O:JA&L Flash Nonfiction
PERSONAL ESSAY/MEMOIR/VIGNETTE
Gregory Ormson
LIGHTING MATCHES
Growing up I didn’t see much, but I noticed birds and a spark within. I was angry and wanted to light a flame to set everything on fire. But I had a conscience, and it kept me from big trouble even though I was caught and punished for lighting matches in the church balcony.
The edginess in me was a fire, and for a long time it powered my education and career. I had a family, a house surrounded by six acres of pine and hardwood trees, and a clear creek flowing through my backyard where I watched brook trout swimming to their shadowy pews under the creek’s balconies.
Barred Owls camouflaged themselves in the trees and were quiet during the day, but at dark we chatted together. I named the large pine that seemed impervious to threat, Ulysses. Other big trees were Easter and Chief; smaller ones had less impressive names.
Mail came to me at 92 Sugarloaf Rd. It was the only home I’ve ever known, owned, or loved. Growing up near large fields and woods and then owning my home on six acres surrounded by open land and water, I thought it would always be like that.
One cold January day, as a 17-year-old, I walked outside where hardwood trees were cracking in the freezing air. A fresh cover of brittle snow filtered up to caress my black wintry boots with every step. Arriving back home, something inside set me aflame and I wrote a poem about my walk. I read Wordsworth’s preface to Lyrical Ballads of poetry as strong emotions recollected in tranquility. It seemed to fit what I thought I did.
I typed that 10-line poem about my walk and showed it to my mother. She laughed, “What are you trying to be now, a poet?” A younger brother laughed too and said, “Yeah.”
Thud.
Water to the flame!
But this story about “trauma bonding” moves beyond trauma by using a poem to burn it. My flame burned lower for a while, but I aimed my fire toward ridicule with my own Lady Macbethian protest. Out damn ridicule, out!
Inside me, a spark lived, and the flame that had nearly been extinguished 50 years earlier still burned. At my mother’s funeral, I wanted to speak. I read my poem, but I was not hiding in the balcony.
Otnv arpxn ntav n lexn
“In the beginning was the word”
The Gospel of John
This prologue starts in Barron, and with the word.
Barren, technically the dry antithesis to a fruitful womb.
Not barren, hers, labor and birth.
Labor and birth again, and again, and again.
Her prologue to that labor
a child gripping, guiding the plow,
steering from behind, the genius of plowing fields and raising children
steering from behind, bringing food and sons to bounty.
I search for artriao, “to plow,” and read St. Paul
admonishing his beloved Greeks, “to plow in hope.”
I try to imagine artriao spoken to her, long ago.
The imperative. “Go Plow!”
In the prologue to all words, hers fell first on my ears:
letter, sentence, paragraph on me, in me,
the first drum, finding rhythm, and beat.
At the end, from her lips,
no meant yes and yes meant no
both morphing into W O W !
Buried like seeds in winter fields, words went silent.
Early on, I chose yes or no
choices meant: rebellion or submission.
Submission: a religious word.
Rebellion: a rock and roll word.
Rebellion: her iron will against mine – and against death –
until there was nothing left to plow-under, push-against, or steer.
Now the yesses, noes, and wow’s, are memories
planted in hope, sewn by cut of plow, the
mighty furrows growing in descendants.
Other stories, deep and wide:
The walleye lodged in the grip of her red-gloved strong hand
then released from line and net.
Boat and anchor, direction and root
both released from shore.
Birth, eclipsed by death as
waves roll-over
rebellion and submission
receding to deep water with the walleye
And into the ploughed Earth
where disease no longer anchors, makes sick, or weighs down,
where work of plow and blade is done,
where prologue submits to epilogue.
Where alphabets and words are like a walleye – released
into Psalms, hymns, celebrations, Testaments.
No plowing.
No steering.
About the writer:
Gregory Ormson was Midwest born and raised and now lives in Arizona. He’s traveled far in mind, body, and spirit, and learned from a wide variety of people in places from sketch to Shinola. His life goals have been to jettison all defensiveness, and to sing, teach, breathe, and move with grace. Like everyone else he’s a bit stardust, a touch of shadow and light, and a drop of golden matter and mind wrapped in billion-year-old carbon. Pretty simple.
Image: Xiuhtecuhtli (AI-assisted digitl image) by O:JA&L staff creative. 2025. Public domain via MidJourney AI.
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