“Tread softly! all earth is holy ground.
It may be, could we look with seeing eyes,
This spot we stand on is a Paradise …”
– Christina Rossetti, Later Life: A Double Sonnet of Sonnets
Reflections
Winter Fog
The sky brightens slowly, reluctant to let go of the dark clouds that blew rain all night from west to east. Nearly white with subtle shades of ghostly grey, it relinquishes its hold, allowing some sun, but strictly as backlighting. The ground warms, soft steam rises from the earth and a gentle, low-lying mist seeps through the yards and streets. A white cloud fills the Delaware like so much chilly winter breath. And at the end of the tracks, the fog waits, measuring the time to pull in to town.
Requiem for A Featherweight
She was a tiny little thing, and I’d really grown so very fond of her. Sadly, Stripes is no more and I sure do miss her.
People always find me when they have a problem with an animal, and so it was a few nights ago that my neighbor across the street had knocked on my door. She said she’d just come home and saw a cat in the road hit by a car … it looked like my next door neighbor’s. I grabbed my coat and ran out to find Stripes lying there, bleeding, still warm, the life knocked out of her limp body.
Stripes did indeed belong to the folks next door, and had two young girls that loved her. Stripes and Pumpkin, half siblings, are/were primarily outdoor cats with shelter in their garage at night, all up to date with shots, neutered, etc. Her life with me was somewhat tangential, I guess you could say, but I loved her nonetheless. I saw her daily, fed her a “snack/meal” almost every day, and sat outside with her whenever I could.
With big green eyes and so very sweet and affectionate, Stripes was a little heartbreaker, and I say little – she couldn’t have been more than 5 pounds. I’d sit out on my porch to journal with my feet up on another chair so she could fall asleep on my legs. After eating, Pumpkin was off to whatever he had next on his schedule, but Stripes would have cuddled as long as the cuddles were coming. She patiently allowed me to remove the burrs from her fur acquired from her gallivanting all over the neighborhood, where she was a disturbingly good huntress. It’s no coincidence, I think, that there was a dead mouse about 2 feet from where her body lay in the road.
I miss those hopeful green eyes looking up at me through my back door screen … for a bite to eat or perhaps some snuggling … she loved any and all attention. Mine are my indoor cats; Stripes and Pumpkin had become my part-time, outdoor cats. It doesn’t matter that she wasn’t “mine.” She found a comfortable spot in my heart, and that’s where Stripes sleeps tonight.
Sweet dreams, little one.
Birthday Sunset
Today as I began journaling I wrote the date and saw that it was November 28th — my Nana’s birthday. My Nana passed away in 1972 at the ripe old age of 96. She was born in London and came “across the pond” in her mid 20’s at the turn of the century. She was already a widow, and came to the United States by herself to start a new life. How brave she must have been to leave all she knew and come to a new country alone.
Nana was always a big reader, and I remember that she read to me plenty when I was young, always in the green chair in the corner of the living room. I sat on her lap and she read me stories or my books about dogs, horses, birds, or elves and fairies.
I haven’t thought of her in awhile – she’s been gone now 35 years. She was quiet and refined in her British way, with a rather wealthy upbringing as I was told. Her lovely accent rubbed off on me, but I was forced to abandon it as I was ridiculed in grammar school as `talking funny’ by other kids.
Nana couldn’t cook worth a lick. All I ever saw her cook was a pepper omelette or make a bologna sandwich. When my grandfather was alive and they were together, he did all the cooking. Thinking of her, remembering her, brought a smile to my face. I looked out the window and noticed how the trees are finally almost bare of leaves. From my office window I can see the Delaware again. I’m reading a great novel – Nana would have liked it, I think.
This evening I watched a gorgeous sunset and ran outside with my digital camera to capture it. I think she would have liked that, too. Happy Birthday, Nana.
See more photos on my web site.
My Very Best Friend
Growing up in a house with a very anxious mother wasn’t easy. It affected everything and everybody. While I understand as an adult why things were the way they were, it was difficult as a child living with someone who needed to control just about everything. I didn’t consciously know it then, but I longed for someone in the house I could just `be’ with … without intrusion, always accepting, always comforting, and who’d never give up a secret. And my dog became that someone.
When I was 5, my brother 9, our parents decided we were old enough to have a dog, so at Christmas they gave us a beautiful Boxer puppy. I don’t think either of us quite `got’ the concept of having a dog at Christmas when there were still so many other exciting presents to open and play with. But Tinkerbell, as she was named, was not to stay with us very long. Within a few months she developed epilepsy. I don’t remember seeing the seizures my mother described Tink having on the kitchen floor, with blood and foam spewed all over the room, or perhaps I willed myself to forget. But as there were no cures for epilepsy back then, Tinkerbell’s only option was to be returned to spirit. I was so young, and hadn’t become very attached to her yet, I don’t think I really understood what had happened.
Then our parents got another dog. She was sold to them as a Boxer, 6 months old, and I recall my mother being so happy she didn’t drool because her face wasn’t pushed in like other Boxers. There was a reason for that … she wasn’t really a Boxer. At best, she was a Boxer, pit bull terrier mix; my obedience trainer, when he looked at my childhood photos of her, told me that she was pure, and that was how they bred American Pit Bull Terriers back then. It didn’t matter … she quickly became the best friend and confidante I longed for. Her name was Dutchess. Dutchess Von Wiggles was how my mom had `officially’ named her because she had a butt that was constantly in happy motion.
Dutch couldn’t sleep with me as she wasn’t allowed on the second floor, so I slept with her downstairs. We watched TV together, me resting my head gently on her side; and we curled up in sleep on the living room floor. She learned all the tricks a dog learns, and loved to go for walks or play outside in the yard. I can honestly say, in a way that only a dog or animal lover would understand, she was everything to me … she was my best friend. I had a human best friend, of course – happily, I always had friends — and I had my big brother to play with and taunt, but Dutchess was different. She was just what I needed – another soul in the house that simply loved me straight out no matter what. And I adored her for that.
When I was little, my parents would cover her eyes and ears and I would hide. Then they’d let her go … “Find Jeanne!!” And Dutchess would search every nook and cranny downstairs to see where I was hiding, just bursting into wiggling, wagging joy when she found me. What child doesn’t live for those moments? She made me feel safe in a childhood where feeling emotionally safe wasn’t easy. Dutch was the heart, soul and embodiment of unconditional love. She was both my rock and my wings, my compass and stars; she was my comfort and confidante. She was one little girl’s very best friend.
Still A Dreamer 