My uncles and my dad played the card game sitting around the little table at Grandpa’s house. The card deck was like any other deck, but the game was played in Czech.
Aunt Suzy let us touch the tiny blue cups and plates, all edged with gold and painted with delicate white flowers, their veins thin shiny lines, and their edges tinged purple with little golden balls at the blossom’s centers.
At Grandpa’s house, there were old things, treasured things, Czech things.
We took turns in the music room at Grandpa’s house. Everyone started on piano. When it wasn’t your turn, you were drawn to the kitchen, past the table of Czech card playing, to the smell of warm chocolatey cookies. Now was your turn to spoon the dough onto the pans for baking, and test the ones cooling that came before you.
At Grandpa’s house, you could go past the little clock where the little boy and little girl would swing in a scene of summer sun and flowers all day long, and step down into the porch room full of windows, and the lights on the fish tanks where little gold, and black, and those funny tiny clear fish would swim and swim.
There were books upon books on the shelves at Grandpa’s house, some he’d written in Czech. Grandpa’s pipe smoke clung to him. When you sat on his lap, you’d tuck your face to his sleeve or chest and know stillness, and music, and belonging. Pac-a-pusa, my dad and his brother and sisters would say as one-by-one we’d head home from Grandpa’s house.
I ran into an old friend today and thought about this adventure.
The sun was just rising when she shut the front door and headed to the barn with a hot mug of coffee cradled in one hand. The red barn stood solid, the loft door still open from the day before. Grass grows along the cement pad in front of the large sliding barn door. It was trampled from her comings and goings the day before. Gravel crunched under her boots.
She whistled to him out in the pasture, scaring a rabbit back under the feed trough. He loped in for his oats and she rubbed his ears as she slipped the halter over his face while he gobbled up his breakfast. Indian was a big-boned brown and white paint with feet so big you could turn them upside-down and eat dinner off of them.
Currying and brushing Indian relaxed them both with rhythmic circles and the sound of her humming. She loved the warmth and smell of Indian, like freshly turned dirt, warm bales of hay and everything earthy. Breathing deep, the worn leathery scent filled her lungs in the tack room and she carried the blanket and saddle, bridle over her shoulder, back to the big horse and tacked him up.
Swigging the last of the now cold coffee, she put the mug on top of the post, bridled Indian, and turning him away from the fence she had him bend his thick neck to both sides, move his feet at her look and then she mounted and did the same from his back. Satisfied that he was focused on her, she let him relax and took in the beautiful morning breathing a prayer of thanks.
Squeezing Indian’s sides, they trotted out of the yard, but once they passed between the house and the Cleary building, she urged him to a canter–his long legs propelled by the muscles in his powerful hindquarters. As always, when he saw the cattle in the south pasture, he veered toward them. “Not today, Bud–no herding.” She laughed and stroked his neck.
As they came to the corner and turned north, she slowed him to a walk. Approaching the Lee Cemetery, she stopped, dismounted and walked at Indian’s shoulder to the archway and gate. She didn’t go in, having nowhere to tie him, but just stood leaning against his immense warm body gazing at the graves. Some were decorated with plastic flowers and some were so old and worn that you couldn’t read the names anymore. They seemed sadly forgotten, and yet this place was restful, beautiful.
Remounted, they trotted to the next corner, turned west and were both lost in the rhythm of his stride and the ease of morning. She turned him into the little group of trees by the rattlesnake pasture just to see what might have bedded down there in the night. Indian danced around like he always did here, acting like those bushes and trees might just get up out of the ground and eat him. She balanced easily on him and brought him around through the trees where he finally settled, “There–it’s not so bad. These ole’ trees won’t bite. Nothin’s here boy, lets git down the road. I’m gettin’ hungry. One of us didn’t get room service this morning.” Indian snorted at her.
At the next corner, she turned him back south–this was a favorite place to ride. She loved the little farmhouse on the west. It was just a plain white house, but the front porch was made for sitting out on and it was surrounded by trees to keep in cool even in the heat that would come later today. She also loved the sound of horse hooves crossing the bridge past the house and just north of the corner heading back to the barn.
A soft swish, swish, swish interrupted her thoughts. She’d noticed Indian’s ears turned back and had wondered what he’d heard. It sounded like a helicopter, but out here? Louder now, she and the horse both twisted around and saw a guy flying a shiny helicopter, the sun reflecting off the metal. He was flying it right down the road toward them. There was a moment of still and then, as if a starter pistol had been shot, Indian took off and the girl flattened herself against his neck, urging him to fly even as his feet churned up the dirt flying up behind them.
She never looked to see if they were ahead, but did notice the rapid flight of the owls who nested under the bridge as they careened over it. The sides of the road were a blur going by them and her heart beat fast in her chest, a smile spread across her face, and her blue eyes sparkled with the rush of speed and freedom.
The corner came suddenly up to meet them, “Whoa now, ease up,” she told him, reinforcing his slow down by driving her seat bones deep into the saddle. Looking up, she waved at the smiling face in the copter when it passed.
They were both winded and sweaty; Indian side-stepped, walk-trotted, and held his head high as if he were in a parade with the crowd cheering. “Did you see that Bud? We won-holy cow, you can move!” She’d let go of his reins and wrapped her arms around his wet neck, laughing with pure elation from the exhilaration of that gallop.
By the time they turned north, back up the farm road, Indian’s walk was calm, his neck muscles relaxed and he was cooling off. At the barn, she threw her right leg over his back and jumped down. After she put the saddle and blanket up, she let Indian play in the cool water from the hose. He loved it when she put the end of the hose in his cheek and water splashed everywhere. Turning him out, she climbed to the top rail and watched him roll.
The big paint trotted out the gate and into the pasture, stopping to graze at the first patch of green grass that appealed to him. She watched him for a while, then walked back to the house looking for some iced-tea and the cool dark of inside. She felt good about the morning’s ride. Indian had come a long way from that gangly colt who didn’t let you touch his ears. Who would ever have thought he’d race a noisy, flying helicopter, and who would ever believe it when she told the story?
She was sitting on the bottom steps when I came down the top steps to the landing. It was still dark outside, and I was heading out for my morning run. I can’t say what made me turn and look down from the landing, seeing her back, her light brown hair brushing the base of her neck. “Cathy?” She didn’t turn and I went down the steps and knelt in front of her. “Are you okay?” She nodded but didn’t say anything. “I’ll be back after I run. Can I get anything for you?” She shook her head. I went on with my day.
I lost a race that day, one I didn’t know I was running.
When I returned an hour later, she hadn’t moved. I called 911, or maybe Alex did. She didn’t speak, lost somewhere inside herself, unaware of the world around her.
Strokes can come seemingly out of nowhere, and when you’re too young to be hit with one, a second one on the edge of recovery is devastating. I missed the marker and wound up way off the course. I didn’t know she’d sat on that step all night. And what I didn’t know and don’t know can still hit replay over and over so many years later.
Cathy 26 b-day
Her brown eyes wide with fear, met mine, when they brought me to her room. Holding her hand, both of us unable to speak. Cathy fought her way back so many times, coming from way behind, always the underdog.
Ten years ago today, a violent malevolence ended her race. Today I’ll remember a little sister who loved life. Cathy, a big grin, and a let’s go twinkle in her eyes, was always ready to rock this world. Take no bullshit from anyone was Cathy to the core. And get of her way if she was on a mission to right wrongs or care for the sick or stand up to bullies or be the ultimate aunt. Want to play Super Mario World? Absolutely, so let’s get a strategy guide, read it together, and conquer this game. Want to come along to one of my favorite holistic stores? Let’s go. My friends here will explain what every stone represents and what they mean to me as we immerse ourselves in this tiny world filled with incense and healing.
Ten years ago, she lost the race. But she left us with all her medals and race day t-shirts, most of them flipping the bird to the unkind world. Do you have a Cathy story? Please respond with it.
The dark is the best time to see. The best time to see is in the dark, after the long light of day is finally turned off. Stars that have been there all day begin to manifest before eyes finally opened. The world becomes new, wavering in that last light of dusk, the magic that brings it alive.
On the trail, Ponderosa and Doug Fir sharpen their needles. The Aspen among them shiver and sway, their silvery trunks glowing against the darkened sky. Tiny points of light move in and out of long needles grouped in threes, shorter softer needles in neat rows on the branch, and through green-gold leaves.
Bird song has quieted. The rustle of night creatures rides on the scrub of cedar, willow, and meadow grasses. A few eyes might shine back at you in night greeting. The wuf and womp of moose, elk, and deer bedding down is heard in the stillness. One more flutter of wings above in a final nestling for the night.
In this dark, the eye can quiet with the mind, letting go the harsh barrage of day and allowing for sight so clear, so true, so connected that it’s possible to linger, to rest in it, to feed a body and soul that which will bring it back to bear the weight of the day.
Perhaps, if you dream there, you will find the place or space you were meant to be. But for now, only let it nourish you, hold you in its brilliance, dance you across the universe.
This was not our usual hike through peaceful forests, but a place we’ve wanted to hike up to, that is just too hot, too exposed in summer. We sat outside at Bob’s Atomic Burgers one summer evening, post-hike, and looked up at the towering South Table Mountain. Stories of a dance hall up there, the old scars from the cable railway still visible, and earlier than that, people rode donkeys up the easier incline to dine at a café. Then, the Ku Klux Klan took over the building as a meeting place. It burned to the ground in the late 1920s.
On a chilly November Saturday, it seemed a good choice for an early morning hike. Piecing together a few trails, we could hit our five-mile goal. I mean, we both planned on pumpkin ice-cream at McGill’s for breakfast afterwards. We set off up the steep switch backs, glad for the warmth of sun on our faces.
On top of the mesa, the flat expanse of rock and scrub revealed various bolts embedded in rock, but no burned decay was left, scoured away by wind and time. The precipice surrounded us on three sides. I could see the yellow brick of Bob’s far below us. The expanse of the white-topped buildings of Coors, busy brewing that famed beer of Golden, brought enough vertigo that I stepped back.
Elaine stood above me like some warrior goddess, a vision in the bright light and blue sky.
On Monday the wind was out of the east, averaging 20-25 MPH. The tumbleweeds, well, tumbled past the windows, many of them stopping to form a wall on the south side of the lilac row which gave the row a much more robust presence in the absence of leaves from the dry summer. On Monday, I thawed meat to prepare for feeding the preg check crew. The shoer came and trimmed the horses. The cows and calves were hauled home and turned out into the north pasture.
On Tuesday the wind came out of the west. The tumbleweeds tumbled back, but the wall on the lilacs remained in place. Before dawn, stretching after my run, I watched the little kit fox trot along the edge of that wall and disappear into the west end of the lilac row. A minute later, I heard the screams of the rabbit. A minute later, silence. The fox, dragging the dead rabbit out of the lilacs, disappeared into the still dark dawn. I got the pitchfork to help the tumbleweeds continue their eastward journey so I could get into the barn to feed the horses. On Tuesday, I started Rachel Ray’s sloppy joes with ground elk, deer, and beef in the crockpot, made a batch of brownies, and got the set-up ready for the preg check crew in the garage. I drove my tractor with the hay sled so we could get hay in all the pens, found a bird nest on a post, and pushed the cows and calves in for the night.
On Wednesday, the tumbleweeds were still, the fox must have been full, and my run was quiet. The cows and calves were sorted by seven. The vet showed up at eight and set up his chute. The crew arrived around that same time. We ran cows through first: number, weight, bred or open, pour on, vaccine and vitamins, old fly tag removed, open gate, next cow. The bawling of mammas and calves is loud but moves to the background as we work. Reset the chute for calves, now 5 or 600 pounds after I tagged their gangly newborn selves, still, I find Socks, Split Ear, and Wilford Jr. Weigh and vaccinate, pour on, open the gate and back to mamma. Finished by 10:30. Back in the south pasture by 11. Hot lunch consumed by 11:30. Wind picks up and tumbleweeds head south for the rest of the day.
On Thursday the wind shifted in the night, and I am feeling like a tumbleweed herder. Today, it’s a skunk I see in the dark. We both move right along. I believe the tumbleweeds have conspired to keep me from getting through the walk-in gate to check the stock tank. How did they even get in this space, a little square patch between two corral panels? They are stacked as high as my shoulders, but I have a weapon: my gloves. They cannot poke me or leave stickers in my tender fingers. I’ll show them, I think, tossing them over into the alley. They can’t possibly getaway, and the cows will trounce them when they come through. I decide I’ll eat a leftover brownie as a reward for my diligence.
On Friday, the alley is empty. The tumbleweeds have escaped over the alley panels and into the pasture where the horses are standing out of the wind. I call the horses over as I put their hay down. Bullet drags a tumbleweed along, stuck in his tail.
It’s that long dark line holding onto night as a faint light unfolds above it with shades of orange, pinks, and reds. They consume the starts first, slowly making their way into wider bands, and visible through the windows, head high, on the west and east sides of the barn.
My favorite part of the day, standing in the open and lining up the windows to see that magical light on the other side of the barn from where I stand, still in the dark of the night. Looking up, I can see Orion or a piece of the moon, or Mars, Jupiter, or Saturn, depending on the season.
In the East, the outline of the horses’ ears moves in and out of the gathering light while they make their way toward me and the hay they know I’ll throw over for their breakfast. Sometimes a wuffle or snort, or the call of coyote or cow comes my way, but mostly just a quiet stillness—a waiting for possibility.
Because in that moment, every single day, is a promise I make, an agreement, a prayer, a calling out to the universe. And one day, when the time is right, or maybe wrong, I will answer that call, that prayer, and I will live in that expanding glow of light, taking with me the wild peace of night, stars, and moon, and I will ride beyond all boundaries I’ve placed on myself and become the dawn.
I’ve tried to open the door so many times. I had it once, squeaking open on rusty hinges, but it slammed shut. I was able to glimpse bright blue sky and a feeling of utter peace wafted out around me like a soft breeze.
I wanted in there. I knocked, begged, kicked and screamed. Exhausted, I finally dropped down and sat leaning up against the door. I couldn’t leave. I was afraid I wouldn’t find it again, that I wouldn’t remember the way back. I had some lifesavers in my pocket, but in stories, the bread crumb trail never works, so I sat there feeling sorry for myself.
I ate a lifesaver, chomped down the entire roll, and began to feel strange—kind of lighter somehow. I heard the faint whistle of a train, growing louder until I had to cover my ears. I ducked reflexively, feeling the vibration of tracks beneath me. A train was screaming down the tracks straight toward me.
The snow was hard packed early in the morning, but I still couldn’t look down at the view. Stopping in the middle of the snowfield, Elaine had her camera out snapping photos and oohing over the vista. I stood completely still and stared at my boots, dead center on the narrow path trodden into the snow. It hadn’t looked that far taking the first step and I had no idea how many more I’d be required to take to get back to the rocks and dirt. When we began moving again, my view was limited to the heels of Elaine’s boots. I kept telling myself, “Just one more step. Take one more step.”
Reaching the other end of the snowfield, it was another quarter mile up the boulder field and down to the lake at the base of the diamond face of the mountain. No problem. I don’t mind boulder fields. The PB and J with Cheez-Its was particularly good this day as we sat by the lapping water.
“Come on. We need to get below tree line before those clouds get here.”
“Yeah. I know.” Sighing, I put on my pack and down the boulder field we went.
“We better put our chinks on; that snow’ll be slick by now.”
Thank you, sun, I thought. Chinks or no chinks, I really wanted to call for search and rescue to send a copter. I could see tourist hikers crossing in tennis shoes. Someone was going to die, tumbling down that snow field and onto the rocks a million feet below.
Crowded now, the snow had become very slick with the warm sun and the too many feet on the narrow path.
The guy behind me wanted me to go faster. I took a few tentative steps, trying to stay with Elaine. I felt him tailgating me. I knew I was going to slide off. Sweat was soaking through to my outer jacket. I could feel the uneven thud trying to leap out from my chest. I wanted some water but couldn’t even reach for the hose on my right pack strap.
Pushing. Pushing. Pushing. “Get off my back, dude. Just give me some space.”
Breathe. Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe. Step. And finally solid rock. As the guy passed me, I flipped him off. Take that, I thought, as Elaine and I moved down the trail and back into the trees.
Sometimes dreams come out of nowhere, so vivid that, at least for me, I can wake up reaching out for something that isn’t there. Or I wake up believing I’m in the place where I was dreaming and then it’s a shock to discover I’m not, causing momentary disorientation. Does that happen to you? In this dream, I was desperate and feeling the weight of stress and anxiety as I walked up to the counter in a bank.
The teller smiled at me, an older woman with greying hair. Her warm brown eyes were wide with kindness. The compassion coming from her brought tears to my eyes. She reached across the counter and took my shaking hand in hers. I’d never seen her before, but she clearly knew me. “Don’t worry.” she said. “There’s a phone call for you. You can take it in the phone booth right over there.” She pointed me to middle of the lobby where an old phone booth stood.
I walked over and opened the door, stepping into the silver and blue booth, and picked up the receiver. I clicked the little silver piece with my fingers like we used to do when we were kids.
“Hello?”
“Sally, it’s Daddy.”
At the sound of his voice, I sank down to sit on the floor. The phone booth melted away, but I still held the hand piece and saw the cord stretching out and disappearing past the wall. “Daddy? Where are you? I need you.” Tears were running down my cheeks.
“I’m in heaven, honey. But I’m right here with you too. Everything will be alright. You don’t need to worry.”
“Are you with my mom? And Cathy?”
“Yes, honey. Everyone’s here. We’re all together and fine. Candy too.”
I remember smiling and feeling such relief that they were together, and even our old dog too. I woke up feeling so calm and reassured, and like that was the most natural thing in the world.
and painted with delicate white flowers, their veins thin shiny lines, and their edges tinged purple with little golden balls at the blossom’s centers.
At Grandpa’s house, there were old things, treasured things, Czech things.We took turns in the music room at Grandpa’s house. Everyone started on piano. When it wasn’t your turn, you were drawn to the kitchen, past the table of Czech card playing, to the smell of warm chocolatey cookies. Now was your turn to spoon the dough onto the pans for baking, and test the ones cooling that came before you.At Grandpa’s house, you could go past the little clock where the little boy and little girl would swing in a scene of summer sun and flowers all day long, and step down into the porch room full of windows, and the lights on the fish tanks where little gold, and black, and those funny tiny clear fish would swim and swim.
There were books upon books on the shelves at Grandpa’s house, some he’d written in Czech. Grandpa’s pipe smoke clung to him. When you sat on his lap, you’d tuck your face to his sleeve or chest and know stillness, and music, and belonging. Pac-a-pusa, my dad and his brother and sisters would say as one-by-one we’d head home from Grandpa’s house.
Sally Gerard 