What do you REALLY See in the Dark?

We’ve all been informed of the virtues of being an early bird.  But who wants worms, anyway?  Although there are plenty of other reasons to drag your warm and sleepy self from under the cozy blankets and out into the shocking fresh air, here is one you may not have considered:  Maybe you’ll see something really cool!

I like to get out for excursions in the pre-dawn darkness to see what else is out there.  Of course there are always a couple of other humans on the trails, but heck - I can see them all day long.  I really enjoy hearing the howling of the coyote party deep in the woods or the silence of the hungry owl swooping down upon its furry breakfast.

With winter darkness come the best discoveries of all.   Recently my running partner, Carol, and I have come upon an elusive creature: The giant, lumbering tentacled beast that I call Buelah.  From far off I can see her lumbering up the trail in the pitch blackness with her two huge glowing eyes rhythmically bouncing with the stride of her enormous padded feet.  Swinging around her are trunk-like tentacles that glow almost as brightly has her eyes and seem to sniff at the trail and bushes for delicious treats.  There are two of these curious appendages on the front of her massive furry body, and two more on her back that I have yet to see.

A re-creation of what we see coming
at us from afar.

Buelah clearly lives near this trail because we see her at about the same spot each day just before daybreak.  She is returning to her lair from a long night of feasting and carousing with her friends.  She will soon be snoring in comfort with her family, somewhere deep in the brush, while we humans bustle about with our daytime civilized activities.

Why haven’t you seen or heard of her before?  Because Buelah is a shape-shifter. In order to really see her you must stay back and open your mind to her grand beauty.  If you're not on your toes, you can easily miss Beulah.  My running partner didn't even notice her until our second or third encounter on the trail, but now she appreciates what she sees.

Each morning I stop Carol and exclaim, “There she is!” and we pause to admire her from a distance for a moment.  Once we get too close (and this happens to us every time we approach her) she cleverly disguises herself as two early-morning walkers with headlamps strapped to their foreheads while each carries a flashlight in one swinging hand.  It’s the perfect camouflage for such a large creature like Beulah, who can’t simply hide behind a bush or douse the light coming from her glorious, bright eyes.  This gentle beast knows that to live in peace with humans it is vital to conceal her true form.

When we pass a reach a safe distance away, Buelah becomes a single furry mass once again and continues the trek to her cozy den.  And we feel lucky not only to have seen her, but that we are fortunate enough appreciate her beauty.  Next time you are out in the dark, open your mind to see what is really out there.  Your imagination might surprise you.

Sketch of what I see with my mind's eye as we approach Buelah, just before she disguises her true form in the darkness.

Fog

As a child I was aware of foggy days before I even opened my eyes.  I would waken to the slow rhythm of the foghorn at the lighthouse down the beach.  Gazing sleepily out of my curtain-less window I could see nothing, the white cottony haze obscuring the boats, birds, islands and even the water itself from my view.

These days I live out of hearing range of the monotone marine honking and must rely on the the radio weather report or my plain old eyes to identify a foggy day.  

On this damp morning I embarked on my early run into the dark and was surrounded by soft puffs of light coming from streetlamps and the occasional car headlights.  The fog seemed to muffle the sharp sounds of life, bringing silence, until I reached the forest.  As I drew closer it sounded as if I was approaching a rain forest during a heavy shower.  In fact this was a shower, from the trees above – the cottonwood leaves drooping and dripping with heavy condensation deposited there by the slow moving clouds of fog, soaking the undergrowth and decaying leaves on the forest floor.



tangle-webs in the heather

My favorite element of the autumn fog is how it illuminates the countless spider webs – and not just the elegant orbs of the garden spider, but the tangle-weave webs hidden in the crannies of the neighborhood shrubbery.  These poor stealthy spiders that rely on their invisibility for survival are suddenly exposed for the world to see.  Good news for them is that we humans are less likely to accidentally walk into their fancy architecture and run off screaming and swatting at their sticky webbing plastered to our faces.  We are more likely to stop and admire their intricate artistry.

Although fog is known for decreasing visibility and blocking our view, I’ve learned to appreciate the damp, ground hugging cloud for the little things it brings to our eyes and ears.

A Note to My First Born

When you were born, the joy that accompanied your arrival filled a hole in your father’s and my hearts that we weren't aware even existed.  We felt as if we were bubbling over with so much love and excitement that we didn’t quite understand the intensity of these feelings or where they had come from.

Over time I came to realize that not only did you fill that hole, but you owned that piece of my heart.  When you felt joy, I magically felt it too.  When you were sad or uncontrollably cranky, screaming until your face turned a rainbow of colors, I felt cranky and wanted to scream right along with you.  Unfortunately for me it was, and still is, not socially acceptable for a grown woman to flail her arms and throw her head back, screaming at full volume when the moment strikes.

Throughout your early years you challenged me in every emotional way.  When you stamped your feet and attempted to exert your independence, I stood my ground (most of the time), desperately trying to NOT stamp my own feet in reaction, and tried to show that I knew better than you, even with your cute, chubby little cheeks and expanding vocabulary.

Throughout school there was many-a-battle, ranging from homework and grades to sleepovers and activities.  You always KNEW you knew best…until the occasion when the report card said otherwise.  We butted heads a plenty, usually arriving at a middle ground somewhere between total restriction from all activities and complete freedom.  Emotions became so entangled that sometimes it was difficult to tell who was angry and who was hurt…more likely it was both at the same time.  One heart feeling everything at once.

Yesterday we took you to your college dorm with a van packed to full capacity with your belongings and various personal trappings.  In anticipation my heart hurt for you, hoping that all your dreams would come true.  Yet everything seemed so perfect.  So happy you were, to set up a place that was all yours with friends who belong to you.  All of your tomorrows so full of potential and oozing with the future and countless things to come.  

We, however, were forced to leave and drive westward onto the highway in a van with one gaping extra empty seat, leaving that place of learning you now call home.  Against my better judgment I felt that hole in my heart opening up just a little, kind of like that empty van seat, the newly empty space stinging with a twang of loss, pain and longing.

But today, as we message and share with one-another, I feel that heart-hole filling up with the stories and pictures you are sending my way of your adventures.  Your friends who make you laugh and help you figure out how to hang your decorations in your new home give me hope.  Your new pals who need your help to solve the biggest problem of the day:  How to prop your door open with a spatula so that more friends will walk across the threshold of your lives to expand your world.  Your total excitement about learning new things, meeting new people and having new experiences fills my heart with contentment.

You go, girl!  My heart grows with yours.

Our Turtle Ran Away

 

A couple of days ago I sat here in this chair with a plastic cup in my hand that I picked up from the local Feed & Seed weeks before.  In the bottom were three wiggly meal worms climbing over one another that were supposed to be breakfast for my turtle.  I was amazed that they were still alive without food or water for such a long, lonely time.  Deciding to show mercy to the poor insects, I stepped out onto our deck to set them free in the plastic kiddie pool garden filled with turtle-edible plants.  Immediately they burrowed down into the damp dirt to safety with their tiny, jointed legs.

One month previous, during the warm August days, those strawberry, spinach and kale plants had grown so tall and lush that Alfie the Box Turtle used one as a stepladder to escape his garden.  This wasn’t his first successful attempt as an escape artist.  In past summers he would find the perfect sturdy stem, heave his shell up over the edge and CLUNK - land upside down on the wood planks of our sunny deck.  Stretching his long neck to use as a lever, he would right himself and proceed to march all around the deck.  Afraid of heights he would stretch that telescopic neck to peer over the side, then always back safely away from the edge to move in a new direction, much like those Roomba vacuum cleaners that bounce and reverse and eventually cover every inch of the surface.  After many tries he would end up crossing the threshold of the patio door to wander inside the house.  We were always alarmed to find the pool empty, but the crisis would end when he was spotted scooting across the carpet or resting under the sofa.

This dreadful time, after a few days of looking, we faced the reality that Alfie was likely on the lam.  Assuming that the mild-mannered reptile wouldn’t go far, we alerted the neighborhood and waited for a chubby-cheeked, grinning child to ring the doorbell holding our handsome fella in one hand. 

Days became weeks, and then stretched to a month.  No doorbell, no sightings, no shouts of “How did you get here?!” from downstairs when I hoped my daughter would come upon him under a shoe or behind a cabinet.  As the nights grew chilly, we would all shiver at the thought of our frigid, wet Alfie.  Our cold-blooded friend who cannot regulate his own heat and depends on the warmth of the sun, his heat lamp or heating pad to keep him warm, was outside with no heat source at all. 

Or was he?  Could he be snuggled on the lap of the Cat Ladies down the road, being fed sautéed insects and Crème de la Mango from silver dishes?  Maybe he took up residence in the garage of our Engineer/Mechanic Hobbyist friend at the bottom of the hill and has been going on joyrides in the red muscle car, snuggling up to the heat vent on the floor below the passenger seat?  On the worst days I worried that there was a family of raccoons enjoying a meal of Turtle on the Half Shell…  There could be some truth to all of that, but we’ll never know.

Yesterday while sifting through Facebook I clicked on the Critter of the Week video from our local Humane Society.  After five seconds my mouth emitted a shriek of surprise, happiness, disbelief and excitement all in one breath.  There our fella was with a brand-new facial profile (they dremeled his beak to a fine, handsome point) but with the same old chips and scars we know him by! 

Somebody, we don’t know who, dropped him by the shelter after-hours.  They found him somewhere, we’re not sure where, by the side of the road.  The only thing we do know is that he had been there, at the shelter, for one week.  That means that for 3 weeks he was unaccounted for!

Now, with our turtle safe back at home, we look at him and wonder what he went through.  We check him over for scars that might tell a story.  I haven’t found any biker club tattoos on his arms or diamond rings on his claws to shed light on his activities for the 21 days he was on the lam.  All we know is that he is vigorously active, voraciously hungry, and bolder and more confident than we ever knew him to be before this adventure.  Someday will we come across a litter of baby turtles that have his same strong profile and deep, red eyes?

I am delighted that on this rainy morning he is inside his heated home gorging on a pile of soft green peas.  When the sun comes out this weekend I will prune his garden and let him out for a wander in the sun.  Those three little mealworms had better be on their toes, because WATCH OUT!  Alfie is back!

GO HAWKS!!

What are we watching?  We are riveted, watching a few dozen well-paid athletes who make a living working out and challenging their bodies to their limits while building up false rivalries, and now put on a flashy display of fighting contrived battles against well-paid athletes from other cities, wearing different colors.

We study each of these green and blue athletes - their history, their skill, their personality… until we feel like we know them, are connected to them in some way and we cheer them on as if they are fighting our very own battles.  We cheer them on with passion, as if the outcome of this game will change tomorrow.  Our momentary happiness depends on the performance of these strangers tonight.

But tomorrow, or next year, our favorite personality whom we felt represented everything that is great about our state, our big city, what we stand for, might choose to play for a different team that offers a better deal, to represent the team in a rival city that has nothing to do with us.  Then that beloved athlete will no longer be wearing green and blue, and they will be wearing a color combination we have learned to despise for a reason we can’t explain with ease or logic, and he likely will no longer be loved by us.

Tomorrow, or next year, OUR team might be made up of different athletes from different regions, but the green and blue will tell us that they represent us and we will cheer them on and our momentary happiness will again be dependent upon the outcome of their contrived battle on the field.

I am sitting here in my own flickering blue glow, happy that the green and blue score is more than double what the other color has accrued.  My happiness is secure for this moment.  And then I will do the dishes, kiss the children goodnight and take the dog outside for her bedtime potty.  And tomorrow will be tomorrow, whatever the outcome of the game.  Go Hawks!

DAD - childhood memories

Turn the clock back 40 or so years and I can see exactly what my family was doing on a grey weekend day like today. 

     With full bellies after breakfast, a half dozen kids and two parents would be lolling about the living room reading the paper and listening to the radio.  Dad would notice a fresh-looking log floating in the cove in front of our house that had probably tumbled down the Puyallup River during the spring rains.  A quick look through the binoculars would confirm that this one, with its bark mostly intact and a little fresh wood exposed, was worth harvesting.

     He and Mom, or sometimes an older sibling, would pull out the dinghy, mount the outboard motor and hum toward the log before it floated out of reasonable reach.  This log harvesting wasn’t exactly legal but was not harmful either.  And besides – it kept our drafty old home toasty warm in the winter with plenty of dry wood to stoke the fire.

     My tall, strong Papa would drag that log up the beach, just high enough to safely start cutting.  Out came his chainsaw and we would all plug our ears while sweet-smelling chips flew in all directions.  He would turn the long, branchless tree into a pile of round, fat cookies.  In a race with the inevitably rising tide he would grab the ax and start chopping away.  We kids would scurry about a safe distance away on the beach searching for treasures and playing with the shore crabs until we were called to duty. 

     We were each required to stack as many splintery pieces as we could carry in our arms and haul our load up the steep grass hill to the side of the garage.   There the wood would be neatly stacked to dry out for the following winter.  Being the youngest I always took the smaller pieces, but it was hard work climbing all the stairs up from the beach regardless.  My folks are of the hard-working type and they expected us to be hard workers too.  Although incessant complaining was not tolerated, we certainly grumbled plenty to each other, out of hearing range of our parents

     One of the rewards of this manual labor was when the day ended much like it started.  We’d be lounging around the living room after a belly-warming dinner, basking in the warmth of a fire built from last year’s log harvest.  Dad, exhausted, would stretch out across the carpet, half napping, while my sisters and I drove our Hot Wheels racing cars all over Daddy Mountain.

     As us kids grew up and everyone was too busy for these communal projects, Dad reluctantly ordered and paid for cords of wood to be delivered to our driveway in a big noisy truck.  We still were called out to stack the wood, but this job was much easier without the steep hill to climb.  That purchased, delivered wood kept our house warm as well.  But I think those fires built with the sea-salty harvested wood, collected by my Dad and his strong work ethic that he passed along to all of us kids, made the coziest fires of all.

     Happy Father’s Day, Dad.  Thanks for all of the great memories and lessons along the way.

Smoker's Yoga

Bed-head hidden beneath a fisherman’s hat
 

Tired eyes masked with shades

He shuffles out the front door and pauses at the foot of the driveway

Taking a moment to feel the sun and breathe in fresh morning air before

Lighting a cigarette

 

Reaching for the sky

He raises his arms high over head in a slow, satisfying stretch

With wisps of smoke curling from his right hand

Posing, pausing long enough for his belly to peek out from under the worn gray t-shirt to greet the day

 

With a grunt, the stretch becomes a bend

As he stoops to snatch the plastic-clad newspaper from the pavement

While other shy body parts catch a glimpse of the morning from behind

 

Slowly rising with a deep inhale and a nicotine sigh

He nods and waves through his personal cloud at the passing dog and walker