Anticipation

She's up there.
Do you see her?
Behind the tree on the left,
or maybe on the rock to the right. 
She's up there
waiting. 
She could smell you for miles. 
She has been listening to you for hours. 
Her anticipation grows,
but she remains patient. 
She twitches the tip of her tail, shifts her haunches, feet flattened to the ground, muscles engaged. 
Her whiskers en pointe, she lifts her nose to the sky and tastes the air with a grimace. 
She has prepared for this for hours
generations
eons. 
And you,
well you will have less than one second to react.
 
Good luck.

Martin

Martin stares at me from the front stoop as I leave for work in the morning.  It is the same stare that will greet me when I arrive home in the evening.  This stare does not depict sorrow or fear at seeing me leave or joy upon my return.  Instead Martin’s stare is empty.  The stare says: “Do what you want; your choices can no longer affect my life.  Come, go, laugh, cry, live, die.  It makes no fucking difference to me.  Whatever.”  This indifferent attitude is probably for the best since Martin’s not so distant future includes a soak in boiling water followed by a bleach bath. 

Cory said that Martin was one of the older ones, weighing only about 160 lbs with a 2x2 rack.  I tell Martin this is nothing to be ashamed of, that the size and proportions of a rack are not all that matter.  Martin stares at me, “whatever.” 

As Cory and I sit down to dinner, I offer a silent prayer of thanks to Martin for his sacrifice, and I know the disembodied head on the front stoop is staring into the twilight lit wooded front yard.  Whatever.






Submitted  to http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/ for the week 109 challenge.

It's a Small World After All

While traveling in northern Italy a few years back I made my way to Genoa, the birth place of Christopher Columbus, so obviously a suiting mecca for any world explorer.  It wasn't until after I stepped off the train that I consulted my Lonely Planet and realized Genoa may just be the crappiest part of my journey.  My guide book informed me that really, the only place to see in Genoa was the downtown area; apparently there is nothing else to see here.  A few paragraphs later the guide book informed me that women traveling alone should avoid the downtown area due to crime, the sex trade and what not.  I'm a woman, I was 24 years old and I was traveling alone. Perfect.  So I made the decision to just head to the hostel and call it a night.   

Using my guide book I determined which bus to board and quickly found a seat.  I wasn't 5 minutes into the ride when the elderly woman across the isle started ranting (I am assuming here since I don't speak any Italian but the look on her face didn't make me think she was giving a glowing report) to no one in particular.  This diatribe (again, I'm assuming) went on for about 2 minutes until another elderly bus rider chided her (still assuming).  She stood up to exit the bus, turned around so that she was facing me and spit on the floor.  Being the naïve American that I am I didn't even consider her hate filled (still assuming) monologue was directed towards me until about 5 years later. I'm slow, let's face it.  So I sat there on the bus taking in the local custom of yelling random things at seemingly no one and thought "this is like every other city I have ever been in." 

 

A few stops later I picked up my back pack and prepared to unload but was quickly met with a deluge of protests from the elderly patrons, all in Italian, so I am sure the look on my face was one of total fear (when congregated, the elderly can be a scary force).  They were either informing me that there was an angry mob heading my way with torches lit, or that I had one more stop to go before the hostel.  I decided to wait and disembark at the next stop. There was no angry mob, so I headed to the hostel. 

 

Upon checking into the hostel, which looked more like an insane asylum, I was assigned my room number and decided to unpack, eat dinner and turn in for the night since I couldn’t safely explore the town.  I walked into the room, heavy with the day’s disappointments, and came face to face with the French Canadians, the most Napoleanesque of all the world travelers.  French Canadians are better than you in every way and they will tell you and show you this until it is ingrained in you and you feel like shit.  Fortunately they ignored me because I’m not worthy of their incomprehensible words.  I picked a bunk, unloaded my crap and headed to the empty cafeteria where I half-filled my tray and sat at an unoccupied table. 

 

“Excuse me” the voice said, I immediately looked up at the ceiling since I don’t remember seeing anyone else in the cafeteria so obviously the voice was coming from above.  As it turns out it wasn’t God apologizing for coughing but in fact two young ladies sitting behind me.  They invited me to join them and after determining by demeanor alone that they were not French Canadian, I accepted.  They were actually from Israel and were taking time to travel before entering the armed forces, which everyone in Israel, including women, must do unless they are conscientious objectors. We chatted about where we had traveled and where we were going and eventually moved up to the library, where we were joined by a young Australian lady.  The conversation did not follow any logical road map, jumping from topic to topic with mostly me and the Australian asking questions of the much younger Israelis. 

 

The events discussed in this entry took place in October 2002, 1 year and 1 month after our country was attacked and over one thousand people (Americans, foreigners, civilians, firemen, policemen, etc…) died because of one groups’ ignorance and fear.  To me and the Australian (who lost over 100 countrymen to a terrorist bomb in Bali the month before) these acts were infrequent in our countries and new to us.  To the Israelis this was life.  They chatted about the bomb shelters in their houses, the day bombs landed near their houses and the neighbors frantically called their names but they had been playing in the woods and didn’t know anything had happened.  They talked about their friends who had been in the city at the wrong time and had died by a car bomb.  They talked about taking gas masks they had outgrown to school and using them for craft projects.  All the while the Australian and I took it in and finally I asked, “How do you live like that, with the fear and not knowing, with death and all that hate?”  “You can’t live in fear; you can’t hole yourself up inside your house and not live, because that’s worse than dying.  It’s a part of our life, we’ve learned to live with it.”  They went on to discuss the ongoing conflict between the Palestinians and the Israelis and told us that they do not understand why Israel will not allow the Palestinians to occupy the West Bank.  They mentioned that their people have been persecuted and ostracized throughout history; so why, knowing how it feels, would they do this to other people.  The Australian and I had no answer to that, it seemed we were all in agreement: there was enough room for us all.

Eventually the conversation turned to lighter-hearted topics, mainly television shows.  And as it turns out all four of us had grown up watching Degrassi Junior High and Beverly Hills 90210.  I do not remember their names, I didn’t take their pictures and this account is solely from memory.  Thousands of miles, culture, experience, war and terror separated me from the Australian from the Israelis; but we had grown up watching the same television shows.  It is a small world after all.  And contrary to my initial thought, Genoa was far from the crappiest part of my journey, in fact it is the best memory I have of my two weeks in northern Italy.

Abstract

Splat!

green

Splat!

yellow

Splat!

red

Splat!

yellow

Splat!

greenish-yellow

Thunk?

brownish-orange

The canvas was filling up
Pollock would be impressed
But I can't see
I push the button
mwwwhhhhh

Schwink

Schwink

My view is clear
Splat!

teal
For now

“And they,…, turned to their affairs”

I said yes.  I didn’t want to, I already had my day planned out; workout, laundry, garden, read (or maybe just watch a bunch of reality TV).  A change of plans was not in the plan.  But I am trying to be more flexible, to go with the flow, so when Jackie suggested going for a hike instead of the gym, I said yes, after a long hesitation.

Jackie arrived at my house a little after 9, her boundless energy matched only by that of Jessie, the yellow lab whose head was hanging out the back window.  My hope that Jessie would have tired himself out by the time we reached the trail head was in vain; it seemed the car ride was just a warm up.  From the onset of the hike up Sterling Pass trail, Jessie ran ahead and then back and then ahead and then back, scouting for potential dangers and then returning to report his findings.  Bella the black lab had little interest in keeping up with Jessie.  Her greying muzzle, calm manner and robotic, deliberate movements betrayed her age.  She tolerated the yellow lab, but saw no need to prove herself by matching his high energy and instead watched Jessie as he ran back and forth.  She was George to Jessie’s Lenny. 

As we made our way along the trail I stayed back a bit so that the surrounding scenery could saturate all of my senses without the threat of me being knocked over by a 75 pound furry, slobbering weapon.  Sterling Pass trail climbs 1100 feet in one and a half miles up through a wide valley.  Tall spires point sharply at the blue sky, their charred husks a stark contrast against the red rock walls, lush green vegetation and white, red, purple, yellow and orange flowers that have conquered the valley bottom.  These sentries are the skeletons of what once were full crowned Ponderosa pines, and while a long ago fire stripped these great trees of their leaves and branches, their majesty remains as they tower over the new generation of shrubs and forbs which have taken advantage of the fire scarred land.  It is spring time and the flowers are in bloom offering sweet smells as I walked along the trail, this combined with the fluttering song birds, abundant and vocal, made me feel as if I was in the jungles of South America, not a semi-desert in Arizona.

The sun which in part gives life to the valley bottom was beating down on me as I followed Jackie, Jessie and Bella up the trail.  Despite constantly drinking water and finding respite from the heat in the shade rorschachly blotted along the trail, I felt the migraine coming on.  It was well established when I finally reached the summit of Sterling Pass.  The dogs had already found their resting spots, but Jackie was prepared to keep moving.  I quickly picked a side in this argument and slumped down next to the panting dogs. 

After a too short break we started back down the trail towards the car.  Jessie led the way, leaving barking dogs and irritated hikers in his wake while Bella respectfully traversed the trail.  I fell behind as both the sun’s heat and my migraine intensified.  The feeling that a red hot poker was being forced through my skull created a pain which distracted me from the scenery that had captured my full attention just an hour earlier.  My concentration was now put towards stepping one foot in front of the other to get down the trail as soon as possible before the full onset of the migraine could take place. 

It was at this time, close to the end of the trail, that I came upon Jessie raucously scrounging through the underbrush, no Jackie or Bella in sight.  It took a moment to process the scene I had walked up on.  Birds flew out of the brush chirping wildly, but Jessie didn’t pay them any attention, he was still rummaging through the low lying shrubs, there was still a bird left behind.  I yelled for Jessie to stop, my voice high pitched with panic, my migraine instantly gone.  But Jessie ignored me and as he buried his muzzle into the brush and quickly flung his head back I realized I was too late.  The fledgling bird was flung to the trail dying as Jessie quickly lost interest in his new toy and ran to catch up with his mom.  I approached the bird hoping that my being there would somehow reverse the fledgling’s fate.  The deep red blood that now escaped from the puncture left by Jessie’s incisor was a stark contrast to the graphite grey feathers which had failed to help the young bird escape.  Its yellow beak opened and closed as if it was calling for its mother or gasping for breath, in, out, out.  It stretched out one of its legs, slowly grasping at the air, trying to hold on to something, anything.  All the while the mother bird sat on a nearby branch helplessly calling out.  There was nothing to be done and as I raised my head I saw Jackie standing next to Jessie, he was scolded, but didn’t seem to notice.  They started back down the trail.  I stood up and began to follow them but turned around; I couldn’t leave the birds’ body in the middle of the trail.  Using two sticks I gently lifted then lowered the limp body from the trail into the brush, the mother bird watching over us, still chirping.

I again started down the trail, my migraine had returned to its full glory.  This was not my plan.      

The River Wild

During my childhood, my mom would set up remarkable family vacations.  Unlike common families who went to the beach in the summer, my family traveled all over the U.S., and even Canada, visiting national parks, riding in trains and going on multi day horse riding trips.  At the beginning of every summer Mom would sit my sister and I down;

Mom:  Your father and I have a surprise for you!

Dad:  We are going to take a cross country trip, in the minivan, and visit your aunt and uncle in Colorado and then travel to Arizona and ride mules down into the Grand Canyon!

Mom:  Doesn't that sound great!  What an opportunity!  You will be required to keep a daily diary.

Me and my sister:  Awww, man!  That sucks!  Why can't we just stay here and hang with our friends for the summer like all the other kids?  Ugh, I thought summer time was for not thinking and learning!

Mom:  Well tough shit, that's what we are doing.  And you will have a good time.

What can I say, we were kids.

Looking back, we did have a good time, we were very lucky to have parents who took us on such great adventures.  It's just that we didn't always show our appreciation.

When I was twelve the summer vacation that was planned included a five day raft trip down the Snake River (yeah, you're jealous).  The only request my dad had was no rapids.  So it was a five day float trip, which was great, but would have been better had I been old enough to drink alcohol. 

Mom had arranged for our family of four to have two rafts and two guides, the teams had long ago been determined: 

Team 1) Puck and Mom (the fun, interested boat)
Team 2) Me and Dad (the others)

After our guides got through telling us how to survive every possible  deadly scenario Mom, Dad and Puck climbed into their assigned rafts.  I tried to flee to the safety of the minivan, but apparently this was a part of the vacation the whole family had to be there for.  All I could think was "how is almost dying a vacation?"

Fortunately I had brought a book (or two) with me.  So while everyone else in my family had nothing better to do than look around at the scenery for dangers like bear and lightning and killer fish and pterodactyls, I was able to relax and read.

In pretty much every picture my mom has of this trip, I am sitting in the raft, hunched over, reading a book.  Whether it's sunny or rainy, no matter the amazing scenery, or what animals we came across, I was reading a book.

That first night was the most traumatic.  We had to sleep in tents, and I was pretty sure there was a spider in mine, so there was a lot of screaming and crying involved.  I just hope my parents left a really big tip for those raft guides.

Meanwhile, my sister took the whole thing in stride, like she was having a good time, traitor.

In the end we survived, and I actually have fond memories of that trip, somehow.  The real irony of this story is that I went on to get two degrees in natural resources (B.S. Natural Resources Management, M.S. Rangeland Ecosystem Science), and I work for the U.S. Forest Service, and about ten years ago, I spent a summer as a raft guide, and yes some of the people I had on my raft were absolutely horrible.  I believe that is the definition of karma.

And my sister, she works in finance, in Manhattan.

Christmas was like two months ago.

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend, Charles, informed me that his father Bob and Bob’s lady friend (let’s face it, when you’re in your 70’s she is no longer a girlfriend), Sally, would be coming for a visit.

Me:  When are they getting here?

Charles:  I don’t know, maybe sometime next week.

Me:  How long are they staying with us?

Charles:  I don’t know, a week or two, maybe.

Me: Oh good.

I like Bob and Sally, they are very nice.  Bob is quiet and happy with a couch and a T.V., so basically he is low maintenance.  Sally makes up for Bob’s taciturn ways.  Sally has lead a very interesting life in her 75 years, and I am pretty sure she is trying to get the story out there to anyone who will listen, in a second by second retelling of her life and times.  I am always excited to have guests, especially if they are family, especially if they are staying with us during the week, when I have to work (“Sorry, I just don’t have enough leave to take time off!  I know, bummer, you’re going to have to go antiquing without me, sucks!”).  So I was cool with the short notice of Bob and Sally’s impending welcomed visit.

Then Charles brought up the Christmas card.

Charles:  Sally was upset by the Christmas card we sent. (we = me, Charles doesn’t do cards)

Me:  Seriously, it’s February.  I mean…What was wrong with the card? (I am pretty sure there was an eye roll accessorizing that question).

Charles:  I don’t know something about leaving her name off the card.  I shouldn’t have brought it up.

Me:  Her name was on the card, I clearly remember writing “Dear Bob and Sally”.

Charles:  Then I don’t know.  Forget I said anything, why are you getting so defensive, GOD!

I couldn’t stop thinking about this horrible and offensive Christmas card I had sent to Charles’ father and his lady friend, what had I written (or not written)?  And as the day changed into night I was no closer to realizing my folly.  Had I written some hidden message in the text, one that if you held the card up to a mirror in a candle lit bathroom while playing Led Zeppelin backwards, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer would appear and sing (out of tune) Christmas Carols forever?, because that could make some people a little upset.  And as similarly rational thoughts raced through my head at 1:30 in the morning, it finally dawned on me…

They never sent us a Christmas card.