Snake Charmer Wanted

The words were unkind

Unintentionally cruel

A coil, hiss and strike

My Little Furry Gentleman

 Note, today's post is based on a true story, told as best as I understand the details. Some parts may not be entirely accurate, but I have tried to stick with the facts as I know them. Brought to you by the word HISS.

       Oliver Dean Gregg, happily named, happily loved and oh so fluffy

I had no name. When people wanted to address me, rarely kindly, it's usually "get away" or "shoo, cat". I'll spare you the worst I've heard as a gentleman, even a furry one such as I am, hears words he refuses to repeat in polite society.

Not that I grew up in a polite society. I had been on the street long enough that my mother and siblings and those first few months are just a hazy blur. I do believe though that I was born indoors to a mother whose owners refused to spay. The children in the home meant well, but they played rough, and as such my siblings learned to return pulled tails and hard squeezes with claw and tooth, so we were abandoned outdoors as soon as our mother weaned us.

Life on the streets is hard, and harder than it should be. There are many homes out there which could benefit from the love a stray can give. After all, it's not a life we had chosen for ourselves, and you can hardly blame us for being suspicious, if not outright scared of humans when no one cares whether you live or die, or if you will find a safe spot to sleep that night.

And winter...brrrrrr. Even with all of my floof, I am a slender cat and weigh very little. My fur lets you think I am bigger than I am, but I am a product of years of lean times. Skinny cats, especially ones without the warmth and trust of a colony or other mates to snuggle with at night, can freeze during times of bitter cold.

But today I sit warm and comfortable, knowing I am safe, loved and that I will never have to worry about where my next meal will come. I have been a "house cat" for nearly 12 years now, but I still remember those years on the street.

I am small in stature. I'm no kitten, but I don't have the mass, or the temperament, to establish myself as king of the heap. My days were spent roaming, looking for food, water, and keeping an eye out for other cats in the neighborhood. Thanks to my birth mother's home life, our neighborhood was actually flooded with cats. It wasn't until years later that the neighbors finally got city officials to step in and insist that they get my mother spayed and immediately. The city even covered the expense for free at a local clinic, but by the time that happened the damage had been done.

I had half siblings and quarter siblings all over the place, all of us scrambling for the meager food supplies, and all of them having their own broods who would have their own, etc etc. You can see the problem, right? The neighborhood where I roamed was packed. You'd see cats walking on top of fences, sunning themselves on the sidewalk, and making the rounds looking for food that had fallen from the garbage cans, or try to catch what birds did land on the ground, rather than high up on the electric wires they usually hung out on.

Some well meaning people would leave food outside intentionally to feed us. Pretty soon every stray knew which houses they needed to visit and had a route memorized, based on when the bowls of cat food or scraps would be set out. For smaller cats like myself, this meant that I was forced to wait while all of the bigger guys had their turn, and often all that waiting, hoping for a meal meant one of two things: one, the food would be long gone by the time I was allowed near the bowl, or, worse, the second option meant I was able to get in a few precious moments to quickly wolf down what I could, only to be chased off my some latecomer, who would often corner me in a back yard and try ripping me to shreds.

I have chunks out of my ear if you don't believe it.

One house I visited, one of the women living there noticed me, day after day, hiding underneath the car in the driveway, hoping not to be seen, and hoping even harder that there would still be food in the dish when everyone had eaten their fill. Sure it could be dry food or even the day-old remains of what wet food those indoor cats hadn't finished off the night before, but when you're hungry you don't care if the stuff is stale. Food is food and a full tummy is better than an empty one, if you know what I mean. It doesn't matter what is in it. 

When you're drinking from dirt-filled puddles whenever you can find one, you really can't be too finicky with what you eat. 

In fact, I've since heard it said that you are what you eat... well, back then I was a little bit of whatever. Finding a home that would put out fresh water was also a godsend. Food and water? Well, that was a house worth putting on your route, even if you didn't always get to partake.

I hate to say it, but people really don't realize just how good their homes can smell, especially when you are hungry and the neighborhood is all busy making dinner. Scraps dumped into unreachable garbage cans were the worst, because you could smell it was there, but a little guy had no possible way to get any of it into that empty space deep inside of me. After all, you weren't going to eat those gizzards anyway, or maybe mom's meatloaf was too salty that night; I didn't care. I didn't even care if it was days old and starting to spoil. All I wanted was some food for my belly and a safe place to crawl into to wait for my stomach to be empty again and sending me back out on the search.

Still, that woman watched me in the mornings and in the evenings, taking note of when I'd try my luck. Sure there were times when she missed seeing me because she had to go to work, but she still kept an eye out for me whenever she was home. Not that she tried to approach, and not that I would let her anyway. I kept a healthy distance between myself and everything. She took to watching the other cats too, waiting for them to leave and quietly stepping out to place some extra food in the bowl so I had a chance to eat.

Other cats noticed, of course. Food wasn't exactly plentiful, especially in the winter months when there aren't even bugs for a desperate cat to eat. After a couple of weeks other cats would learned to backtrack and kick me away from my meal. I learned to eat even faster and to grab a chunk if it was something like chicken, to take with me as I ran off. Most times, however, ended up with me in the back yard again, screaming in pain as one bully or another hissed and tore into me.

There are things the woman doesn't even know about. She had been feeding me for over a year when, during that second winter, I didn't show up for nearly a week. I can't explain what happened, and I probably wouldn't even if I could. As it was she spent those days picturing me frozen to death in my sleep, or hit by a car and lying dead in the gutter. Maybe she drove by my hiding place, I can't say for sure, but she did drive around the neighborhood in wider and wider circles trying to spot me. Again, I can't ask, and she hasn't volunteered, but I think if she had found me dead she was going to give my little corpse a proper burial rather than allow me to decompose in some back alley.

As it was, she was first relieved to see me again and then horrified when she saw my condition. My usually groomed fur was matted and obviously not kept up. She couldn't get close enough to see the new chunk out of my left ear, but no one could miss my swollen hind leg that was held out stiffly and couldn't bear even my slight weight.

I think it was then that she decided no matter what that she was going to get me off of the streets.

Spring was only a month-and-a-half away, and the days were slowly getting warmer, but it was still snowy and plenty cold out. She set up a lounge chair at the top of the driveway and began sitting in it after bringing out some fresh food, morning and night. And not dry food, but a fresh can of wet food. A full can, not that I would be able to eat that much. Between her presence outside and having a full bowl of food and water there for me, she hoped I would be sure to get a little something without everyone else in the neighborhood beating me up. And it wasn't just for me, anything I left behind she'd leave out for any hungry cats that followed.

However, I struggled with the new arrangement. Sure, she was far enough away from me, but I tried outwaiting her under that car until my hunger couldn't take it. I would slink as low to the ground as I could and creep slowly, wanting to go as unnoticed as possible, but I would eventually head to the bowl of food and eat, and then take a quick drink before scuttling off as best as I could on my three functioning legs.

She spent weeks waiting me out, until I got used to her sitting there and stopped worrying about her presence. Slowly, every few days she would move her chair inches closer to the food dishes, until, by mid-spring she was only 10 feet away. By this point I was using my back leg again, and it was good to be back on all fours, but I have to admit, I wish she could have somehow gotten me to a vet during this time. I still run well, but I have days where that leg still bothers me. I have to ask to be picked up, because I can't always jump up into the chair we share together.

My leg troubles and that prominent notch in my ear are the only remainders seen from my days on the street. As you've surely guessed, I have been a happily adopted cat for most of my life now, and I love it. I guess if you are still reading this then you are probably wondering how it all finally went down, aren't you?

One day I simply walked past her after eating my breakfast instead of going the other way. No biggie, right? She managed to keep still and not react, so a few days after that I walked past her again, but this time I paused and then as a thank you I rubbed against her leg once before heading on my way.

After that she left an arm hanging down, rather than in keeping it in her lap as usual. So one day I gave it a sniff and rubbed my cheek against it. It took a little more time, but one day she moved her fingers to scratch my chin. Holy cow that felt good. I let her scratch my chin for a few minutes and then headed out.

The next day when I stopped for my chin scratch she reached down and picked me up. I tensed up for a moment, but then she started scratching my chin and I just melted into her arms. She stood up, carried me into the house, and that was it.

Well, not really. The next day I was in a cat carrier and being neutered. That was scary, and I admit, I soiled myself when being pulled out for surgery at the clinic. The techs cleaned me up as best as they could, but I came home that night really smelly and groggy, so the next morning, once I was a little more settled, she took me into the bathroom for a bath. We used all of her roommate's coconut dog shampoo, as well as her own bottle of shampoo and a can of tomato soup (after all, it works with skunk smell she said). 

I still smelled a bit, and my white fur was stained a salmon pink, but both faded within a couple of weeks. Despite surgery, carriers, that marathon bath and the newness of being indoors, living with other cats and also a dachshund, I fell into a new routine. I would traverse the house the long way, hugging the walls so I had at least one side protected, avoiding the bathroom like the plague (no more baths for me, thank you), but I slept on her bed every night... and have every night since.

A lot has changed over the years. She got married, we moved a couple of times, and now she's disabled, kind of like me. I like it though, as this means I can nap on her lap or her shoulder or her chest anytime I want, and believe me I do. I have no interest in ever going back outside again, though sometimes I do have to ride in my carrier for a quick checkup with the vet or those times we moved, but that is enough by me. I love to sit inside and watch the birds and squirrels outside my window, but I have no need to hunt them. I have food available at all times, and now I eat at a much healthier pace. I am still what my adopted mom calls "bird-boned" as I weight hardly anything, but I am relatively healthy, given my age. 

I really don't really know how old I am. The vet thought I was anywhere from 2 to 4 when mom first took me to see him. Given that it took probably 18 months for her to finally gain my trust, I was probably closer to 3 years old, and she knows I once had a home as I, thankfully, recognized a litter box for what it was since the start. So no real issues there. 

If I was was 3 then I would now be 15. 

As a gentleman I don't bite or scratch, except for the occasional claw that may get stuck as I climb up the chair on bad days when I can't jump. I don't even mind my new doggie roommate when she barks at me because she wants to play. I'm not saying I play with her, but I just try continuing my nap while she barks a foot away from me. Despite the volume of her barks, its just not worth getting worked up over.

Yes, I am definitely a gentleman.

I can't get enough love. I accept chin and ear scratches, strokes of my fur, and mom gives me 3 gentle tugs on my notched ear every now and again, just like her grandpa used to give her. Kisses are in demand. I'll cuddle on mom's chest and tilt my head back just so she can kiss my forehead. I even kiss back. Nothing is better than a warm, soft mom to sleep on, a sunbeam and some gentle kisses while we relax together. 

I follow her all over, and the joke is I'm her little shadow, but the truth is I just love to be with her. Nothing really bothers me so long as mom is near, because I know she will keep me safe. And if I follow her into the kitchen I am sure to get treated with bites of whatever she's making for dinner.

All these years together and she still makes sure I have plenty of good food, and I get fun new catnip toys in my Christmas stocking each year. I really love catnip. I just ooze into a puddle for that stuff. My adopted brother loves fake mice, so that's what he gets, and this year will be my new sister's first Christmas with us. I wonder what she will find in her stocking. Not that the presents matter, I am content just for being off the street and loved. 

Do I think all ferals want to be rescued? That's a hard one to answer, as some strays will remain wild no matter how hard you try. Do they still deserve to have people leave them food, water and shelter? Heck yes. Its not as if they chose the life. Capture, spay/neuter and release? Definitely. It keeps more kittens from being born in communities that can't support so many. And some cats would love to be able to trust humans. Maybe they come from abusive situations where it will take a long time to trust again, and maybe they never will, but every cat deserves that chance at a safe place to live and someone to care if they live or die.

After all, mom has adopted many strays from the street or taken on ones literally dumped on the doorstep, and she hasn't regretted it yet. 

As for me? I am content to spend the rest of my life just knowing that I am loved.

More kisses please

This perfect gentleman watches me stitch, but leave the thread alone. 

So much for knitting, Oliver decided to take a quick catnap and started snoring!

Mom, the only bed a cat could need

Giving sweet kisses back

He adores getting kisses from his Pops

Another craft-time power nap

Taking a nap together after I had a procedure. He knows how to take care of me!

.

Nearly Home

Autumn leaves swirl around my feet, crunching with every step as if to remind me that I am breaking the bones of the vegetation that just this summer provided the path with welcoming shade. Hints of wood smoke drift by in the air, unsurprising, given how scattered we all are, each of us tucked into our own little hollows of these sleepy mountains. Scent can drift for miles here, and the tang is just enough to remind me that I am not completely alone out here. I didn't even bother to bring a light with me, as I can see the stars shining brightly above as the full moon is just beginning to crest the hill before me. 

I am so close to home now. Just over the hill and down the other side and I will be there. In my own little valley the moonlight will already be streaming down, creating shadows amongst the now skeletal trees. I can already picture the warmth of the fire that will, by now, be burned low, but still with plenty of popping embers as they finish charring the last of the logs I had laid in the fireplace before heading out.

The path is well remembered, from years of travel between my house and Emma's, and I don't mind it's length. It is always nice to spend a day with her, and today was no exception, the two of us taking the time to can the last of her garden's bounty for the year. Tomorrow she will doubtless walk the path to my house and help me with mine, even though she is nearing eighty, and can't see as well as she once did.

Her spritely legs still work just as well as they ever did, and she is always glad for company. "Many hands make light work", she has told me more than once, probably more than a hundred times by now, over the course of our decades long friendship. 

It was Emma who took my clueless hand and showed me how to gather the forest's varying bounty, each item in its season, and what to do with it once I had it safely home. I was so naïve when I first moved out here, having inherited a little parcel of land from my hardly remembered great-grandmother.

Emma came as the most delightful surprise, showing up on my doorstep one bright morning with a basket tucked over one arm. I still remember how I had stood there as she looked around back, noting silently how I hadn't even cleared the old garden plot, even though I had moved in only the day before. She simply handed me the basket, stepping towards the plot and rolling up her sleeves. She had only made it a couple of steps before turning her head towards me as if to verify that I would be following.

By that afternoon we had cleared out the modest space that had been used by generations of my family, and we were just finishing sowing all of the seeds she had tucked into that basket. At first I was dumbfounded to see the folded pieces of paper with precious seeds tucked safely within. These were not seed packets, but rather seeds she had harvested herself from her own garden the previous year.

I admit I felt pretty stupid, thinking seeds only came from the home and garden center in town. Of course they had to have been harvested from somewhere, they weren't manufactured. Emma, however, took it in her admirable stride and kindly suggested other varieties I may want to try if I wanted to expand the garden space next spring. She had plenty stashed away, as she delightfully informed me, "You won't want to keep eating the same old things year after year. A person needs some variety, and besides, this isn't the best year to be planting some of them. We're in for a wet summer this year, I'm afraid."

And she was right. Emma was a human barometer, even better than the little Farmers Almanac I had picked up on my next trip to town. The seedlings took, and, despite the wetter than normal summer, I was facing a lot of waste if I couldn't figure out what to do with it all. It's then that Emma showed back up one day, basket in hand, ready to pull a bunch of bottles out from a cupboard I had somehow overlooked. 

That was our first time canning together, and I was amazed by not only how knowledgeable she was, but how fun such a domestic and seemingly outdated chore could be. We've shared canning and baking and gathering off and on every year since, and today was just the latest in finding still more surprises up Emma's sleeve. Today she had pulled out a new recipe we hadn't covered before. I wondered where she kept them all, as I never once saw her refer to anything written down.

My own basket clinked gently, reminding me of the sauce she had sent home with me. Two precious jars to be kept for some special occasion. "It's going to be a long winter." she said. She seemed to think I would understand when the time would come for them, and over the years I've just learned to trust Emma's recommendations, as she hadn't steered me wrong yet.

The night was calm, cool and peaceful as I began to climb the hill. The moon was still  climbing the hilltop before me, and I knew my shadow would be stretching out impossibly long behind me. It was the sudden rush of wind that made me pause. It wasn't a large gust, but the noise of it seemed incredibly loud in the relative silence of the night. I glanced behind me for a moment just as something blocked the moon's light for a moment. My shadow was obliterated by darkness for a moment, and then blinked back into view. I glanced up at the moon before me, but there was no errant cloud above that had drifted across. 

Shaking my head I turned my feet towards home and began walking slowly again, finally reaching the crest a few short moments later. Below me, tucked in safe and sweet at the edge of a small glen, glowed the windows of my dear little home. Faint glow, to be sure, given it was only the remaining firelight that offered illumination, but more than enough to see from my vantage point. In another five minutes the well-worn path I followed would take me straight to my front door, and I wanted nothing more than to stoke the fire, make a soothing cup of tea and settle in for the night.

I owed so much to Emma. I never would have managed on my own for so long without her guidance over the years. There were no thanks large enough to encompass just how much she had helped me to build a new life, a worthwhile life, from the young woman I had been when I first moved in. I still had a few bottles of a raspberry jam I was especially proud of canning on my own, and maybe I would pull a bottle out tonight and set it aside for her visit. It would be delicious with some fresh scones or biscuits.

I could almost taste those scones now, and as I headed down the hill I found my pace picking up a little. It wasn't so late that I couldn't pull the dough together tonight and setting it aside for the morning. That way it would be a quick bake and we'd have more time to finish storing any last items I can pull from the garden. I would rather we get done early, so Emma could get safely back home before dark. As well worn as our path was, I certainly didn't feel well with her walking home alone after dark.

So lost in my thoughts, I almost didn't register that rush of wind again. Given that I was now protected from behind with the hilltop receding behind me, I vaguely knew I shouldn't be feeling a wind at my back, but it wasn't enough to make me pause. A sudden feeling of vertigo, however, threw me off track. 

I couldn't clear my head, and I couldn't feel the earth or the leaves beneath my feet. It felt as though I was floating, but there was a wind now rushing by my face. I couldn't fathom how the wind had suddenly shifted direction. I turned my face towards the moon, but something was blotting it out. Something impossibly close. I looked down and there was nothingness below. There was no ground. 

I couldn't make sense of what was happening. Where had the ground gone? Suddenly a brief flash of light below and then gone- the windows of my home fading fast behind me. Somehow I was in the air and moving impossibly fast. 

Wait, where was my basket? Had I dropped it somehow? Would poor Emma come across it in the morning on her way to my door, lying abandoned in the middle of the path? Would she worry? Would she ever know what had happened to me?

The weightlessness lasted forever or mere moments. I was still trying to gather my thoughts when suddenly I felt ground beneath my feet again, and I stumbled, but managed to stay mostly upright. The clink of bottles broke into my tumbling train of thought and I clutched at the basket I realized I was still holding onto. The thought that, without the basket to find, Emma would never know where I was or what happened.

But what had happened? And where was I? There was no moon or stars, and I could feel the roughness of rocks underfoot. Was I somehow in a cave? My mind seemed to finally register the wrongness of what was happening as my heart began slamming in my chest.

It was only then that I felt the basket suddenly lightening as if the weight of the jars had been removed, as if someone had lifted them out unnoticed.

"I am sorry, my dear", came a kindly voice from one side of me, and I turned in the dark, struggling to see who or what was there. "It's time for me and mine to renew ourselves. We are old now, and our bones ache. It isn't much that we need, or often, but we need to partake in order to grow young once more. It is going to be a long and hard winter and then there will be much to do this spring."

What? Wait.

"Emma?" I whispered, a feeling of relief coming across me for a moment.

"Yes, my dear," came her reply, and her withered hand stroked my cheek.

"Is it time already?" came a voice from behind me.

"Ooh, this one is plumper than the last," said another.

If I hadn't been scared out of my wits, I might have responded to the jibe about my weight. So maybe I had been eating more of the scones and jam than was good for me, but that was my own business.

In the darkness about me I could hear shuffling and whispering as if a multitude of people were slowly closing in around me, and I couldn't help but let out a whimper as leathery hands pinched and grabbed at me.

And then I heard it. The pop of a canning jar lid. It seemed so loud to my ears, and it was followed by the other jar.

"Remember my loves, many hands make light work", came Emma's gentle voice before my world ripped apart and was no more.

What Do You Do In The Summertime

I guess I am a few days behind on this one, aren't I? Seeing as how Autumn started FOUR DAYS AGO. Oh well, we will just chalk it up to wanting to be sure I encompassed the entire summer.

There are so many ways to look at this. As a child I was outdoors, running and playing in the creek. I remember we even found crawdads in there one time. Back when I was young we weren't allowed to stay inside during school break- back then my parents brought home two baby goats that we bottle-raised and, eventually, had to milk daily. But milking was an all-year long thing, so that isn't what comes to mind for me when I think summer. Though how nasty their milk was on my Wheaties in the morning after they got into my mother's herb garden- whew, that was totally a summer experience. Yuck.

Summer. The pine trees got so warm that the scent of pine sap filled the air. Oh, how I loved it. I grew up in Eastern Washington State and the trees were everywhere- Douglas and Grand Firs, Ponderosa, Western White and Lodgepole Pine. Quaking Aspens were scattered about the forests and the sound the wind made as it whipped through the limbs, leaves and needles- the entire wood seemed alive and talking. I've loved the wind ever since because it would give the trees a voice, and the sound of trees in the wind never fails to thrill and somehow send me back to my younger self.

Summer was a time for waking up, wishing and hoping that maybe today would be the day that we would take a half hour drive to the Columbia River, where a lazy little inlet at Gifford called Cloverleaf Beach waited to cool us off. I learned how to float there, with my father holding me until I had mastered the trick. Of course this same man also tossed me from the boat pier to teach me to swim better, so it wasn't always the most relaxing experience. Still, swimming is something I love to do, thanks to those hot summer days way back when.

Floating in an inner tube, the thrill the first time I was able to swim out to the dock, or my brother and I walking around the inlet to the sand hill on the other side. Watching the braver kids and adults try walking across the logs chained together to prevent boats from the swimming area. How fun it was to see them trying to balance on logs that threatened to roll, but only partially could because of the chains holding them. My skin would slowly turn pink, then red as the afternoon stretched into twilight and time to head home. My tangled, wet, fishy-smelling long hair finally dry by the time we pulled into the driveway.

The time we had a family reunion with tents and a fire in the back yard- cooking hot dogs and melting marshmallows. I hated the taste of marshmallow back then, so I would set mine aflame, blow it out and then peel off its blackened shell only to shove the exposed white interior back into the flames. Over and over until there was nothing left but a tiny crunch of black sugary crust left on the end of my willow stick.

I'm sure the marshmallows left within the bag shivered every time I reached within to select the next victim for immolation.

The time I found a garden snake that someone had driven over. I kept him in a jar with some long grasses and bugs, hoping he would recover. I went for a walk with a "friend" to release him back into the wild later only to have them pull it out by the end of its tail, whirl it around and around like it was a yoyo going "around the world" and then letting it go flying through the air before us only to smack into the pavement a dozen or more feet ahead.

Yeah, I didn't speak to that person again for a very long time. After all these years (40+) I can still recall the horror I felt for that poor snake whizzing through the air around that little schmuck, but the details have faded enough that I now can't even remember the schmuck's name. Still, I fully expect they will be greeted at the gates of St. Peter by that little green form, expecting a sincere apology before they will grant the forgiveness that will allow that snake killer into their Eternal rest.

As I grew into a young woman, summers included a trip to Girl's Camp. The nights out there were so cold, as my best friend and I would usually double our sleeping bags, but she'd wind up with both at some point. I didn't mind that so much, as I would lay there and just listen to the sound of the woods at night... little paws creeping by, the sound of a fallen nut shell on the roof of the tent as the howl of coyotes sounded from a safe distance. Then the birds slowly waking up... one or two chirps at first until the entire woods came alive with them. I used to wonder how my fellow campers could sleep through it all.

In the 6th grade I finally got a horse for my very own. The devastation I felt when I got a failing grade in math (always my worst subject). I was banned from riding that summer as a result, though my parents (thankfully) lifted it before the summer ended so "the horse could get some exercise".

I have a suspicion that what mom really meant was she was sick and tired of me indoors with my nose in a book all of the time. I was, and am, a voracious reader, I get so absorbed in what I am reading that the rest of the world just falls away- including my mother's voice asking me for the umpteenth time to please go wash the dishes or sweep the floor.

What a pain she was. Oh, the horse, not my mother. Sorry, distracted by the side note of that previous paragraph. For my horse's original owners, at a word she would square up her feet and stand, waiting for them to run up and jump on board. For me she would run and run and run from one side of the pasture to another. I could say (and finally shout, then cry) that stupid command until I was blue in the face and it didn't matter one bit. I could have been speaking Klingon for all she cared. Finally my brother would be pulled from his computer to go out and help me corner her. We would finally catch hold of her bridle and she would stop her darting about and I'd swear that mare would then give me a look that said, "serves you right, making me carry your fat butt all over the place".  And it was true, I was pretty overweight, and she always let out a grunt when I'd mount her, as if I was knocking all of the air out of her, though she had no problem letting two of my friends on at the same time with no complaints at all!

She was a beautiful pain in the ass, but I loved her anyway. At least, when I wasn't crying and cursing for her to stop running and let me get the lead on her bridle. At those moments my body was wracked with a horrible feeling of "my horse hates me", which was pretty demoralizing. Growing up I read book like My Friend Flicka, the Black Stallion series (though the books on Flame, the Island Stallion were far better) and all of the Misty of Chincoteague books. I wanted a horse that loved me back. I never got that from Shawnee, but at least my goat loved me.

My first memories of living in the country was when I was in the second grade, and we moved from a small town to the wilderness. Our first "country house" was a rental that faced a busy dirt road, with the main paved road running alongside, on the other side of the creek. I guess our proximity to both roads, and the fact that lots of cats could be seen around our place made it just an easy decision for people to add "just one or two more" to the mix as cats were frequently dumped off at our door. There were always cats around, and we had oodles of them to play with, though they were to stay outdoors, and they preferred it. The few I tried sneaking in were terrified at the idea of the four walls of my bedroom around them, so I always "snuck" them (struggling to break free the whole time) back outside. I'm pretty sure my mother knew exactly what I was doing too.

Most of the cats were good at sleeping in the barn at night or the old icehouse to be safe, though we did lose some to coyotes, but we lost more of them to that darn dirt road, as we lived between a bend and the hill that took you up to the paved main road. People would zoom up and down that dirt road, and cats in the way be damned. I remember several funerals for those poor things. One orange tabby I didn't particularly like, though I can't remember for the life of me why I never really petted him. Well, he was a sacrifice to the dirt road, and, in shame, I remember asking Dad to wait, running to my room and writing a quick note to bury with poor Tom. If memory serves, it simply read, "Dear God, Please take good care of Tom. He is a very good cat."

Did I feel bad for lying to God? Well, yes. Honestly, he probably was a very good cat, but we had so many that, naturally I would pet my favorites and I can't recall Tom ever being interested in wanted to be touched. Still, aloof or not, I wanted so badly to be sure that he got into Heaven that I was willing to lie to God in order to assure it would happen. I knew I wasn't really kidding anyone, God knows everything, right? But I really did feel sorry for that cat... and I still do. No person or creature should ever go through life feeling unloved or unwanted.

The summers of my childhood were long days, filled with the scent of cut grass, and getting yelled at for trying to ride the goats or our big German shepherd/St Bernard mix dog. Jason and I once held a "goat circus" that we were so proud of. We had set up two of Dad's sawhorses and laid 2 x 4 beams across and had ramps leading up and down. We tried to lead the goats up and down with a "goat mash" we made by pulling lilac flowers and leaves and even ripping up some tall grass from the field across the creek, but the goats weren't having it. We tried weeping willow leaves, as they adored those, even jumping on top of unwary guests cars who had parked under the tree. Our company would come out and spot goat hoof prints in the dust on their car as the goats would first hop onto the hood, then onto the car roofs in order to reach the willow leaves.

So, perfect for goat mash, right? Wrong.

In desperation one of us got some bread out of the kitchen (honestly mom, to this day I don't remember if it was Jason or I who went in the house for it, or suggested it in the first place). 

The bread was a hit! The goats would follow our little handful of bread chunks up the boards on one side, across the beam and down the other side. TA-DA!

We excitedly called our parents out to witness our circus (and perhaps cough up a few dimes for the entertainment), but mom was mad. We had somehow managed to go through almost all of the bread in the house. Yikes! We were in seriously hot water. My brain ties this incident with the fact that we started getting pb&j sandwiches on plain rice cakes instead of our usual wheat bread, but i'm probably wrong. I do know we started taking rice cake sandwiches in our school lunches for awhile. I actually do like the occasional single rice cake with pb&j, but eating it as a sandwich is just far too messy.

July as a kid living outside of Chewelah Washington meant Chataqua had finally arrived- the local arts and crafts festival is always held the first weekend of the month, and it takes over the downtown park completely, Booth after booth of artists selling paintings, drawings, sewing, ceramics, soaps, jams, workwork (including hair combs, which I have bought several times). There would be a big parade and one of the side streets of the park would be closed as carnival rides and games were set-up. The local firemen would sell flame grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, snowcone stands were scattered about, along with an entire food court on the far side of the park.

For years we held a family reunion during this long weekend, and our family would always lay out our blankets and lawn chairs in the same spot- just beyond the food trucks on the edge of the park where the creek ran by. We would visit, with kids and adults wandering in and out. Sometimes to take a quick nap or to cool off with a walk in the stream, or to grab a cold drink from the cooler we always had. Purchases would be carried over to our spot and left, knowing there was always someone around who would keep an eye on your things for you.

I always remember being fascinated by crafts, but Chataqua was a feast for the eyes, even if you didn't have the ready funds for all of the beautiful (and some completely ridiculous) things you would find. There was free entertainment on the stage nearby, which we could hear pretty well from our usual spot. For a few years my aunt and uncle's band would have the closing spot for the evening, doing 70's and 80's covers with a fun flair. They were always a hit at the festival and I loved watching them, as they normally performed in bars, which I was far too young to go into. I haven't been to Chataqua for over a decade now, and I'd love to go back and visit one again. Not just for the nostalgia, but because it really is a lot of fun. I'm a sucker for a good arts and crafts fair, and I lay that firmly at the feet of my parents for taking us to things like Chataqua and barter fairs.

Barter fairs....should I even get into those? I only remember two of them, but they were memorable. For the uninitiated, the barter fairs we attended were definitely hippy based. You'd have a bunch of people show up to some meadow along a dirt road somewhere where they would set up all of things they no longer wanted. Sure, some things you paid for, but basically it was a barter and trade set-up. A what-do-you-have-worth-trading-for-what-i've-got scenario. Both fairs held nudist sunbathers (men and women), which is fine, because I just wouldn't look that way once I knew where they were. To each their own, I guess. I may feel fine about my body and all, but that doesn't mean I want it out on full display for all to see. Its not that I don't subscribe to the "all bodies are beautiful in their own ways" way of thinking, because I do. I just don't think I have to show it off to the world, for ridicule, admiration or indifference.

Dad shared a memory about one of these, that explains a few things as well for me. I believe this happened at the last barter fair Jason and I attended, which was up by the Canadian border. I remember mom casually mentioning "oh yeah, Canada is just over those mountains" and me staring, awestruck, that I was so close to another country. (I should probably mention where I grew up was only a couple of hours from the Canadian border, but there wasn't any towns to drive to there. The closest was still a good hour north it seemed after you crossed). Anyway, I remember Jason and I staring at the pictures on the side of a guy's caravan. Turns out he was a do-it-yourself tattoo artist. The only thing we found interesting was one he had of Garfield, but we were like, "awww, man. Why is Garfield smoking?" (Adult interruption, I now know that it was an extremely large doobie in his mouth and not just a fat cigarette). Luckily I was just a kid, because I really wanted to ask the guy if he could do a Garfield without the "cigarette".  I can only imagine how something done in an open field, where he was probably smoking himself (a lot of people were) would have turned out. I can guess he wouldn't be changing needles between clients, as AIDS wasn't a thing yet, and besides... GARFIELD??? My young idiot self would have been tooting around with GARFIELD on my fat little arm?

As a kid, we are idiots. Though, as adults, sometimes we still are. I have seen how tattoos fade and spread during my time as a caregiver. A tattoo you once loved as a piece of art will eventually wind up hanging in the bargain basement once it ages and your skin begins to age and sag. And I barely liked Garfield back then. I am not anti-tattoo-- you want them, go get them. Goodness knows I am tempted every now and again to get one, but I have managed to avoid the seductive pull. My tastes and interests change all of the time- I love crows, but those do NOT age well- I love squid and octopi, but those are usually sensualized for some reason. My favorite flowers have even adapted over the years, although I still adore the humble Cornflower or, as its more commonly known, the Bachelors Button. Still, I don't need those and a couple of dragonflies slapped onto my shoulder.

But I digress, as that's not the memory Dad shared with me. Jason was always better at saving his money and earning it as well. His grades were far better than mine, for which there was a difference in parental payout. He also didn't have a serious fixation on a long-running book series to purchase whenever I had the money. No, Jason at the time was in love with Narnia- 7 books in one cool holder at a decent price. Me, (while I also love Narnia), not only was trying to collect all 34 (at the time) Trixie Belden books, but also various horse series as well. For a while I snagged some of my mother's apple crates when she weaned down her Mother Earth News magazine collection and stacked them up into a bookshelf for my ever-growing library. (and, I am proud to point out, I still own most of those books I bought back then- though some have had to have replacements purchased in place of my most worn-out ones). 

No, the fact is that Jason was walking around with money in his pocket just looking to be spent. I looked through a ton of books, and I am pretty sure I went home with a couple, but Jason bought himself a monster-sized Space Cookie that he wasn't about to share with me. Dad caught him with it before he had eaten much of it though and asked where he had purchased it. Jason dutifully said he bought it at the Space Cookie stand and pointed out where the guy had set up shop.

Why this idiot sold a marijuana cookie to a kid is beyond me, but Jason lost that $1 worth of tastiness when Dad took it away from him and we started packing up to go home.

Dad says he doesn't remember Jason acting any differently on the long drive home, so he probably didn't get much- heck, the guy could have been really sparing with his weed when he baked the things- who knows. But I don't remember us being allowed to attend a barter fair after that. I remember a Rendezvous-in-the-Park held up in Colville, with a lot of burly guys dressed in buckskins and wearing fur hats walking around with muskets on their shoulders and hatchets swinging from their belts, but I don't remember much else about it. 

After that either my parents went along or stopped attending altogether, I'm not sure. As fun as those days of my youth were, I don't think I would want to go back again as an adult to them- well, except for Chataqua. I could use a new hand-carved hair comb, and I'd love to get a kiln-fired ceramic strainer to hold fruit on my counter and look adorable.

Guess I will just have to find an arts and crafts festival here in New Mexico or start making my way through the goods on Etsy, but its not the same thing as that thrill of wandering booth to booth on a hot summers day, seeing the potter whose booth I used to love visiting set up where they always were-just a step away from the cool, shallow creek so you could step into it for a moment, take a break from the heat, and yet still admire all of the hard work they had done that year before deciding on a piece you just had to take home with you. All the while the sun would be on your back, and the sounds of the carnival less than a hundred feet away on the other side of the creek sounded against whatever act was performing on the stage less than a hundred feet in the other direction of you. In harmony with all of that you add the chatter of tourists and locals wandering past, the kids screaming and playing either in the carnival itself, on the playground equipment or in the creek, and the voices of the artisans themselves as they answered questions about their crafts.

For a girl who hates crowds and loud noises, Chataqua is a place that will always hold fond memories for me.

Summer was mostly for those long, lazy days where, after the raspberries had been picked, gardening chores done, goats milked and eggs gathered, so snatch up a book and read. I would usually try reading in my room, where it was cooler and definitely less bugs, but at some point mom would kick me out of the house to get some fresh air and natural Vitamin D. She didn't mind me reading as long as it was outdoors and we weren't underfoot, so i'd either flop down on the lawn right onto the grass, or I would drag a blanket out with me to lay on. 

Not that I'd be alone for long- by the time I turned 12 I had a new baby brother, and by 13 he was toddling around in the yard. His favorite was to grab onto our dog's tail and go flying as Grizzily wagged it. You have to remember, he was a German Shepherd Saint Bernard mix, so he was BIG, and he was a very SOLID and muscular dog. But he was also the sweetest thing ever. He was so patient with Yancy. Yancy would always get back up, laughing and babbling away to himself and then get back to the dog to grab his tail all over again. Griz would promptly start wagging it, and Yancy would go tumbling again. Over and over.

It was adorable.

By the time my first sister arrived I was 16, and far more into reading than ever. Mom almost had to physically shove to get me outdoors and pry books from my hands. I doubt I was ever far from a book by then, unless I was riding. Goodness knows my backpack during school season always sported a few- just in case I finished one I HAD to have a backup (thank goodness for ebooks now), I even hauled a book or two along each year for Girls Camp, though I'd never find the time to read them (I think mom may have even tossed some out of my bag before I left, because I do remember at least one year finding some free time on my hands and not seeing a book in my pack).

I lost my 3rd brother in the summer as he was stillborn, and I was nearly 21 when my last sister arrived. By then I was working and summers were just the season when you rolled down the car windows on your way to work because the AC didn't always work. 

I've lost my connection with summer itself as i've grown up. It became that season where it stayed light longer, which was great as for years I worked massively long hours. 

I stopped swimming, until a few years ago when I started going to the pool, which I need to take up again now that we've moved. When I became disabled 5 or 6 years ago and was always home, summer became just another day I stayed indoors and sweated like crazy because we didn't have AC, or the ones we'd buy were inadequate for our apartment.

And 2022? Well, this summer saw us moving into a home. It has Central Air, which the cats and I are grateful for, but it also means that I don't pay much attention to how hot it gets here in NM, because we've enjoyed a nice 76 degrees inside. I did plant some succulents in our planter box out front, and help clean up out front (supervised it anyway), but I look forward to starting a garden next year. The flower bed up front is close to being ready to plant some bulbs for us to enjoy next summer, but I admit that I wasted the start of the summer being miserable and depressed in our small apartment (one of our elderly cats passed and I just wasn't handling things well). The rest I've spent unpacking things here so I haven't spent much time outside.

That needs to change. The longer we have been here, the more I am slowly able to do- I now cook and bake (something unthinkable for me to do earlier this year). I also sweep, mop and keep the kitchen clean. At this rate, by next summer, I hope to be able to not only be keeping more of the house up, but to be able to walk outside and (fingers crossed) not only cross the street to collect the mail, but to start taking my crafts outdoors. Sit in the shade and get some stitching or knitting done, or to at least head into the garage and do some clay work, as its pretty messy to try and do indoors, but would dry out too quickly in the sun. I also want to learn to dye my own fibers, which can also be better done outdoors. 

I want my own personal arts and crafts out in the beauty of nature, and it may sound silly to say this, but its going to be more fun because I own the nature that I am doing it in. No more worrying that some kid or dog from another apartment will fiddle with or run off with stuff I leave outside (which has happened) or accidently knock something over and break it (which has also happened) or have a landlord point out that, no, I cannot do such and such project on my patio as it makes things look untidy.

Am I just blowing smoke in my own eyes? I don't know. I recently started cross stitching again after a long time away (though I have to find the box with all of my threads in it now that we've moved), and I started knitting again, so, yes, I do think I will be doing more and more with my time out of doors. I also just started taking photos again with my Nikon, rather than with my camera phone. I loved going out and taking photos in nature all of the time, and I was pretty good at it. I need to get back into the habit of getting out in our yard or ask Richard to drive us around the area so I can get back into the swing of photography, as i've missed it very much.

I guess I will have to revisit this post next summer and give you all an update.  Until then, at least I have all of the good memories of summers past to tide me over- and to motivate me into getting back in touch with the fun that summer can actually be.

The Sound Of Thunder

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I recently saw a sign encouraging us to "be the thunder in the storm". 

I had to stop and think on that- it sounds all empowering and good, but what does that really mean? Are we to be loud? Are we to suck the air deep into our lungs and let it out again with a resounding boom? Leave the air around us vibrating as we scream and scream and scream until the world is drowned out?

I think we may need to be ready to speak loudly, but thunder isn't always overpowering in order to be firm and heard. It may not be as spectacular as the lightning, but it also isn't leaving the place in flames when it crashes down. 

Be more substance and less flash.  Thunder doesn't always boom- sometimes its merely a whisper on the edge of the storm. 

Sometimes a loud voice is needed to be heard over the din, but more often its the simple rumbling of "its okay, I'm here" that a friend needs at that very moment before the skies break open and the world drowns in tears.

Be present. Be there. Even if you aren't seen.

The Thunder of Wings

Bodies taking flight

Thunder of feathers and wings

Echoes within me

 

The Power of One Little Word

One little word. The holidays. The two would not mix. 

One little word and the promise I made to myself, let alone to all of you was laid to waste in scattered ruins.

One little word that stymied me, following me and throwing up mental roadblocks day after day which then extended month after month. 

The seasons changed. Winter became spring, and spring, that ever-growing season began bustling away towards summer. 

One little word. 

And I was flummoxed. I was its mental hostage. It turned its hate-filled eyes my way and lifted a club menacingly over my head. 

But that's silly, you say. Words aren't angry, hateful or damaging. Well, yes they can be that way... depending on how the recipient takes them... or how you presented them. 

"Any other word!" I cried. 

I even dreamt of putting the chosen piece of paper back into the box and drawing a new one. Or better yet, throwing the chosen word away. But how would that be fair? After all, I am supposed to be writing about anything and everything that comes from its innocent clay form. 

 

I let it laugh at me. I let it stifle my creativity. I let it win. 

This one word, to a girl who loves words, was going to be my undoing. 

Until today... 

 Today I looked at my computer and said, "You will not defeat me. My creativity may have been bashed about and battered, but it is not broken!" 

Quite the statement....perhaps I should have shouted the words, making them my rallying cry. 

"YOU WILL NOT DEFEAT ME!" 

And I, in surprise sat down, logged in, and wrote this. 

It only took minutes and then it was done. Short. Sweet. And not the least bit scary after all. Why did I allow this to hang over me for so long? 

What is it about a word...six tiny letters... that stopped me from moving forward? 

That, I cannot say. Perhaps just its meaning. It's defining presence. But no more. Begone word, until you are drawn once more on some future day. 

And for you, gentle readers... I am here. 

Today was brought to you by the word, BASHED.