An Old Rosewood Cane Poem by Ron Stock

1947. The sky was blue, the sun hot, the clouds white, the water cool.

Short, squat, Dr. Chicky,71, was sitting on a beach of fine white sand, on the shoreline of Lake Huron, in Michigan, his body lightly tanned, as he sipped mint tea, read exotic passages from a D. H. Lawrence book, and occasionally thought of the accident, and the driver who almost took his life, and left, in fact, both legs, from ankles to thighs, in solid plaster casts. Now, he hobbled around with two old rosewood canes; obviously, not very fast.

Johnny,6, and Danny,9, were playing Pirate Ship on a driftwood raft. Two, skinny white boys in dark swim trunks, one on the bow, the other aft, when a strong gust of wind suddenly grabbed their ship and began to carry it out to sea Danny jumped off and swam to shore while Johnny screamed, 'Help me! I don't want to go to Canada.' 'Jump off, stupid! ' And so little Johnny did, into water over his head; he could not swim, this over-trusting, innocent kid.

Dr. Chicky heard the plea, Help me! and glanced in the direction of the cry, arose to his feet with the aid of both canes, braced his wobbly broken legs to try, and save Johnny, who coughed, spit, and screamed, 'Help me! ' one last time. The old man dragged his broken legs across the hot sand until he reached the water line, waded in, stumbled over stones, felt a cool wetness, creep down his plaster casts. Water at his chin, he breathed in, lowered his head, left hand holding a single cane fast.

Johnny lay face up, head to shore, on the bottom of the lake. The boy looked dead. Dr. Chicky resurfaced, breathed in, ducked, back under. The water was over his head and he could not swim, afraid his very last breath, would come from within. He turned his cane end to end, lunged forward, lunged again deeper, hooked the thin, round handle of the cane on the armpit of the boy, and slowly, dragged him back, towards the beach. His deflated lungs now burning with pain, thoughts black, the exhausted Dr. Chicky looked up, and saw the sun, shimmering, far above, the surface...then, let his hand slip away, from the old rosewood cane. He loved, Johnny, but could not, would not, die for him. Arms pumping, eyes open to death, casts waterlogged, mind screaming upward to the air of the sky, and one, more, breath.

Several hands then touched his weary body and the body of the small boy and pulled them back, to the safety, of the fine white sand beach, but with little joy, until, face down and aside, after respiration from Dr. Chicky, Johnny heaved! I,3, standing near the water, was watching, as my brother, coughed, blinked, breathed.