Adam

On an evening like this it would be nice to linger outside.  In spite of the near freezing temperatures, the combination of low, thick fog and lovely clear skies makes the night almost irresistible.  But I have another task ahead-an engagement, so to speak.  Still, I take my time.  I make my way as slowly as possible from the car to the house, with the fog practically obliterating the old structure.  If not for the dull glow of the porch light I’d likely not even be able to see the faint outline of logs and chinking.  What fascinates me, is how every star seems to stand out in its own brilliance when I look directly above me; not out to the East or West, or the North or South where the pinpoints of light fade, but straight up where a funnel of haze opens up to the heavens.  This gives me a little time to calm and settle, to find my center of peace before I go in.

I light the candle just in time and set it in the window across from my desk where I can look up for some reassurance as I type, and feel.   It is 7pm, and I am part of the circle of light that has already started, and has been slowly making its way around the earth.

I am not one to mark anniversaries or remember special dates, but for the last seven years I have joined in with thousands for the annual Worldwide Candle Lighting, in remembrance of children lost.  Typically there is the moment where I dutifully strike the match, or plug in the candle lamp if I know I won’t be home in time, and then I push the grief down and away from me and move along through time and obligations.  There have and apparently always will be, plenty of opportunities outside of this single day for the sharp jab of grief to sneak up at the least likely moments and cause me to gasp in surprise and then hold my breath as the pain softens back to a dull ache.

Tonight I’m taking the time to linger a little more than usual.

Tonight, Adam, I am taking the time to pull together as many of the images of you that I can-those that circle in my mind on any other days of the year-with the hope that maybe I’ll learn to contain them and bring them out just when I want to. When I’m ready.  You know, those flashes of a life and the bits of moments that in themselves seem to have little significance, but end up being all one has left of another after they are gone.

It all started with a phone call; the uncertain young voice, and then the first sight of you as you walked up the road through the pouring rain.  Even from that distance your bright red hair stood out in the gloom of the afternoon storm.  There you were, solitary, drenched, an awkward teen on the journey from innocence to knowledge, looking to take his first tentative steps into the grown-up world.  I think that before you even made it halfway up the driveway I knew I’d hire you-barely old enough for your first job.  I remember how pleased your parents were.  There were the odd jobs we’d give you to keep you busy and engaged, your willingness to do just about anything-except climb the ladder to the super high roof to change the spots; your patience with the little helpless creatures that we worked with, and your quick reflexes when you and Julie rescued that snapper that almost got loose in the car; oh-and that time I had to remind you that ‘natural hair color’ was indeed, part of the language of our dress code (thank goodness!).  I can still giggle at your absolute shock and embarrassment over some of the ridiculous things I’d do-like that time I ran straight into the canoe where it was suspended in the carport and almost knocked myself out.  You tried your best to be polite and appropriate and concerned when all the moment really called for was a drop to the floor hiccup- inducing laughfest-and some aspirin and an MRI.  Now I guess it’s okay for me to laugh out loud over the unbelievable ‘wreck’ of a car that you bought-you know, the big old sedan with the red tassels around the insides of the windows?  There were our long talks about music and the lunches on the road when I’d try to pull you back to us.  The pain.  I remember the pain you’d feel over the state of the world.

Then there was the moment that I learned you were gone.  And at the same time I took in the news, I struggled with knowing that the young man charged with telling me was about the age you’d been when I first saw you.  And I tried to breathe in and out and hold my own in front of him because I knew how hard it had been to say the words, and I knew how carefully he was watching me, even though he was trying not to be obvious.  And I thought to myself, “who would send a mere child to deliver such a horrible message”?  And I thought back to that missed phone call from you two weeks earlier-a missed opportunity?  I’ll never know, will I?  Except that I know that things happen as they happen and that’s that.  And every series of thoughts of you ends with the palpable anguish that radiated from your mother; the type of all-consuming agony that folds one over in half and makes them stumble with each step, and weep and wail wildly, and want to beg and beg and beg while knowing with wave upon wave of breathless panic that nothing will change the fact that a cherished one is now out of reach.

The pattern is always the same.  I still sometimes feel that quick flutter of anger over those that knew and just stood by, or even turned away.  I have to slap at it and then prepare to deal with the frustration of not being there to try to catch you one more time.  Then follow the bewilderment and sorrow.

I’ll shed a few tears for you tonight, Adam.  Maybe not so much for the loss of you, but more for the suffering you endured before you finally left us-and because I understand that your tender heart and soul were just too fragile for you to linger in our space any longer.

Every once in a while I still see you-in a store, or driving past in an old jalopy.  It’s not like before when I’d start and have to stare for a moment before remembering…now I collect the moment and tuck it away all the while marveling at how much people can resemble each other.

I think it’s the music that catches me most off guard.  A brief passage will float by and I’ll think, wow, Adam would really like that.  I’m listening to Coldplay as I type this.  I know how soothing you’d find the new works.  The carefully measured words and notes; insightful and a bit dark-melancholy.  Most of what they’ve done seems to relate to you in some way.  I can take a little at a time and then I need to put them away until I can listen again without trying to hear them as you might.

So Adam, this hour is for those children who have left before you and since, but it is mostly for you.  For now though, I’ll turn off the music and turn out the light.  Of course, as always, I’ll put the light on from time to time between now and New Year’s.  Anyone passing by might think the little candle in the window is a nod to the holiday, but you and I know that it’s just a small ‘hello’ from me to you, somewhere out there-and hopefully far, far, far away from this place that could not hold you.

Last of the Fall Color

These may each look alike, but the back road I take home to escape the sometimes crazy frenzy of the main roads reminds me of how life is.  Each turn or rise or dip, can bring such beauty and many surprises and challenges.  Yesterday I took my time and stopped whenever, wherever I wanted.  It took forever for me to get back home.  These photos only show what I had before me, and behind me.  The other views along the way were glorious and took my breath away.  I’m still absorbing those and keeping them close.

Snickersville Hounds

The Snickersville Hounds and Other Tails

I’ve marked yesterday as one of the more unusual days here.  It began well enough with a strong 5:00 AM start-up.  That’s a good sign since it means I’m closer to my typical 5 hour sleep cycle, which in turn means that I’m breaking out of this ridiculous flu thing once and for all. Thank you Warren, my friend, for mentioning the Elderberry extract.  I’d still prefer the wine route, but I’ve read that it just doesn’t work that way.  Oh well.

The back road, recently graded, has been passable, so early this morning I set out that way to do my home visits.  It felt like an epic journey, deer here and there; a huge turkey that couldn’t decide which side of the road to flee to.  It compromised by trotting ahead of my car down the middle of the gravel lane.  It never ceases to amaze me to watch these giant creatures.  I try from time to time to picture the size pan they’d fit into, and then realize that the oven would have to be super-sized as well.  That’s okay; I prefer the live and wild version.

One of the corn fields is in the process of being turned under; some cows in one pasture have been switched out altogether and there are now these mega huge bovine-like creatures grazing off of the slowly turning grasses.  The trees that fell during the most recent wind storm have been pushed back completely.  The Department of Transportation has actually been working this road the last two days and cutting away the most ominous and dangerous growth.  It’s the first I’ve seen them in this area, but then, these roads don’t qualify for too much attention.

I was trying to keep ahead of a truck pulling a horse trailer, and hoping that it was empty.  The driver was clearly in a hurry, or just impatient and attacked the curves and ruts as if she were in a road race.  When I slowed for a dismounted rider on the side of the road the truck bore down on me.  Fortunately she didn’t run through me when I stopped for a half dozen riders from one of the hunt clubs and waited as they cleared the road and headed through an open farm gate.  At the main road I watched her make a quick and wild turn and caught a glimpse of the passengers in the back being tossed from side to side.  Big horses-one almost too big for the trailer.  Good quality creatures most likely from a hunt club.  Clearly the morning was not too successful for this person.  Bad vibes radiated from the entire package.  I could hear the witch music from Wizard of Oz in the background.

The return trip was time consuming as well.  Road blocks, back tracks, and a sixteen mile detour finally got me back to simplicity, but I knew I still had to head out again in less than two hours.  Sigh.  Enough time to do a little bit of typing.

From here at my desk I can see one of the old trees in the yard making a beautiful transition in an explosion of color.  This is a great vantage point, too for catching a glimpse of the hawks and deer, and cows; pretty much anything that wanders or flies by.  Under a haze of words and tapping keys I barely registered the honking of geese as they bore down on the yard.  I looked up, realizing this was going to be a big flock, and they were probably going to pass right outside my window.  Nothing. And the honking made way to braying. Geese in trouble. I took my fingers off of the keys reluctantly and got up to look out. Down below, the geese I had visualized transformed gradually into a few dozen fox hounds; noses to the ground, tails up, crisscrossing and circling.  Others had broken off from the group and were chasing the cows.  Um, great.  Now, I barely know what to do with Remie, much less an additional thirty five plus hounds.  I admit, as I ran to grab the keys to the car and gate, that I gave some thought to tossing her in with the lot and later playing the innocent.  Given her antics, she’d blend in, but with her looks she’d stand out.  Remie favors a segugio hound more than anything else I’ve seen.

I had no idea which direction these dogs had come from, and I couldn’t see any riders or hear horns.  I gunned the engine, wound around some very surprised and perplexed cows, and shot up to the gate keeping my fingers crossed-and yes! There was a single rider passing on the road. And thus began about an hour of watching as the hunt converged in the yard; hounds barking, horns sputtering , and commands shouted; small arms fired in an attempt to control the rogue pack.  About two thirds of the hounds had already run off and disappeared, while the rest followed the hunt master who finally arrived to get everything under control.  A few of the wayward creatures passed and sniffed my hand, got a little pat, but I knew they were supposed to be working.

And so this is how I met the Snickersville Hounds, and yet another neighbor from down the road who filled me in on all of the hunt and local gossip, and talked to yet another neighbor who caught me up on the other side of the gossip vine, and why I was late for another meeting, which I seem to be from time to time. At least I have some of the most unlikely stories to tell when I finally show up…white geese, long-horned cattle, wayward hunts, escaped cows (mine), trees down, stray dogs, stray cats, broken down bikes, broken down wheelchairs, hit by car birds, hit by car tractors, hit by car hay bales; the list goes on.  I could make it all up, but there is no need.  No purple unicorns, yet.  But when that happens, I’m not likely to raise an eyebrow.  I doubt that my firends will, either!

Looking back through my head-fogged post flu state I’ve learned a couple things;

Hounds are hounds whether there’s one or fifty, and I still love them;
Women in the hunt are perfectly made up and appear totally unruffled even after miles of cantering and jumping and chasing hounds (wow!);
The horses, perfectly groomed and dressed are all business;
Even under the stress of losing ones pack, the riders are as gracious and poised as can be;
And, one can certainly learn a lot from neighbors who are swept up in the flurry of the moment.

I also learned that yesterday was definitely real, and not one of my fancies, or dream-states, or the product of a massive haunting.  As I locked the gate behind me this afternoon, my new neighbor friend drove by waving and grinning.  I waved and grinned back; after all we had ‘shared’ the intimate secrets of others only the day before.  I turned away, got in the car and headed down to the old log house, and back to some solitude and gentle energy.

At the end of the day, it’s a good, safe place to be, still.

The Flu and Other Bugs

Yes, it’s flu season.  Unlike my typical routine, I have managed to become ‘inoculated’ on the rather early side instead of waiting until the tip-of-the-tail end.  That’s okay, I suppose.  It looks like I’m emerging without any permanent damage.  There are the positive aspects; the quick weight loss (preferably permanent in my case), the fasting, the thrilling discovery that I didn’t just imagine that there was at some time, life beyond the darkened bedroom.

As one gradually transitions back to the world of the living, the details of the previous days start to fade off (hopefully for good).  There’s that last bit of clarity as suspicion turns into denial, then inevitability, and then eventually the full blown illness conquers and all levels of delirium set in.  These become dark times-when troubles are augmented, shadows are taller and more menacing, and one fears that the teeth will explode out of the mouth with each skull-shattering cough.  Oh well.  All better now (almost).  Bring on the baked ziti!  Almost.

Today’s major project: begin removal of spiders before it becomes way too cold for me to do so with any conscience.  Everyone has to go, with maybe the exception of the big one that just captured a fly that’s been circling around all day.  Too high to reach, anyway.  Next, keep out the giant hairy spiders that want refuge from the chilly nights.  That means lights out for the most part to keep them at bay.  The cats are in charge of the crickets, and all other creatures with more than four legs have been given their moving orders.  The rapidly changing weather is responsible for all of this. The chill is on.

In a matter of days the fields, although still rich with green, have developed lovey golden and red accents.  Soon they’ll take over altogether and eventually turn into the drab straw tones that dominate the winter scape.  There are beautiful pink and yellow clusters along the tree lines-soft and gentle early fall colors.  And the red-shouldered hawks have finally conquered the pesky crows and are in charge of the yard and near fields.  For the past three weeks the hawks have out voiced even the nuisance calls from their black-winged nemeses.  From dawn to early evening I could hear the cries as they patrolled and hunted, and watch as they out maneuvered the angry crows. This morning as I started typing, I could see from my desk, one of the pair making quick dashes from a peach tree to the ground and back again.  Clearly there was something delicious and fresh for breakfast.

Now as I look outside, the deer, seventeen or so, have moved in to take advantage of the fading evening light. It’s a nice, low-key early fall evening with a soft breeze setting loose the occasional spent leaf. The geese have already passed over and landed at the pond.  I’ll hear them fussing occasionally through the night.  It’s the full moon this week also, and although I haven’t been up to enjoying it’s full splendor, I’ll be able to track what’s left of it through the night as it illuminates the fields.

It’s time to close shop for the evening since the letters are floating around on the screen and I can’t quite make out the words.  Tomorrow-full recovery on the schedule.  And maybe a nice gentle walk among the cows will be in order, too.

Cowboys Are My Weakness

It’s the 11th hour-literally, and I thought I’d get in at least one entry before September is over.

The last two months have been packed with activity; from the endless birthday celebrations of August, to the ‘back to business’ (and society) of September.  Although described in the past as ‘reticent’, I haven’t exactly been holding back during this long phase of silence. I’ve been busy trying to translate a lot of the past several weeks into words. There has been a lot of keyboard action, too, although not anything I can really launch into the Worldwide Web and its endless stream of access.  Some things are best kept locked away, like those little diaries with the tiny key holes, or kept safe with the closest of confidants.  They’ll make their way out as their significance fades, and end up being nothing more than the batting of an eyelid or a flick of the fingers; little blips that may have seemed important at the time but barely elicit any emotional response now.  Those things that you scratch your head over and say, ‘Why was that such a big deal?’ As I’ve gotten older that ‘finger flick’ method seems to work just as well as anything to remind me to take the best of the moment, take the lesson-if there is one, and toss the rest in the rubbish pile. It’s kind of like the hunched shoulders and sloppy kick at the dirt, or the well known French ‘shrug’ that says so much in its wordless simplicity.

Anyway, one of my favorite and most recent forays into ‘civilization’ was an evening that ironically was a tribute to much simpler times, and a flashback to an era that came way before me.  It was a visit to a local club to listen to the old songs of the cowboys.  Now, it has always been a task to get my father to join me for live performances of even his most favorite musicians.  I think he’s secretly worried that he’ll find himself front and center at a heavy metal rock concert where even the best of noise-canceling headphones won’t take the edge off for his sensitive ears or soften the insult of a cascade of indiscernible guitar riffs and drum set banging.

This time I had only to mention Riders in The Sky, and his ears perked up.  It still took a bit of coaxing, but we made it there and enjoyed it.  Now, since I’m in a phase in my life where I’ve actually become aware that my Jubilee birthday is approaching, but my general nature is to still revert back to say, anywhere between 18 and 25 years of age, I just had to take note (and advantage) of the fact that I was probably the second youngest there.  In fact, looking over the sea of gray and silver, I felt the need to point out that my father, a fairly fit and youthful 78, might very well be the third youngest in attendance.  There was no worry over whether we’d be stuck in the parking lot back-up after the show.  We could wait until everyone else was up and moving and still be in the car before the crowd got to the front exit.

For myself, I have no excuses for hanging out with this kind of crowd.  I’m a sucker for the easy, ride- along tempo and the visuals from ballads of the early West.  I’ve mentioned the old Telefunken my parents had when I was growing up. Where many parents worry about the kids getting into the liquor cabinet, I was getting down to Ghost Riders in the Sky and Get Along Little Doggie; the silhouette of the lone rider with the chaps, spurred boots, and the slope of the hat brim never far from my mind’s eye.

That night at the show, the same rider was there off and on; riding fences, thinking about his true love, drinking bitter coffee-hot from the small fire that threw off a bit of warmth, hunkering down on the hard ground with the saddle as his pillow; the smell of leather and horse sweat mixing with the cooling breeze coming off the plains.

In no time the show was over, and my cowboy had already disappeared into the horizon and was bedding down somewhere.  We walked slowly toward the parking lot in our own world, still under the spell of the evening, and looking back behind us into the empty walkways, fell to giggling like school kids. Ours was a slightly self conscious and guilty laughter, as we realized the bulk of the audience was in fact, just coming through the exits. Under the watchful eye of a somewhat suspicious police guard, we climbed in the car and headed away with the weight of time and age lifted for the moment, unhindered by any other ‘concert’ traffic.

Always remember…

“One good turn gets all the covers,

Always drink upstream from the cattle,

And may the horse be with you…”

Too Slim, Riders in The Sky

Morning Moo

Fox

In the yard by the well. It glances over, watches as I climb from the car, and then dismisses me. This evening there are more important things on its mind. I’m pleased to see that this one appears to have a thick, healthy coat and a gorgeous plume of a tail. The colors are brilliant and full of fire in the evening light. It is full grown, tall, well-fed. I’ve seen others a few miles away that obviously are afflicted with the mange that makes them look so sad and feel so miserable. This one is thriving here.

I’m frozen in place, not daring to move a muscle or make a peep. It’s stalking a group of crows, I’m sure, from the cackling that’s coming from the grass near the fence. I have nothing against these particular crows in spite of the constant barrage of chatter that goes on in the early evening; it’s just that the fox has to eat, too.

I’m holding my breath, but someone is obviously watching carefully as it takes it’s first tentative step-just as a cat would. The din increases multifold into an angry alarm as a dozen or so jet-black winged creatures scatter up into the air and over the trees.

The fox heads slowly past where I know one of the groundhogs lives and then squeezes under the wooden rails; makes its way at a slow trot and stops from time to time, checking the ground. I watch until it heads into the old riding ring and then disappears.

Crossing  to the little table in the yard I get on with the business of eating my own dinner-relieved that I didn’t have to work half as hard for the meal.

Tonight there is a full moon, and I imagine that under its blue glow and through the chilly night, I’ll hear this fox and many other creatures as they hunt and are hunted.

Fall Harvest

On Monday the harvest for corn silage began. This will eventually be fed to the Holsteins on a nearby farm. It could not have been a more beautiful day for the work at hand.

If I’m not careful, I’ll be known as the odd woman with the camera who keeps bothering the local farmers as they try to work. Any old, well used tractor is fair game for me these days (Apparently I have ‘tractor envy’, a concept I’ve borrowed from a good friend and supporter of this journal).  

A lot seemed to be happening at once in this particular spot. I also ran into a local pest exterminator who treated me to a neat sight-a giant hornet’s nest, and along with that I got to see a huge colony of carpenter ants that happened to be collateral damage from the extermination process. Scores, workers and winged females, were rapidly evacuating the old tree where the giant hornets had settled.

Before he started, Kevin (from LeMarr Pest Control) asked if I wanted to take some photos of the hornets. Always thinking of self preservation, I inquired as to whether he wanted before shots, or action shots of us running away after he hit the hive. Well, he had the white suit and head cover…the best I could do was duck behind the car (I’d already quickly run through scenarios and didn’t think I could leap into my car fast enough to avoid being locked in with a couple dozen raging and dying hornets wanting to get in the last word). Either way, sadly, I did not have the right camera with me.

 Anyway, I spent a good bit of time watching the fields as one tractor harvested and chopped, and the other switched out beds and transported the corn across the road to the main buildings. Maybe next harvest if I have more time, I’ll be able to watch everything go into the silos. The process is steady and efficient, but for the small local farms and their equally small equipment, it takes a while. Last evening when I drove by the field was about half finished.

Bush Hogging