stop since it was early yet and the house/museum tour didn't start until eleven.
Close to the fence
Because I'd studied an aerial view of the cemetery, I knew where Emily's grave was and directed TG to the spot.
When I opened my car door, what greeted my ears was not the peace and silence one might be justified in expecting to experience in such a place, at such a time.
Gone but not forgotten
Instead, there was the raucous noise of two men having a mega-decibel discussion of some sort, accompanied (as I soon saw) by considerable arm waving and bursts of near-maniacal laughter.
Notice I did not say it was a heated discussion; there was no anger in the voices. But the -- ahem -- gentlemen employed distinctly raised tones nonetheless, as though one or both were partially deaf. Or soon would be.
Shadows lengthen
I couldn't believe it. After all these years, I thought, I am here and I am denied peace for my moment with Emily.
People! It was nine thirty on a cold fall morning in a tiny old cemetery in a small town.
Emily is second from the left
I've walked hundred-acre cemeteries in major cities for hours without encountering anything louder than a marauding squirrel.
Anyway. I walked through the ambient din to Emily's grave. The loud men continued their conversation three or four graves away.
Go towards the light
Since I couldn't think straight to commune properly with Emily, I stole a glance at the men, who, I was most glad to observe, were beginning to log off and go their separate ways.
And one of them did leave. But the other one stayed. Not technically quietly -- he continued to rant at a conversational volume -- but he stayed.
Stand by me
I'm pretty sure he stays there permanently.
The man had a hefty bed-roll stashed behind one of the larger tombstones. Another substantial grave marker served as a makeshift coffee table; his still-steaming cardboard cup of Joe and a pack of smokes -- with lighter -- rested on its top.
Support system
A heavily laden bicycle -- I assumed it was his -- leaned against a small ancient mausoleum in the near distance.
The cemetery's lone living resident was middle-aged, tall, and thin. He had shoulder-length gray-blond hair and was wearing a fedora.
He lives among the dead
His outfit consisted of a pair of jeans over which he wore a red plaid knee-length kilt. There was no sporran but there was the requisite six-inch safety pin. He had on a light-colored jacket that did not look warm enough.
Maybe that was why, immediately after saying goodbye to his friend, the man began trotting briskly around the cemetery, weaving in and out of the stones as if running a macabre obstacle course.
The Homestead
I surreptitiously took a photo as he ran away from me. I did not want to attract attention or seem rude, but I felt a need to document as much of the scene as I could.
It was time to leave. We'd be back, but we wanted to tour The Homestead -- where Emily, who never married, lived with her parents until they died and with her sister Lavinia (also unmarried) until Emily's own death -- and The Evergreens, home of Emily's brother Austin and his wife Susan, next door.
The Evergreens
It was fascinating. In Emily's room was her actual bed -- different mattress and coverlet I'm sure, but still -- and lying on the bed was a shawl that she actually wore.
Let that sink in.
Grave of Austin Dickinson, Emily's brother
Still later, we visited Wildwood Cemetery -- also in Amherst -- where Emily's aforementioned brother, Austin, is buried alongside his wife and their three children.
Not far from that group of graves is the grave of Mabel Loomis Todd, Austin's longtime mistress, without whose editing and publishing skills -- not to mention marketing savvy -- the world may never have had an opportunity to know the poetry of Emily Dickinson.
Graves of Mabel Loomis Todd and David Todd
Beside Mabel is the grave of her husband, David, in life a professor of astronomy at Amherst College (and also a known philanderer), of whom it was said in relation to his wife's affair with Austin Dickinson that he "knew but didn't care."
Before leaving Amherst to drive back towards Boston for a few days there, we returned to West Cemetery.
An eighteenth-century Dickinson
It was warmer and the late-afternoon sun lent itself better to photography than the early-morning variety had done.
It seems there are always folks stopping by to pay their respects to Emily. This time, I had to wait my turn.
Leaners
While I was busy doing that, plus photographing other parts of the cemetery, TG struck up a conversation with a muralist who was busy putting a clear sealant over an impressive mural he had recently completed on the side of an apartment building that borders one edge of the cemetery.
The artist chatted with us
It's actually the second mural he has done there, the artist told TG. The last one adorned a building in the same place, that was torn down. When the new building was completed, Amherst city officials once more commissioned him to paint a mural of Amherst luminaries onto the building.
Emily called herself a daisy
Naturally, Emily takes center stage.
The muralist also told TG an interesting story about a young man who, over the years, he has frequently seen visiting Emily's grave.
Heartfelt offerings for the Belle
One day he talked to the young man -- who is from West Virginia -- and learned that some years ago, he had been at a low place in his life and found himself in straits so dire, he wasn't sure he was going to make it.
At which point he was introduced to the poetry of Emily Dickinson.
The building with its mural
He credits the Belle with saving his life, and he travels from his home in West Virginia to Amherst, Massachusetts, several times a year to spend time with her.
Although I would not say that Emily saved my life, I would say that by dint of pure genius, she is securely in a class by herself. And I know that if I were able to visit her several times a year, I would do it.
Knocked down but not knocked out
One side of the cemetery -- the one with the oldest graves -- is seriously unkempt. The tall grasses and late-day sunshine in a gorgeous blue autumn sky made for some stunning photos.
It reminded me of one of my favorite poems of Emily's:
These are the days when Birds come back -- / A very few -- A Bird or two -- / To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume / The old -- old sophistries of June -- / A blue and gold mistake.
O fraud that cannot cheat the Bee -- / Almost thy plausibility / Induces my belief.
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear -- / And softly thro' the altered air / Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh Sacrament of summer days, / Oh Last Communion in the Haze -- / Permit a child to join.
Thy sacred emblems to partake -- / Thy consecrated bread to take / And thine immortal wine!
Died
So then it really was time to go.
But first: one more poem.
Emily wore white
I give you this one because, as we were walking back towards The Homestead after a brief tour of The Evergreens next door, the tour guide and I were chatting.
She was a lovely and knowledgeable lady -- herself an accomplished author -- who had quoted several of Emily's poems during the tour.
Fan me
And she asked me to name my favorite poem of Emily's.
The truth is, I don't have only one favorite; I have several, which I realize defeats the purpose.
Faded beauty
There are, after all, 1,775 poems which, while they demonstrate varying degrees of their author's brilliance, all reveal what one could argue (and many have, including me) was the most original mind that the United States of America has ever produced.
But this is the one I quoted:
Ample make this Bed -- / Make this Bed with Awe -- / In it wait till Judgment break / Excellent and fair.
Be its Mattress straight -- / Be its Pillow round -- / Let no Sunrise' yellow noise / Interrupt this Ground --
Rest In Peace
I could go on but I rest my case. And my fevered fingers.
Say it with me: Happy Birthday, Dear Emily.
And that is all for now.
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Happy Tuesday
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Monday, December 23, 2019 at 03:44PM 
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