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Art has the power to change and heal us. For National Rural Health Day, we asked local artist and poet José Faus to share a poem about his time painting a mural in a rural Kansas community.
This is the mural José painted. He wrote about his experience in his poem, The Gift of Violet.
The Gift of Violet By José Faus
I work at night cast the projector light to the wall Begin to tell a story of this town between Newton and Emporia Wichita and Manhattan A town of boom cycles and busted dreams crumbling houses and majestic homes A cat harbors a litter of four in the garage the workers fill bowls of water and food Shadows pass me in the evening faceless squatting in the parks open lands the crumbling facades quiet eyes cast down mumbling softly to past selves
Sandy helps me in the day when I begin to fill the drawing with color I was an addict once came here to get straight found that I was needed here no degree but the shared experience She counsels and softly cajoles folks here and in the nearby towns One day she surprises me with her silence It’s been hard I lost four this week Two suicides an overdose and another in jail
The monthly Monday farmers’ market is abuzz He is on the stool with the other musicians It’s his birthday one hundred and one years I watch as the trio plays Hey Good Looking He strums the pristine 56 Les Paul Its polish as old as I am Can you believe he is 101 years old As if I have never seen anyone one hundred one years old strumming a guitar on a day that breaks 108 degrees sitting stout pleased and happy and present as a sunflower in high summer
You should taste this cake Janice made She is a great baker some day you will have to try her rhubarb pie I think of the last time I had rhubarb It was a picnic in another small town and another birthday celebration The family matriarch counting 95 years And I wonder what it is about rhubarb and bemoan the rhubarb pie has run out
Cynthia reassures me if I come next time there will be plenty of rhubarb Cynthia who greets me every morning at 10 sharp before the bank parking lot clock across the street flashes it on the digital screen Her determined waddle a painful shift of the upper torso side to side on thick legs stiff from the arthritis that spreads across her body I’m running late today she says as the clock hits one past ten
She is headed to the senior center helps make the meals for the elders This is her routine as constant as the stars that flood the night sky Sometimes it hurts too much It’s worse if I stop and stand still By one her day done she walks home She will come back at four get the shopping in the market and return to make her meal watch the shows she hankers for
Oh that’s Cynthia one of ours We watch out for her Her parents passed she lives in the house she was born in Today she tells me good bye she leaves in the morning for Wichita where she will take a chartered bus and head for Oklahoma to visit a museum and other places She has planned this trip for three years only to have covid cancel it each time
Today the fog is thicker than a December snowbank The dust from the gravel mixes with the mist makes a fine mud The shout of kids yelling on their bikes tells me school is canceled for the day just like the day the valves and seals of the water tower failed and left the town without water near the only other restaurant in town and a boil order for two days and kids running in and out of the quaint deserted downtown street in their tractors lawn mowers golf carts Later they will arrive with parents an appointment to maintain The mobile eye clinic has made a stop in the parking lot There is no doctor nearby There is a hospital in another town within the county borders not close like the one five blocks from my house
I’m worried right now my house is going up for auction for back taxes but I don’t get enough in my disability to cover it I’m trying to see at this point I can only hope She steadies her steps with a cane adjusts her sunglasses I have to wear these all the time I’ve got two pair the others broke without them the light blinds me
I stop at Pop’s the sun has been brutal The clock registers 112 degrees and not a cloud to see The diner conversation swells the walls The state of crops and absence of rain on the menu I notice no one on their cell phones not reading screens and realize this has been the norm every time I enter at home I can’t recall a meal without eyes fixed on the small screen not the faces that sit across from you laugh with you fill in the gossip inquire about the kids and the elders
Marylyn came by today her smile warmer than the scorching sun She gets out of her car brings a bouquet of purple nettle-like dried flowers as bright as any violet on my color charts You have to come with me and see the field is aglow with them I have never seen them this bright In her 95 years this is the brightest she has seen and I wonder the following morning why I said We will check it out later Bemoan I can’t find the spot He tells me he saw them too and the glint in his eyes tells me I have missed more than the violet on the plains
The other day Faye came by asked If indeed I like rhubarb pie of course I do After a few words she leaves Hours later she returns with a freshly baked rhubarb pie the memory of which I can add to the fresh made breads with butter baked and gifted more than once and today I can think of nothing but fields of violet blossoms Eryngium leavenworthii
