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Looking Homeward
Bill Waldron spared my mother and father agony
by teaching me how to drive a stick in a cornfield.
Think of it as an H, he said of the lever that came
out of the steering shaft of his two-door Dodge,
which my mother called a coupay. We were on the two-rut road
around the field that the tractor took to get in and out
at planting and harvest. The grassy hump sometimes hit the underside
and Bill would say, Oh m'god, downshift, girl, easerup,
which wasn’t hard as long as I remembered to clutch—
or the car would stutter over itself
and on the passenger side, Bill would get thrown around
almost to bumping his nose on the dash.
He had a big nose, talked as if he had a cold,
and his eye was on my older sister, who dreamed of boys
and going to Africa. I felt pretty important as the vehicle
to her heart, though I knew Bill didn’t have a prayer.
My sister married a Rhodes Scholar and went to Uganda
for Uhuru. Bill married the daughter of the town monument maker
and took over the business
before he even had a chance to look away.
He marked my father’s, then my mother’s grave,
so they won't ever be forgotten in that town I drove out of.
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Anne Harding Woodworth’s seventh book of poetry, Trouble (Turning Point, 2020), includes her persona cycle, “Hannah Alive,” which became a one-woman play in verse that was a finalist at the Adirondack Shakespeare Co. festival in Essex, New York. Harding Woodworth’s poetry, reviews, and essays appear in anthologies and journals, both in print and online, such as Poet Lore, TriQuarterly, Women & Language, Crannog, Gargoyle, and Innisfree Poetry Journal. She is a co-chair of the Poetry Board at the Folger Shakespeare Library and a member of the Board of Governors at the Emily Dickinson Museum in Amherst, MA.
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wow, what a delightful narrative poem...thanks for posting terence, and for writing anne harding woodworth...
Posted by: lally | January 24, 2021 at 01:57 PM
Ah! Takes me back to my midwest girlhood. The tractor tracks and towns we leave behind.
Posted by: Maureen Owen | January 24, 2021 at 02:03 PM
Reminded me of my lesson in how to drive a stick shift. Great poem.
Posted by: Eileen | January 24, 2021 at 03:00 PM
Thank you, mo chara. Glad you liked it.
Posted by: Terence Winch | January 24, 2021 at 03:04 PM
Thanks, Maureen. I didn't learn to drive until age 40, and driving a stick shift was & is beyond my abilities.
Posted by: Terence Winch | January 24, 2021 at 03:06 PM
Long arc of time feels poignant in this beautifully made poem.
Posted by: Beth J | January 24, 2021 at 03:08 PM
This is the most WONDERFUL CLEAR CRISP poem about our past.
When I got my driver's license at 20, I was so terrified of the driver's test, on a hill, caressing clutch and drive pedal at the same time. I had a pink Metropolitan.
This poem carries interior lives right to the heart of ours. I love this poem.
Posted by: Grace Cavalieri | January 24, 2021 at 03:50 PM
Congratulations Anne!
I also learned on a stick shift- and never got the hang of starting up again while on a hill. A fun poem.
XX Ellen
Posted by: Ellen Sinel | January 24, 2021 at 04:08 PM
A pleasure to read, Anne, though it sounds more rural than I remember the Summit area as being. It does capture that feeling of youth and exploration.
Posted by: Sue Bass | January 24, 2021 at 05:00 PM
Thanks for the comment, Grace.
Posted by: Terence Winch | January 24, 2021 at 05:32 PM
Just a lovely poem - so many memories and so sweety written.
Posted by: Marilyn Bono | January 24, 2021 at 05:34 PM
Thanks, Ei. I can barely drive an automatic.
Posted by: Terence Winch | January 24, 2021 at 05:36 PM
Well done, Anne! Brings back memories of learning to drive our first car, a VW Squareback which we picked up from the VW factory in Germany in 1967 at the start of David's postdoctoral year in Kiln. David taught me on a back road outside the city limits! Thank goodness for his patience and even temper!
Posted by: Marianne Bentley | January 24, 2021 at 05:48 PM
Awesome, Anne. You brought back that shift and lurch, so well.
Posted by: Patricia Gray | January 25, 2021 at 12:39 AM
Anne, brings back memories! Learned to drive stick on Paul's antique VW Beetle when we were first married......we were in Houston.....remember stalling at intersections with traffic lights......he was very patient and after 50+ years we are still married! AND have a VW Jetta.....stick of course! One can imagine being in that car as you described it. Beautifully done!
Posted by: Marian Boyer | January 25, 2021 at 08:08 AM
Oh, this really brings me back...not to cornfields, but to the angst of learning to drive a stick and feeling my heart go into overdrive anytime I had to stop on a hill. Five years later I married a European, who considered automatic transmissions almost sacrilegious, so through our first 50 years I had no choice but to continue on a stick shift. My thanks to the Toyota corporation for coming to my rescue: My Prius C only comes as an automatic.
Anne, Thanks for a great poem that stirred up memories for all of us.
Posted by: Paula Einaudi | January 25, 2021 at 02:38 PM
Glorious poem Anne -- deeply resonant and so true to life. I love how it keeps opening up and opening up and finally embraces youth, mid-life and death. Congratulations.
Posted by: Gray Jacobik | January 26, 2021 at 08:15 AM
LOVED the poem Anne!!! When Ed and I got married and bought his parents' car it was a stick shift so I HAD to learn how to drive it. We have some fun related stories re: learning to drive stick shift SO your poem really hit home :)
Posted by: Doris Heiser | January 27, 2021 at 04:12 PM
Wonderful poem, Anne!! I learned to drive a stick shift later in life as I had a sporty Honda and imagined myself to be a race car driver! Ha! But most of all, I love how in one word or short phrase you speak volumes of meaning. The last line really "hit home."
Posted by: Susan Reid | February 03, 2021 at 11:45 AM