By the Ford of Yellow Flowers

fails to recall the name of an acquaintance encountered on the street but laments that if he'd tried to introduce the man, he'd probably have forgotten his wife's name, too. I've saved the best to mention last: the Eieces dealing with Stull's West Virginia oyhood recollections, most of "characters " such as Orvil, Granny, and Monk. A born storyteller, Orvil mostly keeps villagers mesmerized with war stories but also manages to blackmail the town council out ora year's free pay; however , he finally tells one too many by revealing the names of the town bootleggers to the wrong stranger. Speaking of which, Granny, 'most interesting of all the bootleggers . . . lived on the county une, with the living room in one county and two bedrooms in the other county. When the sheriff from Doddridge County showed up, Granny merely moved her goods to Ritchie County and, when the sheriff from Ritchie showed up, she moved back to Doddridge." Then there's Monk, the boyhood buddy. Folks thought him a "bit teched in the haid," but the narrator considered him pretty smart when he built "the apple butter boat," that is, until they fell over the falls in it. Fittingly, the irrepressible Monk's escapades provide a fitting conclusion to the book in the essay "Monk and Old Granpa," a poignant fish story. Overall, I found the essays superior to the poems, which seemed a bit too predictable in their rhymes and sing-songy in their rhythms, but that reflects my own taste more than anything. The most understanding qualities of Stull's work are its accessibility, satirical humor, and generosity of spirit, requiring him to mock his own as well as others' foibles. There's a great deal of life here and entertainment for young and old. -Ed Davis By the Ford of Yellow Flowers From the porch west and through the outer gate, Under the martin-house and by the tall well-sweep, The cedar thought and snowball bush, the iron weight For the hours, at the gate and beads to get and keep. The will to have and to hold the hundred-thread Of beads when blue they were, woven, through and through, Over and under, in and out, the blue beads fed By countless hours in white, and the pattern true. To have, to keep, to see, woven in the thin air Of tribal places, they were on the other side of the creek, In six counted strands, and the pattern fair. Through the ford of yellow flowers and the honey bees And the child entered the hall, finding the beads put away, Her aunt and her grandmother not in sight. Her grandmother's clock on the shelf that day, And time should not run. That done, to the pendulum. -Woodridge Spears 66 ...