June 2006 Archives

'Pon such morn as the
Seat chills not the sitter's butt
Summer has begun

Authored by David

Authored by David

Holy Holy Ho
Ly Holy Holy Holy
Holy Holy Al.

Authored by David

It's hard to believe
Irony could dwell in fruit
But this banana...

Authored by David

By Emily

As it was raining that first night, and we were holed up in the motel room playing hands of pitch, my father entertained us with the life and works of “the Byron of the Rockies,” Joaquin Miller. I had never before heard of Mr. Miller, a mid-Victorian poet and unparalleled liar who lived much of his life in Eastern Oregon,but I didn’t feel remiss for long. Here is the first sample of his versification with which my father blessed us:

               And then she cried ‘It cannot be,
               For I have vow’d a solemn vow,
               And God help me to keep it now!’

               “I sprang with arms extended wide
               To catch her to my burning breast;
               She caught a dagger from her side
               And plunged it to its silver hilt
               Into her hot and bursting heart,
               And fell into my arms and died—
               Died as my soul to hers was press’d,
               Died as I held her to my breast,
               Died without one word or moan,
               And left me with my dead—alone.

               “But why the dreary tale prolong?…” (Songs of the Sierras 230)

Why indeed? we all wondered, although the poet carries on in the same vein for another two hundred pages. (Actually, this was the only segment of Miller's poetry that my father managed to read, because whenever he tried to return to "Songs of the Sierras," my mother would whack him with her hand of cards, squealing "That's...enough!".) As it turns out, Miller’s sense of purpleness was not limited to his poetic endeavors. An online biography relates that even the name Joaquin was taken for poetic effect, replacing the lovely birth name "Cincinnatus Heiner" Miller. My father had us rolling on the floor while he read the rest of the biography, including my particular favorites:

"At the mine camps, Miller worked as a cook, among other tasks, for $50 a month. As a result of eating his own food, he caught scurvy. He also developed a taste for whiskey, with a preference for 110 proof. Because he wrote poetry in the kitchen, he was known in the settlement as 'Crazy Miller.' In his defense, he wrote: 'I cooked all winter for 27 men and every man was alive in the spring."

Excellent defense, Cincinnatus! Good old "Crazy Miller," hiding out under the pan rack with his scurvy and his 110 proof moonshine, penning sentimental verses.

He was eventually forced out of the camp after writing "unflattering poetry about a partner." Forced out of the gold camps for your poetry! After which, in a move sharply at odds with his hero Lord "On-The-Chambermaid-Like-A-Lightning-Bolt" Byron, Miller, "deciding to become 'native' and live with the Indians,...lost his virginity to paid Indian girls out in the fields." A real ladies' man. The biography goes on to note that "It is certain that he became a 'squaw man,' siring a daughter with his Indian paramour, Paquita...Paquita and other tribeswomen called Miller 'Bo-Bo,' which alluded to his foolish qualities." Hahahaha! I like Paquita already. Later on, when Miller came back to her and their child, on the run from the law and wanting to found an "independent Indian utopia," I bet she really laughed. "Hello?!" she and the other tribeswomen must have cackled. "That's what we had BEFORE you white men showed up! Silly old Bo-Bo." There was also a time when Miller claimed that Paquita had died "heroically" trying to break him out of jail, when she was plainly still alive and bringing up their daughter. Perhaps she thought of him as a sort of court jester.

Before that, however, he abandoned her and returned to Oregon, "becom[ing] a college graduate in record time, three months, taking classes at newly-founded Columbia College in Eugene. He managed to become his class valedictorian before the school burned down." BURNED DOWN??? How did he get a college degree in three months and become valedictorian? Why did the school burn down? What? Even more amazing: he later served as both an unqualified lawyer and an ELECTED JUDGE, "insist[ing] at times upon reading his poetry out loud from the bench." HAHAHAHA! Can you imagine?
"Your honor, my client---"
"Now, you just quiet down, Sonny-Jim. I think you'll feel differently after you hear THIS."
"But your honor--"
"Ah-HEM! 'That I, because the prison-mold / Was on my brow, and all its chill--"
"Your honor, I fail to see the relevance--"
"Silence, or I will find you in contempt of court! Now where was I? Oh yes: '...and all its chill / Was in my heart as chill as night..."
Oh. My. God. And who elected this man? Democrats, apparently. Whenever you find yourself complaining about the likes of John Kerry, just you think about old Cincinnatus Heiner.

I'm trying to cull down this hilarious biography, which I entreat you all to read for yourselves, but this is another of my favorite parts from later in the story, when he goes to London equipped with business cards reading "Joaquin Miller, Byron of the Rockies":

"After visiting the requisite graves in England, Miller finally got a book of verse, 'Pacific Poems,' printed by a vanity publisher. The slim opus netted mild praise and...dinner invitations. He took to wearing such outfits as a sombrero, flaming red shirt, blue polka dot bandana, high-heeled boots, and a riding quirt. Limping around London as the consummate Westerner, he got so excited by his own poetry [that] he wound up once on the floor biting the ankles of distaff aristocrats."

Holy crap. The man was an utter lunatic. His comment on this behavior was that "It helps sell the poems, boys, and it tickles the duchesses." Well, yes, if by "tickles" you mean "seriously alarms and frightens." Imagine how YOU would feel, even in today's open and accepting climate, if a man in sombrero, polka dot bandana, high-heeled boots and "riding quirt" (whatever that is) were squirming around on the floor of one of YOUR parties, biting people's ankles and hollering sentimental folderol about "her hot and bursting heart"? Dear lord. It's a hostess's nightmare.

Unsurprisingly, "Bo-Bo" soon returned to America, where he wrote under the pen names of "Agricola" and "Professor Bones." I can't make this stuff up, people! If I didn't have qualms about blatant plagiarism, I would just copy the whole biographical sketch down right here. It is well worth a read. As it is, I will merely include a few choice closing moments from the life of "Joaquin" Cincinnatus "Bo-Bo" "Professor Bones" Miller:

"He had directed that preachers of every denomination officiate at his funeral, but he had to settle for an Unitarian...Somehow befitting the strange course of his life, his funeral got out of hand and a mob ransacked [his estate] for souvenirs and the police had to 'rescue' his corpse."

And, shuddering to think what the mob would have otherwise done to Miller's corpse, we conclude this episode of "Nice Times In Eastern Oregon."

By Emily

A big thank-you to my parents, Jessie and Mike Johnson, for the great trip to Eastern Oregon that they gave David and I (and themselves) for my birthday. It was great! Thanks for all the driving, and hiking, and great meals (sometimes it took some work to find them, but they were all delicious), and interesting history, and good conversations. Also thank you for teaching us how to play pitch, which has all the makings of a great game (e.g., sometimes I can win). Mom and Dad, you're the greatest.

More to come on our adventures in John Day, Baker City and the Strawberry Mountains.

Ah, the cool night air—
so nice, so poetical—
tonight smells like poop.

Authored by David