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Word From The North

Fruit, Not Blood

A Van Allen Bear Original.

Van Allen Bear

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By Van Allen Bear

There is a type of man that sits on his stool,

So sure, so mean–in a world so cruel,

The warmth and love of the sun outside,

This type of man, in shade he hides.

This type of man makes short his love,

Makes sharp his blade, pulls tight his gloves,

Armor, boots, and helmet bright,

This type of man lays awake all night.

This type of man stalks in the wood, he wish a war, he wish a flood,

All the ‘didn’t’s and all the ‘could’s–he’s drawn so thin–he wants blood.

This type of man draws in the sand and thinks the world apart,

So silly he seems, his armor gleams, so hidden is his heart.

His halls are cold, no stories told,

No kids a-cooing, he sends them shooing– yet the youngins do grow old.

Upon his desk, letters pile up as dust,

The webs in the corners, the ashy embers; they add to the musk.

This type of man, deep down inside, wishes for a change of times,

This foolish man, with idle hands, had been ignoring all the signs.

The shutters flap upon the wind, tappings upon his doors,

The chairs all squeak, the tables lean, the fire suddenly roars!

The man sits up on his stool, the noises rocked him with a fright,

This life of his, always hid, surely isn’t right.

Make a fix, clean a corner, call the children in,

Be there a hall, a home, a full parade of thy lov’d kin!

This type of man sees his shortcomings, eats with them to close the day,

Before his rest, in his tidied nest, his child comes to say:

“Father whom is troubled so, we wish you better, don’t you know?”

Before him there, in inn’cence bare, that boy of his will grow.

Before he goes this man should know, there looking at his kin,

While his mind’s been caught on pain and rot, he’s shown where to begin.

That night he strolled about his lair, a candlestick in hand,

He thought all night and fought his spite:

“All this time and all this land–

Tear off your blinders you silly man!

Wicked are the ways of me,

To drivel and desire, for pain and death to gain in coin,

For profits oversea!

How I shall make it right, before my soul departs this world in flight,

I shall love my babe, my daughters small, steward my sons towards good and right.”

Achy floors and rat’ling shutters, the wind blows hard that night,

Pacing round those halls of his, the wind blew out his light.

When morning comes to the world around, this type of man kneels ‘pon the ground,

“O spare me Lord, one day more, my trivial thoughts were drowned, 

By greed and wrath–I confess at last–my mortal flesh was owned.

This day today I’ll see it through, I’ll love my kin, and I’ll bow to you,

I shake these trees and rid the snakes, I’ll nevermore fraternize in sin,

While my mind’s been caught on pain and rot, I’ve been shown where to begin.”

This type of man gets off his stool, forgives his pains, drawers up the cruel,

Puts ‘way the scotch, tucks ‘way the stool, shakes off his dust, no-more a ghoul.

He finds his wife kneading dough–her fingers cold, her tied-up hair be frayed,

His touch to her had been missed, she thought their love decayed.

The postman comes, with letters–three; in them words from oversea,

Reports and charts, the postman boasts, “numbers high of coins and ghosts!”

“Make kindling of such news as these, these empty words from overseas.

Feed the hounds, clear the halls, have music sound and no more squalls.

Fetch the long gun for me son, it’s time this table’s feast be won.

O’ wife my love, send word to family, a feast tonight for all hereof.

Postman follow me in kind, it’s time for an upland game,

This man I was, and the one stands ‘ere, from here on won’t be same.”

This type of man returns to his estate,

A bird in hand, for each man, fowl for each plate,

Lanterns alight, a dancing night, no more shall he desecrate.

This type of man lays down his hand, his final years roll by,

His sons grown old, daughters too, left to a proud widow’d wife.

Family comes from all around, this man be lowered in sacred ground,

For were it not of a fright, that windy night; his child’s words profound,

He’d be laying dead in a pool of red, or overseas or drowned.

Remembered for his tut’lage and care, nay for his armored suit,

This type of man, without despair, known by his fruit.

Children Stories

The Heedless Woodchopper

For the Children’s Hour

Van Allen Bear

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By Van Allen Bear

The wood beyond the eastern peaks shimmers yellow in the autumn months. Lakes stretch long from the top of the valley to the south, and there are tall pines that sway in the warm breeze as their needles slowly drip one by one onto the soft forest floor beneath. The lakes have a healthy stock of trout with rainbow shimmering scales as they breech and munch on the lazy flies skittering on the surface. The skies are watched by eagles, always vigilant and steady as they soar from the valleys to their perches. Faint songs are sung from high boughs of the pines when the wind blows through. The wood harbors countless deer, elk, wolves, rabbits, squirrels, owls, and mice.

There is an interesting story about something that had happened to these woods, and had something to do with a woodchopper, however he wasn’t always called that.

You see, the wood harbors a family, and the head of that family is a man whom one could consider a woodchopper. Though he tries, he doesn’t quite pay enough attention to truly be called a woodsman, nor a chopper. He does fell trees but the man works along at a less-than-reasonable pace. The woods are rife with trees ready for chopping, but his pace surely is slow.

In the height of the spring, the woodchopper goes out from his home quite some distance to find the standing deadwood trees and clear out thickets of the wild brush. One year, on a particularly warm spring, the woodchopper headed out far from the house to a thicket that had suffered a landslide two seasons ago. The land had slid from a ways up the mountain and came to a halt in a rather flat area, off the beaten path. The trees were dead and ready for harvest, but they lay strewn about in new terrain, all bent and bundled together. This was going to be quick work, and the woodchopper made his way down to the fresh ground with only an axe and a bent claw tool. The woodchopper went to work, putting his hat on a protruding low branch, and dug his claw tool in a stump nearby his first tree.

“This is going to be an easy batch,” he thought, “all that I need to do is make a few cuts on these that are already dead and this should be the easiest bundle I’ll ever make.”

Careless, he wants the most firewood with the least amount of effort, so he finds a bigger tree than he has ever chopped before laying there in the pile of warped trunks and branches. Heedless, he goes atop the pile and began hammering away at the trunk. The woodchopper gets part of the way through and his axe loses the edge as it goes dull on the massive trunk of the dead tree. Realizing that he has forgotten his sharpening stones, he has to continue making due with an ever-dulling blade. “bang, bang, bang, bang, skrrraak!” he reeled back and the head of his axe was tumbling around inside the big pile of bundled lumber.

“You’ve got to be kidding me! I brought my worst axe and didn’t even notice!” he shouted to the sky.

Under further inspection of the handle, the woodchopper said, “no wonder it just broke, this is the most brittle axe I’ve got in the shed, I could have sworn that I brought the right one this morning, I must’ve not paid attention…” he said to himself, “what am I suppose to do now? Ah, guess I’ll go home and come back tomorrow…”

On his way off the pile of logs, he looked around to find his claw tool to see if he could drag a smaller log up the hill and have himself at least something to go home with. Around and around he looked and couldn’t find the claw tool, nowhere was it to be found. He reached for his hat on the bough and realized the ribbon had ripped on the inside brim, as it was rubbing against the sharp bark of the pine tree bough that it was resting on. He let out a low grumble and growl, having lost both his axe and claw tool and damaged his hat that day.

As he was climbing up the bank of the new earth towards the beaten path, he slipped with his right foot and slid gently back to the base of the slope. Tired and demoralized, he sat down on a bare log at the bottom. “My,” he thought as he put his head in his hands, “I had traveled so far and gotten so tired, I wish I had brought along a flask of water and a bundle of bread… I think I’ll just rest here a moment and try again to make it up this hill.” He then took a stick and cleaned the mud from under his boots.

Faintly, the woodchopper heard an unseen elk crying in the fields down the slope, and he panned the landscape but couldn’t place where the sound was coming from. Not up, not down, not left not right, and then it stopped. Nearing another clearing, he looked up to the peaks that were jutting above the treeline, then suddenly all at once the woodchopper got caught up in all the sounds and sights of nature. He saw the eastern peaks shimmering green in the springtime, the lakes stretching long from the top of the valley to the south, tall pines swaying in the warm breeze as their needles slowly drip one after another onto the soft forest floor beneath. The woodchopper could get a fair glimpse of the lakes he knew were full of rainbow trout and lazy flies skittering on the surface. He looked out towards the black wings gliding along in the skies as the eagles soared from the valleys to their perches. Faint songs were sung from high boughs of the pines when the wind blew through, and he knew, this world around him was that of no other.

Using the handle of his broken axe as a cane, the woodchopper made his way back up the bank towards the beaten path, and back to his home where he was greeted with a hot bowl of soup and his children reading a fairy-tale in the corner by the fireplace.

“My dear,” he started to his wife, “I’ve broken my axe, this brittle thing. I’ve ripped the inside of my hat, and I’ve gone ahead and lost the claw tool I brought with me. What I hadn’t brought with me was a lunch nor a flask of water… I tell you I’ve been heedlessly rummaging around about these woods too long. Thankyou for dinner, and in the morning I’ll be off with firewood in my return.”

The next morning he remembered his faults of the previous day. With a satchel full of mealtime pastries, broadaxe sharpened with a spare stone, flask slung on his back with water, and son by his side the woodchopper made his way into the warped bundle of trees down the bank.

“Son, take heed of the things you will see. I was here yesterday and made quite a fool of myself. Today you and I will harvest and clear a few piles of wood, and we will do it right, for we are within a living wood, full of elk and deer and eagles and fish and wolves and rabbits and trees and people like us. The woods have what we need, and in return we need to take care of and find a balance between what we take and what we give back.”

He said as he pointed his axe from the top of the slide zone to the base, “We will clear this slide area by the close of the summer, and in the next year it will be another thicket for the rabbits and the wolves and the bugs and the deer while we are warm and cozy all winter long.”

The woodchopper gained his title that day, as he and his son took a good helping of wood away from the warped pile and neatly stacked it under the awning of their humble home. They did this all summer, and as the eastern peaks shimmered yellow in the autumn months the slide zone was left clear for another springtime field for all the rabbits to play and the deer to bounce and the eagles to guard. That unseen elk which cried out to the woodchopper now lays to rest by bushels of berries on a carpet of grasses.

The same for all as time went on.

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Word From The North

Wolves in the Dark

An agreement, of sorts.

Van Allen Bear

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Dear readers, gather round extra close for this tale. This tale was lived-out by myself and many other young men at the time in which it took place, the tale of the wolves in the dark. One evening while canoeing a fleet of manned canoes (some were fastened with make-shift sails), gray wolves were seen along the banks of the Yukon River. Following us paddlers, they were spotted running along the treeline the same direction as our fleet. Briefly afterwards, they disappeared into the brush, never to be seen again.

Hours later we beached and made camp. Campfires and stories–all in a summer night’s close! That part of the world hardly gets dark during the summer, mind you, only for a few hours in the deep of the morning. That’s when the shadows are afforded their daily dance. After a good ‘marking of the territory’ we bedded down for rest.

The inevitability of the event was thrilling. Knowing they were coming for us and eventually having to get off the water and set up camp. We weren’t frightened: we knew they were going to come at one time or another, so we had been prepared. With the adults on the perimeter we clustered our tents in a circle, pocket knives were kept by us as we slept, kept food isolated in sealed containers, and tented-up in pairs.

Guard the gravy

They didn’t get into anything, they didn’t attack anyone, and they didn’t make any noise. Not a single huff or puff, not a sniff nor a growl. However, we knew that they had undoubtedly been around all of the dark hours in the morning, for there were countless wolf tracks going everywhere through camp between the tents, the gear, and the boats.

It is good practice for team building, and good to realize from barely the beginning of my teenage years the inevitability of danger and how to mitigate it. Especially since we were canoeing hundreds of miles with only what was in our boats: packed food, oars, tents, and a few misc items.

This was the understanding that was struck between us and the wolves: they won’t bother us if we don’t bother them nor tempt them. As hungry as a pack of wolves may be, if you prepare properly by not leaving out food or stragglers, they will begrudgingly leave you be. This agreement can be found between you and many other types of adversaries in life: if you are prepared and stand your ground, they will be far less inclined to target you or your group. The wilderness is not a theme park, one must continue to strike agreements with the creatures of the woods, the waters, and the air. Fall short on your end of the bargain, well, let’s just keep up our end of the bargain shall we?

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Satire

Lemons Are One Thing, But Limes?

What on earth do we do with limes?

Van Allen Bear

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Next time someone tells you “oh yeah man listen I hate to break it to ya, but all I got for ya are these lemons here see”–take em and run! Could you imagine how worse-off you would be if you had a handful of limes? I mean, come on, before you say, “hey woah man, it’s all good we can make limeade”–No… Listen guy, I ain’t buyin’ it and nobody I’ve ever known drinks something as silly as limeade. 

Lemons are one thing, but limes? 

Any sensible person, any time in history or future

When life gives us lemons, we can make lemonade and maybe we can get ourselves into a lemonade stand. With that lemonade stand we can get ourselves into the market and start making some seed money for, oh I don’t know, a new *bike* or a bigger hat or even pay your CPA $50 for an LLC to begin creating cargo airships out of scrap aluminum… but, limes? We can even collect them and digitally throw them at a bear for hours of entertainment, but limes?

The difference is beyond measure

Come on, what on earth can we do with a lime? Why is everyone so unenthusiastic about the lemons they might receive from life when they should be most worried about the limes lurking in the shade? Literally lurking in the shade! I just don’t get it.

Why had no one told us about the limes? I bought one as a joke at the supermarket once when I was a young man. What a complete and utter waste of money– it sat in my refrigerator for about one-and-a-half-years before I finally threw it away and bought another one. I figured that this was a mercy purchase, because someone, somewhere actually picked a lime and tried to sell it. I mean, come on that’s hilarious to even think someone would purposefully purchase a lime. Lemons all day, man, that makes sense, but limes? Come on. Don’t be kidding yourself. Don’t be kidding me, do I look like a fool? Gimme a handful of lemons and I’m on the dark side of the moon bartering tree seeds to the Chineses in 6 months. But if you really want to insult someone, go out of your way to purchase them a lime. What a disaster that would cause, oh good Heavens. 

Can you imagine, dear readers, someone who may have the gall to comfort you in a time of distraught with the age-old, “when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” I wish someone would say, “alright, hold on. You and I both know lemons are rather acidic, however they have nominal market value when coupled with sugar granules and liquid ice. I know that seems like a little bit, but with fractional transactions and investing over 66% of our profit margins into solar battery research, I could both have a new set of rollerblades AND a new sunroof for my prius. With limes… not so much, guy, lime fruits don’t even form a monophyletic group.”

It’s alright, I’m sure lemons fall short in utility, but limes? Come on, man. Not a chance.

Come on…

Lemons are made out to be the bad-guy here, and I don’t see why. I’m just trying to figure this out. They are used in potpourri, as ornaments, mixed into cocktails (haram), zest in cakes, yellow dyes, added to picnic water, pies, puddings, baked bars, squeezed over fried catfish, lemonade, origami, crypto currency, pigment for painting porches, donkey food, soaps, hotel lotions, earrings, tree ornaments… all kinds of things. Limes… sorry yeah drawing a blank. When life gives you lemons, don’t worry about it, just be glad they weren’t limes.

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