BLACK GOLD: “With the ARG celebration coming up and the stories
about the smell of oil appearing in Round the Square, I thought
some readers may enjoy the following poem that I wrote,” says
Angela Nuzzle of Bradford.

We felt it was appropriate. Her poem is titled, “Black
Gold.”

“The smell of it is in my lungs,

in my veins, in my memories.

It has been breathed deep

since I was a child

and over the decades it has

soaked into my being.

Back then, the odor was heavy,

hanging in the air like a perfume

only the earth could procure.

It surrounded our house

as the goldenrod did,

mingling its scent

with the flowering fields.

Taking walks up Glycerin Road

would reveal open pools of brown goo,

autumn leaves stuck to the surface,

bugs landing with no hope of escape.

The pipes crisscrossing our hill

were still in use back then,

chugging back and forth, barking

out the language familiar

only in oil country.

Visitors experienced the unique flavor

of the water from our well,

but only in the driest summers

could WE taste the deep and murky dregs

being pulled up from the rock pool.

For years now the hills have been silent

and that certain smell has faded.

The rusting tanks

stand abandoned in the fields

and the jacks wait quiet.

There are laws now forcing landowners

to pull pipes and plug old oil wells.

And so, acre by acre,

my thoughts are displaced

and the landscape of that pungent odor

is changed forever.

But I can still sense it lingering,

having been breathed into my heart.”

OH, ZIPPO: Lauren Blear writes earlier this week: “Another
‘Zippo sighting’ last night on ‘Cops’ – When they emptied out the
suspects’ pocket contents, a Zippo lighter was on the top of the
heap!”

TODAY’S QUOTE: “A journalist is someone who gets shot at in a
war zone so he can report back material that can’t be broadcast
because it might be too disturbing,” said Harry Shearer,
entertainer, broadcaster, 2005.