Sandfall

Soaked to the skin, Ellie stood on the front steps to the gray and white trailer banging on the door in a panic. “C’mon, C’mon,” she whimpered to herself. She continued banging the metal door with her fist, peering through the open slats of the window until Mr. Lewis staggered down the hallway in a undershirt and his gray workpants. “Alright, Already,” he shouted, “No need to knock the house down.” Relief spread over her like a balm; here was a grown-up. “Mr. Lewis! Come quick, Teresa is trapped!” she blurted. Mr. Lewis looked through the screen at her, slow to understand. “What?” “We were playing on the cliff and sand broke and fell on us,” Ellie tried again; tears of frustration leaking onto her cheeks and into her voice. She had to make him understand. Mrs. Lewis suddenly appeared pushing him out of the way. “Where’s Teresa?” Trapped in the sssand," Ellie blubbered. The catastrophic accident was catching up with her. “Dale is trying to dig her out. She is covered in sand. She can’t breathe.” Mrs. Lewis grasped the situation immediately and started screaming. The screams galvanized her husband. He flung open the door knocking Ellie off the steps. “Where is she?” Ellie ran to the back of the lot and pointed toward the dump.

Start of a story idea. What do you think?

Homework Assignment

Have I told you that I am taking a writing class at the Hudson Valley Writers' Center? This week’s assignment was to take a bit character, someone ancillary to the plot, and write the story from his perspective. In order for this to work, I felt I needed to choose a story that everyone would know. I love O. Henry, so I chose Ransom of Red Chief. Tell me what you think.

Abe slowly drew his hand down his luxurious gray beard in a manner that he imagined made him look ponderously thoughtful. It was an affectation that annoyed the hell out of his wife Martha. “Mother, you ‘bout done in there? C’mon out here and sit a spell. I got news from town.” With her back to him, she rolled her eyes; she was dog-tired and he could be long-winded. She had been putting up beans and standing over a boiling canner for hours had left her limp as a wet noodle. His voice grew louder as he tried to entice her out of the kitchen. His eyes twinkled with glee. He threw out his line with the gem of a lure, “’s’bout that old skin-flint Dorset over in Summit.” After 47 years of living with her, he knew the right bait to use, and just how to set the hook. “His son’s gone missin’--been lost or stolen.”

Martha, unable to withstand a juicy bit of gossip appeared at the screen door wiping her hands on her apron; she let the door slap behind her as she came out on the porch. The duet of tree frogs and crickets pulsed in the hot spring evening. A tiny breeze cooled the beads of sweat on her brow. She eased her old bones into the front porch rocker. “Abe, you know I can’t abide that man. He’s awful pious passin’ the plate on Sunday, but on Monday he’ll take the farm away faster’n greased lightenin’.” She shook her head, huffing through her nose. Folding her hands in her lap, she pushed against the wooden floorboards with her black lace-up shoes setting the chair in motion. But unused to sitting with idle hands, she got back up to fetch a mess of beans to shell for the next day’s canning. Sitting back down, she gently tipped back and forth in the gloaming; her hands going through the familiar motion of splitting the pod with her thumbnail and pushing the beans into a bowl. “Well, do tell then,” she said. “What’s happen'd t'at little hellion?” Now that he had her attention, he reached into the front pocket of his bib overalls for his pipe and tobacco pouch. He zipped open the creased brown leather and began to stuff the bowl of his pipe, packing it tight with his index finger. Scraping a match against the underside of the rocking chair he puffed out the sweet-smelling smoke.

“Well,” he started, “ After I finish’t plowin’ and turned out Sal, I went t' town to pick up some chick'n feed.” Martha nodded. “Yep,” she said “I know. And you fergot to get the scratch.” “Yep, you’re right. Well, I’ll send Linc down to get it tamorra.” Abe pushed on, “Whilst I was at the feed store, I fell to talkin’ with ol’ Sam Sanders. He done tole me that the Dorset boy is missin' - lost or stolen”.

He looked over at Martha to gauge her interest but could not see her face in the gathering dusk. In the pause, Martha mused half to herself, “Lost or stolen, my eye. I betcha he ran off. No doubt that little hooligan wuz throwin’ stones at that poor little cat of Miss Carlisle’s. He knows how much she sets store by it. She probly marched herself t'over there to complain. That boy would get a whoppin’, if he was a son of mine. Old man Dorset is too high ‘n mighty to do it and the mother, poor thang, is too young and frail to handle such a rowdy.” Abe nodded to himself. What she said was true, but how she knew what was going on in Summit, 3 miles away, when she only went to town on Sundays never ceased to amaze him. “Yep, apples don’t fall far from the tree,” he pronounced. They rocked, their chairs creaking in unison.

Abe puffed on his pipe, then continued. “Sam and I went acrost to the post office to see what Bill’d heard. The usuals was there. We wuz all sittin' around chewin' the fat when that young fella came in. Him that rented our buggy. He tipped his hat and asked what the fuss wuz about. I tole him that the leadin' citizen over in Summit, Elder Dorset’s, son had come up missin'. I mentioned it t’him special like, so he’d know to keep an eye out. “What’d he say?” Martha’s disembodied voice queried from next to him. “Nuthin’. He just bought some of that God-awful t’bacca that Bill pretends is so highfalutin’, ast the price of black-eyed peas, posted a letter and left.” “He sent a letter? That’s mighty peculiar.” Who’s it dressed to?” Abe shook his head, “Didn’t see it and Bill twouldn’t say. He did say in a loud voice that the messenger from Summit would pick it up in ‘bout an hour.” “Huh,” Martha grunted. “I still say it’s peculiar. It’s not like that young fella knows anyone here ‘bouts.”

They rocked in silence for a few minutes both lost in thought. “Ya think the boy’s run off?” Abe considered the question. “Mebbe, he is a bit of a pester-pot.” Martha snorted. “Pester-pot. Abraham, you do have a way with words. That child is a terrible, mean-spirited, spiteful hooligan, I don’t care if he is ten. I can’t image what he’ll be like when he grows up.” Abe harrumphed in agreement. “He’s a bad’un, alright." Abe puffed and Martha shelled beans, their quiet sounds blending with the night noises around them. “Town’s folk upset?” Martha prompted, looking for more of the story. “Nah, not from what I seed. Folks seemed glad for the peace and quiet, him being gone an’all. Mark my words; he’ll be back, right as rain. If he’s bin stolen, those bodies that’s done it are in for a licken.” Martha got up, the beans shelled, “Papa, you're probly right, as always. I’m goin’ to bed. You comin’?” “After bit, Mother, after bit.” Abe rocked on, stroking his bead and thinking about how he had been a hellion too, in his youth; having run off more than once. He was sure the Dorset boy was out playing at being an Indian somewhere close by. He’d be back, by hook or by crook.

Winkie

The thundering herd of elephants that courses through the halls and up and down the stairs every night is a 7lb streak of lightning named Winkie. She is occasionally chased by Tonka, who is double her weight and not as light on his feet. But she asks for it. I have seen her innocently stroll by, then just as she is past him, reach out a paw, smack him, and then run. You can almost hear her laughter. It is a game they both enjoy. She is so full of energy that she sometimes runs just to run.

She is now a very different kitty from when she came to me. Living in an empty house with her owner packed off to a nursing home, she became fearful and skittish. The neighbors came in to feed her and Bourka once a day. No one scooped their litter. The whole house smelled. The day I went to visit, I only saw a black streak dash past to disappear into the basement. When we went to look for her in the dim unlit nether regions she bolted for a Stygian hole in the cinder block that led to a crawl space. In the end they had to trap her to get her out of the house.

When they came in with the cat carrier and opened the door she was huddled in the back. We left the carrier in the kitchen and went into the family room. When we came back to check on her the carrier was empty and she was not to be found. Later I discovered her in the basement squeezed under the landing box. A few days later, she migrated upstairs under the guest bed in the blue room. She stayed there for weeks, coming out only to eat and make the long trek down to the basement to use the box. At that time I had 3 cats that no one ever saw, including me.

Eventually they all came around. Now Winkie sleeps on my hip, riding the wave when I turn over in the night. She insists on sitting on my lap or will perch on one knee if that is the only thing available. She will visit with company if they are well-mannered adults, allowing them to pet her--shoulder to tail (she does not like having her head touched). She is a joy. It has taken 5 years for her to gain confidence. Now she is a terror, that strikes fear in the heart of guests sleeping in the blue room when she thunders past in the wee hours.

The one that got away

Azer’s arm ached from steadying the crate on the roof of the car through the open window. He wished he were anywhere but driving down the streets of the city on a hot Sunday afternoon delivering tomatoes with his father. He let go of the steering wheel and reached over to turn down the Mughum music that was blaring from the radio. It was loud and embarrassingly old-fashioned.

Without saying a word, Azer’s father snaked out a gnarled hand and turned the music back to ear-splitting decibels. Azer closed his eyes and prayed for strength. He wished he had not agreed to do this favor for his father.

As the car crawled up the steep street past the Symphony Hall and the Museum, Azer noticed a blonde woman strolling down the sidewalk toward them. She had on blue-tinted sunglasses that flashed in the sun and wore loose white trousers and a pale blue tunic that fell to her knees. On her feet were brown open-toed sandals.

The car veered toward her as Azer stared. His father’s shout startled him and he spun the wheel hard to the left. Azer let go of the crate and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands to regain control. Looking into the side mirror past the old man’s arm; he was mortified to see the woman waving her hands.

He slammed on the brakes. He looked in the side mirror again to see the crates that had been tied to the roof scattered on the pavement and tomatoes rolling down the street. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel and groaned.

His father flung open the door with a curse, surveyed the damage and started to scream about money lost. Oblivious to his father’s snarls, Azer bent over and started to retrieve the tomatoes.

Some of them were smashed but many of them were only bruised. He scuttled down the hill picking up the fallen fruit. As he approached the last few stray pieces, a pair of brown leather sandals with painted red toes came toward him. Above the sandals white trousers billowed in the hot breeze from the Caspian Sea.

“You missed one.”

A hand held a beautiful red ripe tomato, unblemished during the accident. Too embarrassed to even look up, he took it.

“Tesekkür ederim,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

The feet turned and walked away.

Azer finally looked up as the blonde woman turned the corner and slipped into the cool shade of the park. He stumbled back to the car with his arms full. He kept glancing back at the park as he helped his father refill the crates and tie the load again. Finally with the crates secure, he got behind the wheel.

Azer looked in the mirror as they drove away hoping for another glimpse. As they rounded the corner, there it was: just a flash of blue, white and blonde.

Sweet thing

The guests, sated with happiness and perhaps too much wine, had all left. We cleaned up what was left of the food, then stumbled to bed, leaving the tables and chairs to be put away in the morning. When I opened the door to let the cat out the next day, I surveyed the clutter of lawn chairs, folding chairs, tables and the odd beer bottle. Sighing, and needing coffee, I stepped out to start the clean up. Then froze. We had had an overnight guest.

Actually, Chester found her first.

He approached with curiosity. She was completely unafraid. I watched as they acknowledged one another. He then strolled off across the lawn and she put her head down and tried to blend into the shade. I had not seen her around the neighborhood. But how could I tell exactly? All fawns look alike to me. I slipped back into the house and quietly shut the door deciding coffee was more important.

It turned out this little girl was one of a set of triplets. The mama didn’t know what to do with her or care for her. Three IS a crowd. She was always the smallest of the siblings. While the others gamboled she hung back. I would rarely see the family together. Mostly she was alone.

As she grew older I would often find her tucked into a corner of the lawn. She developed a special relationship with Chester.

They would sniff each other is if to say hello. She had found a haven I suppose. She never ate any of the ornamental flowers or shrubs, so we never resented her presence. In winter we would give her corn. If you clacked the ears together, she would come bounding over the multiflora rose to see what you had for her. Since she never came close or took food from our hands; we would throw the ears out onto the lawn. She would pick up the ears and with her nimble lips spin the ear then spit out the cob. Then with a flick of her tail she would leap away.

She hung around for about 2 years and then one day disappeared. We noticed her absence and worried. But the next spring she returned with 2 babies in tow. Chester went out to greet them. She only visited once.

We expected her to come in the winter but she didn’t. We thought we saw her once far out in the field, but could not be sure. She was accepted into a herd and no longer came to us.

This was over 10 years ago. Chester passed 5 years ago at the ripe old age of 19. I still miss him.

Here on the mountain, I do not let the cats out. They will never know a deer although many come through the yard. They are beautiful creatures. I just wish they would not eat the flowers.

Morning Coffee

“Catherine, you are an idiot!”

The voice rose above the morning din of the outdoor restaurant. There was a hush as all eyes turned to see what was happening. Yvonne glanced over at the table in the back where the shouting had originated. She and Marion had patiently stood in line and now were shimmying their way to a small un-cleared table. Café Du Monde was crowded as usual. As they waited for the waitress to stop by, Yvonne looked at the plate of beignets that were left on the table. She was hungry and they looked good. She considered taking one. They did not look like they had been touched. Or at least one look untouched. Marion put her hand over Yvonne’s.

“Don’t even think about it!” she hissed.

“What?!?!?!?” Yvonne tried to look hurt.

“You were going to eat one from that dirty plate.”

“Was not.”

The waitress appeared next to the table and gathered the tray full of used paper plates and empty cups.

“What can I get for y’all?”

“Two Café au Lait and some beignets.”

The waitress scurried off to place their order and wait on other tables. Yvonne and Marion sat in silence trying to listen to the street musicians that were being drowned out by the ruckus in the back.

“Catherine why do you always do these things?”

Yvonne looked over again. A woman was looking around her chair and under the table. Her companion was standing red in the face. She gave up whisked her sweater off the chair in defeat only to discover her handbag slung over the back. The man nodded, walked away from her jostling people on his way to the entrance. She followed behind with a tight smile.

The waitress re-appeared carrying a green tray with their coffee and powdered sugar laden donuts.

“Welcome to New Orleans. Enjoy.”

Thoughts after a writing workshop where the word was New Orleans and in anticipation of a business trip in May.

Old Time Ghost Story

Every holiday visit inevitably leads to “do you remember when?” and talk of the past. This holiday was no different. All the cousins were talking about genealogy. We are all going to work on Ancestry.com to pool our knowledge. In the discussion of who knows what piece of family history; my mother tells this story.

“Charlie!”

Grandpa Charlie sat straight up in the middle of the night and looked around. “Davey?”
He got out of bed.

Grandma Lizzie rolled over. “Charlie, what’s wrong?”

“I just heard Davey call my name.”

“Charlie honey, that‘s not possible. Your brother lives down by the river. It would take days for him to get up here on horseback. Come back to bed.”

“I tell you, I just heard him call my name. He must be outside.”

Grandpa Charlie went outside and started to search the farm. Grandma Lizzie stood at the door with s shawl wrapped around her and looked out. She was scared. She had no idea of what was going on.

Grandpa Charlie finally came back to the house alone and perplexed.

“I can’t find him. It is strange. I heard him speak to me clear as a bell.”

Lizzie finally got him back to bed. Several days later they got word that the night Davey spoke to his brother was the night that he committed suicide by drowning himself in the river.”

I looked over to at my mother and then at my cousin Lynn.

“I never heard that story before.”

“Funny, I haven’t thought about it in years. I happened a long time ago. It is just a story that my mother told me about a funny thing that happened to her parents.”

These are the kinds of stories that need to be written down. I encourage you to talk with your aging relatives to get them reminiscing. You never know what will come up.

Tonka

I had been in the flatland for Thanksgiving. I walked in the house to hear the phone ringing. I dashed up the stairs leaving my luggage in the basement.

“Hello”

“Hi B, it’s D. Do you want a cat?”

“No, I already have 3. What cat?”

It was the usual convoluted story. Her friend Lisa’s neighbor had noticed a little cat huddled in a window well of their apartment building. It had been there a few days. It was November. It was cold. She called Lisa. Lisa called D. D had worked at the local animal shelter and still knew someone there. But first they took the cat to the local pet superstore for their adoption weekend. Neither one of them could have another cat. The store could not keep the cat overnight.

“ We just need some place to keep it overnight.”

“OK. Come on over.”

“We are on our way.”

I had a sinking feeling. I am a sucker and a softie. I knew the minute I saw it; it would end up living here. I vowed to be tough.

When they came in with the carrier and opened it in the basement the little cat popped out and went right to the litter boxes. He then walked around the basement sniffing invisible and random spots.

I could not leave him in the basement; the other cats needed to get to the litter boxes. We gathered him up and put him upstairs in the studio. The resident cats pawed at the door. They sniffed and howled at the door. The little one wolfed down some food, used the litter again and hid under the loom his back to the door although his ears would flicker at the din going on.

That was 2 years ago this past Thanksgiving.

All the beasties get along now and Tonka has turned into a sweetie. He is still timid and will hide if someone else comes in the house so you will not see him until second or third day of your visit.

Intruder Alert

The body lay half stashed under the radiator in the entryway. There was blood smeared on the floor. I only noticed it when I was about to leave for work. I threw open the door to the basement and pressed the garage door button. As the door flew back, I saw out of the corner of my eye, a darkness that should not be there.

I walked over and bent down curiously.

Murder in the night! I had not heard a thing. No shrieks, cries of pain or maniacal laughter.

I called all of the house mates together. There were 4 suspects-the Polish princess, the blonde good ol’boy, the aerobic instructor and the new kid. I questioned them each in turn. Mum’s the word. I could not get anything out of them.

I took them to the scene of the crime and pointed out the evidence. I inquired about their alibis. They all looked at each other. Nothing.

I looked around the house for clues. How did the victim get in? Where was he killed? Where was the other half?

Ah yes, I neglected to mention; there was only the lower half of the body.

I decided that I needed to dispose of it and let bygones be bygones. Burying it seemed a little extreme. I scooped it up, flipped open the garbage can and tossed it in.

I pondered on the drive to work. Who could have done such a thing? Would I return home from work with a kitchen ripe from a rotting body in the garbage? Why was it half eaten? Why eat it at all?

The Polish princess is old and frail, delicate and unassuming. It surely could not be her. But it could be an act. She went through a difficult time and is demanding as a result. Hmmm.

The good ol’boy , I thought was too happy go lucky, even lazy and did not have the gumption nor the tools for the job. Nope, probably not him.

The aerobic instructor on the other hand has the speed and agility. She could dart in and do the deed before the poor victim knew what hit him. A possibility, but she is scattered, a bit of an airhead and does not like to get dirty. I just could not see her as a murderer.

The new kid, on the other hand has street smarts. He is a young, tough, and understands how to use weapons to his advantage. He also is too curious for his own good. If there were a house invader, the kid would definitely be the one to ‘take care’ of it. I am OK with dispatching intruders but did he have to eat half of it?

When I came home from work, I examined the housemates carefully. No mouse breath on anyone. Every whisker was neatly washed and in place.

I shrugged and decided it was unlikely to happen again. (I have had mice in the house but it was years ago in a harsh winter. That was the year that GusGus was living in the pantry. I think he and the cats were in cahoots.)

Life was back to normal. It was a fluke.


Then, there was a second victim! (Isn’t there always a second victim?)

I came home not a week after the first incident to find another hapless intruder mutilated. This time in the dining room! And he was not dead, just mortally wounded.

As I flipped on the light in the kitchen, the aerobic instructor, Miss Winkie, dashed around me and into the dining room. She proceeded to lick the victim. I did not realized what it was. Again I thought it was some kind of string toy.

I stepped onto the hardwood floor of the dining room and peered down at it. OMG! It’s a snake. When I turned on the overhead light, all of the cats were huddled round it. They sniffed it like they had never seen it before. It was not a garter snake. It had spots not stripes. I stepped back. Winkie stepped back in. She wanted it.

What to do. What to do. I do not know my snakes very well. I had never seen one like this. As I was hunkered over, pushing the cats away; it moved its head a fraction. Oh no. Not dead.

About ¾ of the way down its body the cats had crushed and chewed on it. I wondered randomly if it could grow its tail back. It was not flicking its tongue out. It looked at me. I looked at it. I was alone in the house with 4 cats and a mostly dead snake.

I decided this one needed to go outside. I could not throw it in the garbage. I unlocked the side door, got the dustpan, brushed in the little snake. I took it outside and shook it gently onto the rock wall.

I now think the murderer/protector of the innocent is Winkie. She had been a 3-year old stray when she was invited to move inside. The street kid, who I wrongfully blamed, had been a kitten. I am not letting him off the hook completely. But I think the snake was definitely hers.

Hunting and Gathering

I read a WONDERFUL book by Anna Gavalda called Hunting and Gathering. I absolutely loved it. I read half on a plane to Phoenix and finished it while I was there.

Originally written in French, the story takes place in Paris. There are 4 main characters: Camille an artist who cleans offices at night and lives in a garret, Philibert Marquet de La Durbelliere a stammering aristocrat who rescues Camille, Franck an obnoxious womanizing young chef who cooks like a dream and is Philibert’s roommate and Franck’s grandmother. They all end up living in the same apartment.

Funny, engaging, well written, with fabulous dialogue. You will care about the characters right away.

I have not read a book in a long time that I could have easily read in one sitting and was sad to finish

The present

Karen looked out the window. She could see Chester coming across the lawn. He had a present. He often brought presents. She sighed and wiped the suds from her hands. Not again….

The move to the country had been draining for both of them. There had been three moves in four years--first the house, then the apartment, and now this place in the country with 5 acres. The apartment had been nice and big. They had lived there alone, developing quite a rapport. When the apartment building was sold and they were evicted, it was devastating. But that was behind them now. There were finally settling in to country life.

The property bordered a small marshy area, where they could hear peepers in the spring. The first time she noticed the sound, she had no idea what it was. She had even called her mom and held the phone out the window, both of them wondering at the cascade of sound.

The same thing happened with the birds. They were very different from the city birds. She loved watching them. She loved listening to them in the early mornings. When she couldn’t sleep in the depth of the night, she would lay awake eavesdropping on the conversations of the Great Horned Owls. She would try to pick out the different bird songs. She went out and bought 3 different kinds of birdfeeders. She loved the birds. Chester loved the birds too.

Chester loved all of the outdoors. He loved the woodland creatures. He loved roaming the property. He loved napping in the shade of the trees. The outdoors was so much more interesting than the indoors. He was happy. When he came back from his jaunts, he often brought something back.

Karen opened the door and stepped outside to see what it was this time. She saw something brown. Crap. It was a bird. Huh. It was a full grown robin! How had he caught it?

“Come here, honey. Let me see.” Chester came up to her. There was a gleam in his eyes. He burbled with happiness. As she bent down to see, she noticed that the robin’s eyes were open. The robin blinked at her. It did not struggle, but lay quietly. She carefully, pried opened Chester’s mouth and the robin flew off, unhurt. The robin sat in the tree across the lawn and started preening. Chester glared at Karen lashing his tail. Karen raised her finger and tenderly bopped him on the nose. “Don’t bring anymore presents!”
He was a pain, but she loved him dearly. Bending, she stroked him from head to tail before picking him up and carried him back inside. There were dishes to finish. The view of the robin still busily cleaning his feathers was the best present. She stood for a moment with Chester in her arms and smiled at the robin. Then she closed the door.

Oscar

I pulled up to the house and re-read the directions. Huh! Looks right. I glanced around. I didn’t see any cars. I prayed they were home; I did not want to make this trip again.

I got out of the car and walked toward the house. The walk angled around to the back. As I approached the backdoor a large Dalmatian lunged out of its house and strained at the end of a chain barking ferociously. I stepped onto the grass to be further away from the jaws. Definitely not friendly. When I rang the bell more barking ensued from inside.

The door was flung open and a large black sheep took up most of the doorway. It took one look at me and started to bark in tandem with the Dalmatian outside. I looked on bewildered. A woman’s hand pushed the sheep out of the way as she peered around the door.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

“Hi. I called. I’m here to see the cat.”

“Oh yeah, come in. My husband’s not home right now.” I stepped into the kitchen.

She was holding the big black dog by the collar. “Why don’t you go into the front room?”

I looked around uncertain.

“Just step over the baby gate. I’ll get Scooter.”

The formal living room had been freshly cleaned. The lemony scent of Pledge still lingered in the air. I sat gingerly on the edge of a chair looking around. The woman tromped down the stairs with a large yellow tabby cat tucked under one arm. She handed him to me. She opened her mouth to say something but at that moment the phone rang. She hurried off to answer it and left me alone with Scooter.

I sat and stroked the big cat. I could feel him trembling every time the dog barked. He was such a love. He didn’t hiss, or squirm or claw. He was clearly miserable living in chaos.

The woman popped her head back around the door.

“That is Scooter. My husband’s parents moved to Florida and didn’t want to take him. They took the dog though. So Jimmy took him. But it is not working out here. There are the dogs, we also have 3 other cats and my daughter is 4. I think there is too much activity here. He is living under our bed and never comes out.”

By this time the cat was purring and butting his head against my hand. I looked down at him. I absolutely could not leave him here. I stood up.

“I’ll take him with me.” I gave him back to her to hold. “I have a carrier in the car.” I hurried out past the still-barking dog. I grabbed the carrier from the car, hurried back inside, stuffed in the bewildered cat and got out of there as fast as I could.

He just sat huddled in the carrier all the way home. When I reached home an hour later, I brought in the carrier and gently put it down in the basement next to the litter boxes. When I opened it, he crept out, sniffed the litter box, and then bolted up the stairs.

He spent the next 3 weeks hiding in the 4-inch space under the couch or squeezed between the couch and wall. I changed his name to Oscar because he was such a wienie. But everyday it got better. I adopted 2 other abandoned cats. Bourka you have already met and I will blog about Winkie in the future. They were as timid and traumatized as Oscar.

That was 4 years ago this month. Look at him now. He sleeps on the furniture not under it. If you are here long enough, he will be sitting on you. He is a different cat now-confident, loving and a perfect companion not only for me but also for the other 3. You remember there are 4 right? Stay tuned….

We all know--what can happen with zucchini

Uh-uh. It won’t happen to me.

I only planted 2 of each kind. (regular green zucchini, yellow straight neck, two new kinds of green 8 ball zucchini and Zephyr, a yellow squash with a green tip)
Yes, it has been pointed out, that this is eight plants. But, two of them were unknown to me, and--you never now.

The rule is: one of each kind for the Vine Borer and one for me. All in all, I thought that I was on top of it.

I have a very large group of garden devotees gathered over the last 10 years. I pick my veggies on the weekends and on Wednesday nights. So on Mondays and Thursdays, I walk into work with bags of goodies. Generally, whomever I see first gets first dibs; sometimes I have even had a line. I pick my squash young and small so there has not been a problem with dispersal. I always run out every time.

Yay!! The plan is working!!

Today, however, I found out that there has been some devotee theft. There has been some whining because I have occasionally run out of goodies and the news has spread far and wide.

As usual, I brought in my extras and to my surprise, no one wanted any.

Some people said that they still had squash at home (“All Squashed out”), others said that they had gotten some from a friend or a family member. One lady whose brother-in-law is now dumping zucchini ball bats on her; wouldn’t even look me in the eye when she said “no thank you…but, I will take any extra tomatoes or green beans.” “Did you say you were going to have new potatoes?” Her brother-in-law (he of the gigantic zucchini) did not think that he would have any of those to share.

Well, they can’t do this to me!!

They must take the squash! I am depending on them!

Well, maybe, I won’t bring in the extra beans or tomatoes!!

I ‘spose---I could make zucchini relish or pickles.
But, if they force me to do that, I won’t have any more to share….

Stay tuned to the unfolding drama from the flatland.

Murmuring guest from the flatland

Bedtime

“Shhhh! Listen…. Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?”

“Listen.”

“I hear crickets.”

“No…more than that.”

“I hear a horse”

“Yes, that. But it’s not a horse.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s night time.”

“So? Why can’t it be a horse?”

“Where are there any horses near here?”

“There are horses by Brian's house.”

“That is 6 miles from here.”

“Is that too far?”

“Yes.”

“So. What it is?”

“A bird.”

“A bird?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the Whip bird?”

“Good guess, but not this time.”

“That is the only nighttime bird I know.”

“You know more than that.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. What is a night time bird that whinnys?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is the most common night time bird?”

“I don’t know.”

“What is Harry Potter’s bird?”

An Owl?”

“Yes.”

“That is an owl?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t owls supposed to hoot?”

“Not all owls hoot. Some whinny.”

“Mommmmmy.”

“Really. It’s a Screech Owl.”

“Shouldn’t it Screech?”

“I don’t know why they call it that.”

“How do you know so much?”

“I have heard them before. When I lived on the farm.”

“Oh, before me.”

“Yes, honey. Before you.”

"Mommy, can I have an owl?

"No, we are muggles, we don't keep owls."

“Screech Owl, Screech Owl, Screeech Owwwwl Screcchh.…..”

Sheila kissed Teddy’s head. She picked up the latest Harry Potter from the nightstand and tiptoed out the door. She paused in the hallway to listen to the tremolo of the owl and made a mental note to buy him a bird book for his birthday. He would soon be 10. Maybe it was time for a big boy present.

Orange Aid

JoJo opened his eyes a slit at the tapping on the window. He saw only a shadow on the pane and closed his eyes again. He was feeling much worse this time. It was so unfair. He was young and strong, so why me? He wondered. The tapping came again. He turned his head away ignoring it. At the doctor last week, she said to think about sharks.” Well, like that was going to help!

It was the C word. Cancer. It was bad. He hadn’t known. Not one to go to doctors, he hadn’t really thought about it. His sister was a nurse and when he finally told her he had a little something going on, she threw a fit. The process had started. The chemo had started.

He was feeling much weaker. In fact, he was exhausted. The last round of chemo almost killed him. His mouth had sores, food tasted and smelled strange. His hair was all but gone, even his beard was thin. The doctor wanted him to try and visualize the chemo attacking and eating the cancer cells. But he wasn’t much of a fish person. He didn’t even like sharks. Jaws still freaked him out. The whole idea of eating put him off.

Again the tap on the window, more incessant this time. JoJo opened his eyes and saw his brother Dave’s finger on the outside of the bottom pane. Tap. Tap. Point. Tap. Tap. Tap. Point. JoJo followed the pointing finger with his eyes. There in the big spruce next to the patio was a Red Tailed Hawk. Dave knew he loved birds. JoJo could see the hawk from where he lay. Big. Fierce. Powerful. Free. It thrilled and depressed him. Would he ever be able to get outside again? As he lay there contemplating his future, he saw a flash of color. He turned his head slowly and painfully to the left. There it was again! He squinted. What was that? He carefully lifted the binoculars off the covers.

A large black crow flew past with five bright orange orioles chasing and dive bombing it.
They didn’t like the crow. They didn’t want it anywhere near their territory. In all of the years of birdwatching, he had never seen orioles chasing a crow. He had seen lots of other small birds chase crows…but orioles?

He watched for a long time as the orioles chased and harassed the crow. It flew this way and that, banking and twisting. The bright orange flashes against the black were seared on his eyelids as when he closed his eyes. The cancer loomed black and ominous; the chemo bright orange. He visualized all those bright orioles harassing the black thing that was cancer. This might work. His mom poked her head around the door with a tray. He smiled. Maybe he could eat a little jello. Orange jello.

The Gray Ghost

Sarah started at the sound. She held her breath, straining to hear more. She was uneasy, almost scared. She was alone in the house; everyone had gone. But, she could feel someone. There seemed to be voices that were just beyond her hearing. But that was impossible. She had checked every wardrobe, under the beds, even the cellar. Nothing. And besides, she rationalized; no one came out this far into the country. But she was still edgy.

She moved the curtain, peering out at the empty fields for the third time. It was cold, barren and dreary. The fog that had rolled in over night was now so thick she could barely see beyond the yard and into the field. Her eye caught a movement in the fog. There was a stirring--in the fog--of the fog. It was hard to determine which. The waves of mist billowed gently across the field. She looked up but did not see any movement in the trees. If there was no wind, then how was the fog moving?

When she looked back down, a gray shape sliced its way through the fog right at the edge of the field. She stared. She had never seen a marsh hawk so close. She watched it fly away, the white rump glowing before being swallowed up. The fog swirled around in the bird’s wake, and then closed in again.

Sarah slumped against the wall. “I should be doing something,” she thought. “Why did I come in here?” She had been oddly distracted since the summer. If she could only figure out what was wrong, maybe she could get on with her work—-not feel so anxious. Not feel so worn out. She looked out the window for a few moments. What is wrong with me? She got up and glided out the door.

Nina stared out at the swirling fog. Her aunt had disappeared, again. She shivered, there was something creepy about this house, she could feel it. She loved coming to the country and relished the few days she could spend with her aunt. But this time was different some how.

She was tidying the kitchen after lunch when she noticed an old gold ring on the window ledge above the sink. Looking around guiltily, she picked it up and turned it over. It was not her aunt's. It was too small. She slipped it on her pinkie. Who did this belong to, she wondered? She was peering at the inside of the ring, trying to see if there was an inscription, when her aunt came up behind her. She blushed and hurriedly put it back on the ledge.

“Ah,” said her aunt, “I see you have found Sarah’s ring. I've been hoping she will think to look here one day.

Noticing the girl’s blank look, she said, “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?

Well, there is one here, you know.

Her name is Sarah.

And is she searching for her wedding ring.”