Gifting PoetryKay DayWhen we go home to South Carolina, much of our time is spent at my brothers home in the upper part of that state. His house sits on a quiet cove that is part of a large lake where my fathers brother and sister built their homes. Deer eat his shrubbery and ducks sail to shore in hope of a handout. Ospreys glide above the treetops, in search of a snack. The nearest grocery is about thirty minutes away, in the small town of Prosperity. There is no lovelier or calmer place I know. One week before Christmas, my husband and I journeyed there with our two daughters. After a couple of days, my husband, who is accustomed to a fair amount of activity, decided to drive into Prosperity in search of golf balls for some pratice putting, and barring that, a football to toss to my thirteen year old. We females opted to ride into town with him. Prosperity is a quaint little village with a facade that has changed little over the last one hundred years. There are specialty shops that sell jewelry, handmade crafts, antiques and such. There is a restaurant that offers sweet iced tea, a trademark Southern beverage. The grocery store looks exactly as it did when I'd go there with my aunt over forty years ago. While my husband searched for sporting toys, we girls dawdled in a boutique that offered original artwork, handmade jewelry, and candles and other domestics. The females finished first, and so decided to join our stir-crazy male at the antique shop across the street, where wed spied him through the boutique window as we paid for our purchases. We entered a large, cavernous building with a wine-colored brick front, and I saw my husband studying a large selection of books. He had two books in hand, and the look on his face as we approached told me he hadnt expected us to stop spending money as quickly as we did. He flashed a smile, the one that first attracted me over twenty-five years ago, and announced I had blown a Christmas surprise. When I saw the titles he was holding, I was speechless. In this tiny Southern town where there is not a single chain store, not to mention a book store, two books of poetry waited to be claimed. A signed copy of James Dickeys, Poems 1957-1967, published by Collier Books, which were published by MacMillan Books in New York, sported a price of $35. This book was in mint condition. In addition, Andrew Hudginss, The Never-Ending, also signed and most well-cared for, could be mine for a reasonable $14. My husband knew these gifts, even though discovered prematurely, would be the most delightful ones I received. As we loaded ourselves into the car for the drive home, I began to thumb through my gifts. The weather that day was cold and windy, with the sun shining brightly along the forested roadside. We drove slowly, and I began to read poetry to my girls and my husband. First I read my favorite poem by Hudgins, “Praying Drunk.” I read Dickeys, “Adultery.” After returning to my brothers house, we uncorked a delightful Beaujolais, sat by the fire, and delved into those books as a family. We watched the sun descend over the lake, and saw tiny lights click on across the water. The afternoon and early evening were so perfect they almost seemed to be a painting rather than something born of the real world. My husband never did find golf balls, or a football, in Prosperity. Desperate, he even stopped at the local gas station in hopes of a frisbee. Hands empty of sporting gear, he drove us home with a treasure trove of poetry.
Read Andrew Hudginss poetry at alsopreview.com/hudgins.
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Kay Day