The Pigeons of Buchenau and Other Stories

The Pigeons of Buchenau and Other Stories

The Pigeons of Buchenau and Other Stories

The Pigeons of Buchenau and Other Stories

Synopsis

Pichaske’s stories take us from the halls of academe to small-town Minnesota to a little village on the edge of the Bavarian National Forest. Speaking in voices of a farmer right out of Deliverance, a disgruntled Professor of English, and his dog Harley, Pichaske says what many people think, but few have the courage to say. While he is especially strong on details of history, place, and language, the hard-nosed wisdom his narrators offer transcends place and even time.

From "Daisy":

Look—there are always dreams. And in dreams the ultimate purity: by now she may be fat and forty, stretch marks, grey hair, three kids. The ravages of time, you know? Look at you and me: not exactly the bright and rising stars we were twenty years ago, eh? But in dreams, the years are invisible. People never age in dreams.

David Pichaske has spent fifty years as a college professor, and forty years as editor-publisher of Spoon River Poetry Press and Ellis Press. He taught four years in Poland, Latvia, and Mongolia on Senior Fulbright Fellowships, and authored two dozen books, most recently his memoir Here I Stand. He lives in Granite Fall, Minnesota.

Excerpt

“And through an open window where no curtain hung, I saw you….”

—The Jefferson Airplane

Look—there are always dreams. and in dreams the ultimate purity: by now she may be fat and forty, stretch marks, grey hair, three kids. the ravages of time, you know? Look at you and me: not exactly the bright and rising stars we were twenty years ago, eh? But in dreams, the years are invisible. People never age in dreams.

They come in definite types, and I’ve dreamt them all so often I know right from the beginning what’s going to happen. Kind of like, “Oh, the old storage room dream again,” or, “Oh, the house dream. Now I will see my Lady again.”

There is one dream especially. I call it my storage room dream, and I must have dreamt it a hundred times without exaggeration. I call this the storage room dream because it always begins in some kind of narrow, enclosed space full of trunks, boxes, stacks of books, Devon’s discarded Barbie dolls and Tim’s old Little League bats, artifacts out of my own childhood. It’ll be the attic, the upstairs of our old garage, my work room in the basement. Once it was a closet of my boyhood home in Connecticut, where I had set orange crates as shelves for my baseball cards, bottle cap collection, sea shells, Hardy Boys books, and stuff I picked out of trash cans on the . . .

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