A Humbling Lesson From a Stupid Idea

If memory serves me correctly it was one of those sweet, sunny, blue-sky days that serves to accentuate the trees and shrubs sporting their last explosive hurrah. Steve was home from work so it must have been a weekend. While he attended to the kiddos I took some uninterrupted outside time. 

Situated on 10 forested acres, our surroundings felt like a perpetual camping trip with all the amenities. If I listened closely I could hear an occasional car on the highway down the hill and sometimes at night animal sounds might echo off the trees and wake us but mostly it was deafeningly quiet and I felt like there was no world out there, beyond our brier-clad borders. Just me, my family back at the house and nature. 

Photo courtesy of Linnie W. Please click to visit her site.

A pile of bricks lay discarded under a tangle of brambly grasses on the far side of the gravel driveway. The day of their discovery was a mood-booster as I contemplated their future utility as flooring for pathways and edging for raised beds. 

But presently, I only needed one member of that obscure pile. One damp, muddy brick would suffice. Fueled with equal parts defiance and stupidity, I was sure that it would do the trick. With it grasped within my palm, I traipsed through the leaning, knee-high grasses over to a clearing where upon closer inspection, one could witness the indisputable opening to a thriving yellow jacket tunnel. But those little monsters had met their match!  

I began my verbal eviction notice. "You might hold some kind of obscure purpose on this planet," I told them in no uncertain terms, "but you were mistaken if you think that you can make my garden your permanent residence!"

And so, as self-appointed Ruler of my dominion, coupled with all the bravado I could falsify, I stepped closer to the opening, gingerly stretched out my arm and held the brick over the opening about 4 feet up. Eyes focused on my target, I began to squat and loosen my grip on the brick. 

Fire! My middle finger...burning, directly underneath the very spot where a fearless Nest Protector just perched its brazen self. I shook my hand to get it off which caused the release of the brick. Where it landed, I wasn't sure because I was running like hell.  

As I got closer to the house, I stopped, turned around and once I was satisfied that the dang bees weren't chasing me, (like that black cloud would always do on those cartoons we watched as kids, remember?) I heaved a sigh of relief. 

My finger healed. And eventually it got cold and the yellow jackets either died or moved on or did whatever yellow jackets do, and that was the end of it. Lesson learned.

A True Horse Tale

Outside the living room window, an ashen sky momentarily holds the rain in check. I scamper to the kitchen and out the back door where a chill envelops me. Undeterred, I make my way down the steps, towards a sodden lawn in need of a mowing, all the while mentally jostling anticipation with a surfacing disappointment. With sisters at school and a little brother asleep, I'm alone. Things are never very exciting when I'm forced to fend for myself and up until this moment the concept of solitary play has eluded me.  

Standing here, I exhale a sigh of resolve and scan the periphery. Movement. Behind the fence.  As curiosity propels me, I ignore the icy seepage caused by inadequate sneakers and trudge ahead for a closer look. Nearing the fence, I'm reminded of the carpet of mud that abuts our yard. Sadly, it has completely replaced all traces green that typically surround the homes of the neighborhood.  

Wolfgang Staudt photo

From a smallish opening in an ailing fence, I'm fixated on the continuing movement coming from the arching blackberry brambles. A telltale snort follows, removing all doubt as to its source--the neighbor's horse. He seems equally curious about my movements and lumbers through the mud to get a closer look at me. Just on the other side of the fence, stands a once-white, towering creature wearing his pathetic surroundings, a brown camouflage of animal neglect. 

Thoughts of a sister and her ease with all things equine come to mind. And because I live to emulate her in every way conceivable, my impetuous plot is quickly formed and executed. Grasped within my five year old's palm is a wrinkly mess of iris blossoms that I've just snatched from the weedy bed next to the fence. I hold it up for a yellowed arc of teeth and the creature hungrily grabs and chews. Feeling rather smug, I reach for another blossom, unaware that the horse has stepped back, raised his head and is now caterwauling what I assume is his displeasure with iris, with me.   

A wave of terror sends me running back towards safety, up the steps and into the confines of the house.  

I won't tell anyone what happened because if the horse dies, it will be my fault. So for years, not a soul knows about the day I fed the horse. 

The Gift

November, 1972:  Like most things from the year I turned 12, the details surrounding my birthday are a haze at best. The only salience is the gift from a rather surly grandmother. I never knew what to make of her actions or the motives behind them. I was too self-absorbed and naive to pick the lock that hid her persona. I accepted the gift with compulsory manners and fiddled with the brass-colored closure glued to its cover. There was the slightest tug as my fingers turned the key in the hole. This meant the lock had been released and I could pull out the little hooked knobs and open the flap and witness 365 lined pages, rife with possibility. Funny, the things you remember. 

Two years later, with all vestiges of childhood behind me, my now-tattered diary with its brief, almost daily scribblings was relegated to the bottom drawer as I committed to a decidedly more serious and verbose pursuit. In my mind it was animate, my 8x10 “friend.” Evenings spent alone were the impetus for my ritualistic visitations as thoughts flowed from my head, down my arm and out my pen, onto what were designed to be pragmatic, scholarly notebook pages. The thoughts were rarely good.

An angry teenager, I hated the world that had wronged me and yearned for a Hollywood-esque panacea to whisk me off to that fabled Happyland that had so cruelly eluded navigation. But after a few chilling lessons taught me about the fragility of life, risk-taking was no longer an option. Self-destruction gave way to drone-like movement along the conveyor belt of life. I suppose it was my own version of self-preservation.

Every now and then, I think about the first diary that dwells beneath disorganized bits of drawer detritus. Like a sea creature in need of oxygen, it rises to the surface and gets a quick thumbing-through before diving under again. I just need reassurance that it’s still there, that tangible object that links me to what once was.


Copyright by Grace Peterson

Sightings

In this part of town you've got to be on the lookout, especially at 5:00. As I maneuver the car out of the parking lot and through the first in a series of green lights, my eyes vacillate from cars to people all moving swiftly to their respective destinations. As a recent transplant from the east coast commented, pedestrians in these parts rarely wait for you to stop. They assume you will or demand that you must, perhaps to their own demise. 

Once I drive over the railroad tracks I'm officially on the Oregon State University campus where well-lit signage beams official mandates like a grumpy professor. Swarms of youngish pedestrians sail through the crosswalk on skateboards ahead of the more bookish sorts, laden with a full backpack, assuaging the recipient of an imperative text message. 

I see her just ahead. She waits at the prearranged corner and as I pull the car up, she opens the door, grateful to be sheltered from the remaining pelts dripping off the gargantuan tree she stood under. She shows me a handful of chestnuts she rescued from the sidewalk but I barely have time to glance at them as I veer the car back in to traffic. 

Leaving the campus, the exercise segues from dodging pedestrians to joining a train of fast-moving vehicles. The last remaining vestige of university life floats on the Willamette River, to our right. A chill runs through me as I ponder what it must feel like to be so close to the water and the mother in me wonders about life jackets as I try one last time to steal a glance through the trees at the brave participants. 

As I hear about her day, my mind drifts from what I've left behind to what lies ahead, back and forth like a mental seesaw. It's easier now and as we near the next turnoff, I can't help feel gratitude. I love this part of Oregon. Rolling hills and expanses of farmland have replaced the swell of humanity we've left behind. 

Photo courtesy of
Deer Fly Designs

She'll spot them before me since she's unencumbered with driving duties. They live out here somewhere. Perhaps near the swampy area on the other side of the highway. But they often come here, perching themselves like living sticks in this particular field. Sometimes they're right up close to the road and what a thrill it is. Other times, far to the east, they're barely a speck. Two herons whose progeny are a mystery. There is something magical about them. Maybe it's their size, their thin, vertical stature. 

Perhaps it's the contrast, coming from city hustle bustle to a place where stillness reigns. In a few minutes we're transported. Our psyches healed. We've touched nature, the real world and reality has replenished itself. A world so close to all of us and yet, in its quietness, so easily dismissed or ignored.

This is a Test

Yes! Last night, I spent most of The Good Wife (Espisode 3) working on the design of this new blog. Mentally, it's been in the works for quite a while but I needed a block of time to coincide with a bit of determination and a splash of creative juice. It all seemed to coalesce successfully last night and this is the result. I'll be writing about once a week to flex my creative writing muscles. Various sub-plots will be explored and expanded with ample reflection. They will be brief works. Nobody has hours to devote, including me. If you have suggestions, comments or rants, please don't hesitate to express them. Thank you for visiting.