book review by daithi’
PSOV members, Scudder Parker’s publication, Safe as Lightning is well worth its purchase. Unlike so many of us who sought refuge in Vermont from elsewhere, Scudder occupies a different space. His family moved to a dairy farm in the Northeast Kingdom when he was a youngster.
And while there are many other facets to his collection, spanning from ornithology to geology to ecology, my intent here is to highlight what makes his writing unique. Growing up in rural Vermont seasoned Parker before he turned to poetry. He was ensconced in the natural environment as well as in a tight-knit community. His writing stays in one place while he observes and reflects upon changes around him, both in people and landscape–a specific kind of groundedness. And with that placemat, he welcomes us to join him.
So many writers, flat-landers and old-timers, almost worship the romantic notion of being a Vermonter from a distance: resolute, independent…but vanishing.
Such notions relegate living beings who are changing and still amongst us. In Scudder’s writing, his people change over time as does the landscape around him. His method of delivery is direct, honest, and–most of the time–without the trimmings. Every word, every line is measured.
As someone who spent many years teaching in Vermont’s rural schools, I detect a distinct and unique voice that echoes Parker’s surroundings that belong to Vermont. His description of the North Danville school–a school with fewer resources than larger schools–rings true to me. Nonetheless, the students persist and demonstrate how determination on the basketball court can build confidence.
There is a dark side as well: when the farm boys enter a larger high school, they are met with derision. Instead of valuing the honest work that they show, they are demoted to the status of their boots: shitkickers. This brief mention in one poem signals class division and what is beginning to look like the demise of Town Meetings, being replaced by Australian ballot. When fewer and fewer citizens from a town sit down to break bread with each other, irrespective of class, we are heading in the wrong direction. And small schools in Vermont have an uphill battle to remain open under the guise of limited resources and efficiency.
Scudder’s poems contain kernels of wisdom: if you bring peonies into your kitchen, expect ants. When you dig potatoes, expect stones. Should your town attempt to hold an identical Home-Coming event year after year, prepare to witness changes creeping in: horse power replaced by tractor or car, for instance. The images and words remind us that we live in a world of perishables, ourselves included. These portraits have been drawn from deep silences and open spaces that compel us to be more reflective and appreciative of life in all of its manifestations.
In many ways, Scudder Parker reminds me of another grandfather in a local story. (Did I tell you that he dedicated his book to future generations?) One summer, awhile back, a grandfather had a grandchild visit him. Together, they ambled down a forsaken cowpath. Along the way, a wartsome toad announced itself.
“Whose toad is that?” the grandchild asked.
The grandfather responded: ” In Vermont, he is his own toad.”
