The Poet of Amhurst
EDMUND EUGENE WHITE died today, April 18th at 8:35 a.m. He was 75 and the self-declared poet laureate of Amhurst County, in the mountains of Virginia. He will be greatly missed. He left behind no family, but a legacy that will champion him a permanent fixture of the Blue Ridge for years to come.
Spring arrived early for Amhurst this year, and with it, fields (or rather mountains) of vibrant green grass. Seems Edmund was trying to resolve the problem with a makeshift riding lawn mower. The incline of the mountain in front of his trailer was just too steep. The mower tipped over, taking Edmund with it for a significant roll down the side of his property and into a drainage ditch. Which is where he expired. Upside down with a riding mower on top of him. Still running. The pressure was too great for his heart to take. They also think the water in the ditch might have contributed to his demise. But none of this happened before Edmund found a way to leave us with one last piece of his art.
“Edmund White has always been such an institution up here. Even the ones who didn’t know him knew him from his poems. He wrote on trees. The side of sheds. The tire shack. His words were everywhere. And they was beautiful. They said everything that is great about Amhurst.”
Raymond Chandler, (not the writer), plans on leaving the riding lawnmower where it was found. Upside down in Edmund’s ditch. And the trailer, which was left to the good people of Amhurst, will be handled by Chandler, as the “estate caretaker”. After going through all of Edmund’s things, he will turn it into a museum, to display all the pieces of his poetry that Edmund left behind.
“We might have to go cut down some trees and such, and Jimmy Bylar might lose his barn, but it’s for a good cause. Maybe we can raise a little interest in tourism for Amhurst. Who knows. Edmund had all the power of a saint.”
We leave you with the poem found etched in the seat of the riding lawnmower. They are still not sure exactly how he did it. Teeth maybe. They’re thinking. Anyway, maybe Edmund was leaving a final message to all the Amhurstites or maybe he was just scared of dying. You be the judge:
This grass is my last
Fields of it cloud my mind
The smell of gasoline
The hint of what’s left behind
Help me…
Spring arrived early for Amhurst this year, and with it, fields (or rather mountains) of vibrant green grass. Seems Edmund was trying to resolve the problem with a makeshift riding lawn mower. The incline of the mountain in front of his trailer was just too steep. The mower tipped over, taking Edmund with it for a significant roll down the side of his property and into a drainage ditch. Which is where he expired. Upside down with a riding mower on top of him. Still running. The pressure was too great for his heart to take. They also think the water in the ditch might have contributed to his demise. But none of this happened before Edmund found a way to leave us with one last piece of his art.
“Edmund White has always been such an institution up here. Even the ones who didn’t know him knew him from his poems. He wrote on trees. The side of sheds. The tire shack. His words were everywhere. And they was beautiful. They said everything that is great about Amhurst.”
Raymond Chandler, (not the writer), plans on leaving the riding lawnmower where it was found. Upside down in Edmund’s ditch. And the trailer, which was left to the good people of Amhurst, will be handled by Chandler, as the “estate caretaker”. After going through all of Edmund’s things, he will turn it into a museum, to display all the pieces of his poetry that Edmund left behind.
“We might have to go cut down some trees and such, and Jimmy Bylar might lose his barn, but it’s for a good cause. Maybe we can raise a little interest in tourism for Amhurst. Who knows. Edmund had all the power of a saint.”
We leave you with the poem found etched in the seat of the riding lawnmower. They are still not sure exactly how he did it. Teeth maybe. They’re thinking. Anyway, maybe Edmund was leaving a final message to all the Amhurstites or maybe he was just scared of dying. You be the judge:
This grass is my last
Fields of it cloud my mind
The smell of gasoline
The hint of what’s left behind
Help me…
posted by The Passenger at 9:24 AM
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