Things That Go Bump

It was several years after moving here before I figured out the sound. It didn't happen often. At first, I was sure that our old rough cat, Jack, was out skinning a rabbit. In the middle of the night, I would go out in my nightgown intent on saving whatever he was killing. I could never find him. Later, I mistakenly thought perhaps it was a small screech owl. Finally, I came to know that the awful sound was a fox, likely the mating call of a vixen. It is an eerie sound. 

I'm not afraid of the foxes. More than one season, we've had them make their den back by the creek. They are very territorial and bold. Sometimes, I came across one in our front yard staring at the front porch and all off our cats cornered there. I believe they finally left because Daisy killed a kit.

I'm even a bit cavalier about coyotes because I've only ever seen one on our property in the twenty-two years here. It was a loner, likely sick, chased off by the miniature horses and then, by me, as it headed to the hen house. But, I hear them at night, high pitched, at a safe distance. Two nights ago on the way to the barn, it was very dark. I heard them closer than ever I have. I have to admit it was a little hair raising and I might have picked up my step a bit. 

Most of the time here, I would walk anywhere in the dark without fear. I enjoyed the stars and the quiet. Even in my imagined safety, however, there were things out there. Had I been raised in the woods, likely I would have known these sounds. I had to figure them out. I could tell the new owners, but perhaps, I'll leave the joy of discovery to them.

Before

Living here made me feel "rich". Up on the hill, my gray Arab mare grazed peacefully. We are able to support two mini horses that do nothing but eat money. In the summer, our cats lazed on the driveway, doing their best imitation of an inch worm as they enjoyed the blacktop heat. Around us is a grove of pine trees and oaks that make me proud.

Murphy and I like to stand up on the hill watching the deer in the back of the property. It seems five live here now, three large mamas and two yearlings. I worry that the new owners will appreciate and not hunt them. While we always considered them "our" deer, we share them with the neighbors. Indeed, yesterday, we saw "our" deer join in their pasture with four more deer - the most I've seen in one spot at one time. During the snow, they came often closer than they normally would, looking for food.

I even worry over the birds here. My feeders outside the office are always full, the birds used to that location. The feeders, however, were given to me by my father and I plan to take them. The birds will have to fend for themselves. 

I am looking forward to our new adventure, all the while cognizant of that we leave behind. I will find nature where we go. Perhaps even, I will have more time to admire nature once we are settled. I won't "own" it, but then, whenever did I really?

Scraps of Our Lives

As I pack for moving (which will be another blog post entirely), I have hard decisions to make. When you've lived in a place for over 22 years, you accumulate a good number of things that "I might need some day" or "might some day be worth something" or in the case of my sugar Easter egg, something I just can't bring myself to discard.

I've cleaned out several houses after the owner passed on and you come across items, such as a dead locust in a box in my uncle's drawer, that begged the question, "what did this mean to him?" There was no note or description. The weight of my belongings is heavy on my shoulders and I don't want to pass this weight along someday to another generation.

The egg in question was given to me by my grandmother, Eleanor. Constructed of sugar, egg albumen, artificial flavorings and colors by Hooper's Confectioners, my guess then and now was that it was prettier to look at than to eat. I liked looking inside the hole at the end at the make-believe world of a little bunny.

Sadly, the jelly beans and the edges have started to brown, possibly mold. Time to retire it to the landfill. Apparently, they sell on eBay (without browning) for $8-$10. This packing could take a long time.

Some Quick Tips

It's too bad we only get one life or that it is such a relatively short one. I'm just now figuring some things out and getting my act together. Such as today, my husband asked where the title was for an old car and I could tell him it was in the lock box at the bank. At least, I am about 95% sure - okay maybe 75% sure - that's where it is. I'm slightly more organized about important papers than I used to be.

I've learned how to clean things a little better.  For example, there are several ways to get the white mineral residue from glass shower doors. Once clean, you can keep them that way by using a water and vinegar spray and drying off each time the shower is used. Yeah, like that is going to happen but I'm sure you had the best intentions of doing so. Here's a tip though - when you first pledge that you will keep them clean and you get that glass all sparkly, tell your husband. If you don't, the next morning you'll hear him crashing into that nice clean door as if it weren't really there.

Speaking of the shower, you can clean the shower nozzle easily by filling a baggie with vinegar and using a rubber band to hold it in place while the vinegar does its magic. If you should get very busy with making dinner, washing clothes, answering the phone, paying bills, and in general, forgetting all about it, your husband will remind you what you did when he starts the shower up the next morning. You will know before he says so though as he will be trying to rub the vinegar from his streaming eyes.

Yes, I'm just now hitting my stride.

The Smallest Cuts

The tiniest piece of glass was imbedded in my big toe. It was worse than a large cut easily bandaged and fixed. It was so small I could not see it or dig it out, yet it hurt me with each step. It took days for the body to figure out how to fight it and fester it out. Words can be like that tiny piece of glass. Tossed out sentiments, like little pieces of glass, can get under our societal skin, be difficult to remove, while hurting us all.

So it was when we bought a van, bigger, room for a service dog and multiple boys. I met our seller at the county courthouse and all was going well until I was asked if I wanted a license plate with the state logo of “Unbridled Spirit” or instead “In God We Trust”. I paused, perhaps a little too long. I do trust in God, but would it be a false clarion that I was a conservative? And I do like horses and the state motto. On the other hand, I could use the extra prayer conveyed in having “God” on my license plate. (This is the sign of someone that thinks a little too much.)

The clerk and the seller waited. “This shouldn’t be that big of a decision,” said the clerk. Finally, I chose “In God We Trust”, the national motto. That’s when the clerk told me how she spreads little, cutting pieces of glass.

She laughed. “When I see someone that comes in that’s an Arab, I don’t give them a choice. I just give them the “In God We Trust” license plate.”

The seller laughed, too. My mind reeled for what to say. “They worship the same God” was what came to mind later, but I had, as the French say, l’esprit d’escalier, that is, I didn’t think fast enough and the moment was over. While I did not laugh back, I was ashamed I didn’t speak up for these little pieces of word glass, these ideas that are thrown out like little quips, this way of thinking is what eats away at our humanity and ability to truly see and understand the person before us.

Just the day before, I had been hugged by a young mother, a truly heartfelt and loving hug down to my soul. She was thankful. I had brought her our discarded old couch as they had nothing. I’d asked her what they needed. “We are very in need” she responded, and told me that she slept on the floor with her four children. Her back hurt. I also brought a quality air mattress and a few other items.

When I arrived, she took me into her home and showed me where they slept – on the floor. They’d been here two years and after one year, there was no help for refugees. I didn’t ask why they came, why they didn’t get off the ground with the help they did get at first. I didn’t ask why they continued to have more children or why the husband, who was there, wasn’t working. (These are all the little pieces of glass we throw around, that are imbedded in us, hard to excise.) All I needed to know was that she was a young mother whose back hurt because she had no place to sleep. It was right before Christmas and as she held her little brown baby, I thought of another mother who sought a place to lay her head with her beautiful little curly headed brown baby.

She has no car, so likely will never encounter the choice of license plate nor a clerk that shows her no courtesy. I won’t pretend that American society hasn’t always had prejudices against groups of people and still does. I grew up hearing that we are a melting pot, yet also knowing that differences were often met with disparagement rather than enlightenment. That pot holds many pieces of little glass. We Americans historically recognize and claim to fight injustice and large bleeding cuts, though, with the current political situation and the temperature outside, there is new meaning in the words, “A cold day in hell.”  Until we recognize how cutting and hurtful a small phrase or word can be, to both society and our own psyche, we will not become the great society we purport to be.