Rose Portrait

I love this photograph: gloved hands, thorns, that huge pink and yellow rose over Rye's heart, the denim coat and overalls, and that knowing stright-on look into the viewers eyes. This is a photo I can't stop looking at, there is so much here to see.
A wonderful look into a heart of a man.

Franz Marc

What happened to, "We are Family"?

It's As Easy As That?

Encouragement

Shooting In The Dark

Why waste the ammo?

Republic Streetgang

Spring is around the corner, the street walkers are out.















My friend Steve sent this photo to me from home.

Look At Me Photos

Here

What You See Is What You Get

I'm thinking about where I have been, and what I have seen in the past couple of days. Made a three hour drive from Highpoint to the ocean, stayed the night in a place named Southport. Awoke early to a windy morning and stepped outside to walk along the water. Something was floating towards me, so I went to the truck to get the binoculars for a better look; it was a white zippered canvas bag. Where I stood on the bulkhead, I would need a gaff to grab the bag. The bag drifted several yards to snag on some rocks just where the wall tapered, two easy steps down from bulkhead and I grabbed it.
The markings on the wet bag read; "Demo Safety Pac" on one side, and "Life Jackets" in big red letters on the other. While carring the bag back to the deck to finish my coffee, I stoped and looked through a clump of clover for a shamrock. I was thinking a bag of money would be nice... no luck there tho. The contents of the tote: two life jackets, one throwable lifesaver, an orange whistle with lanyard, and a fire extinguisher.
Maybe it's true that you can take the rat out of the river, but never the river out of the rat, I had to smile at what Spirit had sent to me. I'm a totem believing kind of gal, funny, the name of the river...Cape Fear.

Time To Love

Look at this old picture. What was their story? I can almost smell the water in the wind, hear their laughter, and feel the love they had for one another.

I get the same warm feeling when looking at my own family pictures. To step back in time in my mind, and experince the joy of days gone by.

Mommas

All those who momma was a drunk raise their hands. As a kid I didn't understand, I had to growup to forgive her. I would not, nor couldn't have chosen a better momma, she was the best...even if she was a drunk.
To those selfcentered folk who can't understand what pain can do to a person...growup!

The Blind Date

The want of power is no free lunch.

Cold Reality

Twenty-two below zero, no water, electric iffy, but we made it through; Pirate Jenny can't hurt me.

Lost In The Badlands

Fraz Marc

This is one of my favorite painters.
Now I'm going to clean the oven, and then wash the truck.

Spirit Sees Your Heart

Strength for a friend.

The Price of Gas

My friend Steve in Republic sent this to me, I think it's cute.

Cold Experience

"If you can look up, you can get up".

Reciprocity

Critters have their ways.
Drive-by?
I don't know!

Click here

Express Yourself

Most people say animals can't talk.
This female cardinal tells me, "Hay! The bird feeder is empty!"
Makes me think, and think again, when on occasion we call each other, "bird brain".

Safe Landing

It's been a long haul and worth every minute of the trip. I may not know my way around as yet, but I ain't lost.
The Mic and Sarah are happy, and so am I, what more could I ask for?

Media Info-Nix

Weather forcast: 30% chance of light snow, light snow, accumulation one to two inches. Right! Awoke this morning to let the dogs out. Opening the door, both of them just stood on either side of me as if to say, " I gotta pee, but damn mom, not out there!" A gentle nudge with my foot slid Mic to the door sill. Sarah reluctantly stepped out first, she's a hurry up and get back in kind of dog. Brainless wonder I have to teather to the front porch.
It's snowing so hard I can't see the pines across the dirt road. My spliting rounds have grown neatly cut six inch biscuits. I knew it, yesterday was just to nice. Please don't say, it sounds cozy. I've have places to go, and people to meet, and... I'm out of wood. Couldn't get over the first mountain pass if I tried, age has slowed my sense of adventure some. Crawling behind a snowplow for a couple hundred miles is no longer that much fun, I'ed rather split the splitting rounds. The worst part is the dogs have gas... lucky me! I love warm and cozy...

Friendship

Now tell me true, is this not a cute picture of you know who?

Walkabout

Haven't been off this mountain in over a year and a half, and I feel a twang of agoraphobia from time to time. Snow is forcast for in end of this week; I love driving in snow.
Today will be another busy one with a few more things to do.









One more cup of coffee and it will be time to get busy, I'm moving slow this morning. Actually, it looks and feels like snow already, a very grey day. Guess it's time to get off my ars and get to it.

Morning Snow

A frosty white cloaks this morning in peaceful stillness. Dauntless chickadees flit and flutter through pine boughs outside my window.
I'm burning the last row of wood, rounds cut close to the ground, heavy with mastic pitch. They were hard to split, but well worth the labor. The stove hums and snaps like teenage girls chewing gum. The Sarah and Mic sleep close to the fire, they twitch spasmodically and drift, deep in doggy dreamland.
I am content to sit for awhile, drink my coffee, muse, and listen to the sounds of winter.

The Scent of Peace

It snowed to the west last night, missing my mountian top by several hundred feet. Looking out my kitchen window the sun is shinning and the sky bright blue. Looking north is another story, a ground fog like a grey blanket covers the mountian in ice. I wonder which of the two conditions will prevail for the day? The outside weather forcast is in Spirit's hands, but I am the maker of my internal state of mind.
The two pictures are of a plant called white sage; I know it to grow in the foothills of southern California. It is a sacred plant to many native americans all over the country. It has a pleasant smell and is used for many things, one of which is smudging. The smoke from sage can cleanse the soul and bring peace to balance troubled thoughts. Why can't I arrange these photos and script the way I want? Oh well, just another little thing for me to learn, not to worry for now.
It's funny, as a little girl I watched my father burn small pieces of white sage in an abalone shell, weither he was drunk or sober. I just thought it was a dumb Indian thing. It was a custom I knew nothing about until I saw a woman in a shop smudging. Being as self centered as I am, I wondered if we were related in some way. She answered all my questions, and many years went by before I was able to accept the part of me that I kept hidden in shame. Today I do my best to forgive my father for his faults, and his not teaching me more of my native culture. Maybe he knew best, probably my blind judgment would have caused me not to understand anyway.
I am still caught between two worlds, but through prayer and a little ceremony of burning white sage, I find the balance needed to walk foward with hope and a strength that is not my own.

Spiritual Cookies

Paperwhites are my favorite of bulbs, and to watch them bloom in winter is a sweet treat. This morning I awoke to a milagro pequeno, a little miracle.

All Things Have Their Time.

When my mother died, it took ten long years to go through the grieving process. To even say the words, "My Mother" caused me such pain and sorrow, it would take my breath away and the tears would flow no matter where I was or with whom, I would have to walk away to compose myself.
I worked as a bartender in San Fransisco and became friends with a woman named Kathy. At the begaining of our friendship she wanted a closeness that I could not give. I told her we would remain friends for a very long time, she agreed, and so we were. Kathy had been the tennis coach at a small private collage, she was tall, brilliant, and with a wit I seldom find. We became drinking and softball buddys. She was my ship in the night.
One night after work, she drove me to the beach in her vw bug. We drank and talked for hours. Some how the subject of "mother" came up and as always I lost it and opened the door to get out of the car. She held me back and ask me to tell her what I remembered and loved most about my mother. I told her, "reading to me when I was a little girl".
"What did she read to you?", she ask and held hold of my arm until I closed the car door.
"All kinds of books, and my dad read to me as well."
"What book did you like the best?"
"Uncle Remes, brair rabbit and tar babby", mother always moaned when ask to read it, she said it was hard to get the rhythem right. It was the rhythem of the words that I loved in her voice. She had a gift of many things, but couldn't see it.
Kathy started speaking to me in a black dialectic, das right, etc. We laugh and cried until the sun came up.
Something happened that night, a healing that has never wavered til this day. The open wound of loss transmuted to acceptance and even a comforting joy. My friend gave me a gift that night, a gift that there are no words of gratitude in me that can express my feelings with.
Soon after that time, I moved to the east coast and lost touch with Kathy. I can only hope that when we dream, I can reach out to her and say, "thank you".

Playing In The Dirt

This is where we're all headed, isn't it?
How many years do you think you have left?
What are you going to do with them?
If you could uncover one thing about yourself, what would it be?
What other questions does this picture bring up in you?

I'm still digging for answers.









Photo by Pedro Meyer

Shvuntz?

photos
Pedro Meyer
Joseph Szabp

Remember Fun?

Nothing to post, I just like this photo.

Girl Scouts

How old was I? Was it fourth, or fifth grade? Some parent decided to start a Girl Scout troop. All the girls were excited, even me.
The first two meetings were fun... orientation, punch and cookies. We each were given a handbook, I stayed up all night reading mine.
As a burgeoning troop, we met each week at a local church. On the third week, our den mother was late, what to do?
Karen Simmerman whispered,"the basement door is always open", she knew because her father was the pastor of the church. "Come on, I'll show you.", and we all followed her down the steps and into the building. "Come in here, I want to show you all something". We troupted single file into a large dimly lit bathroom. The light from two high window reflected off the opposing white tiled wall and onto the floor, she didn't turn on the lights.
From somewhere on her, Karen produced a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes and a book of matches. Nobody said a word. "There's one for you, and you, and you." She lit her cigarette first to showed everyone how proficient she was at smoking. I knew better... besides, I could chew, or use snuff and never get in trouble. My grandmother never ask about those two things, only if I smoked. I let Karen light my awkwardly held cigarette knowing full well the consequence if my grandmother found out, or ask me.
We all were puffing, trying not to cough, and talking a mile a minute when the lights were turned on. Wish I had a picture, god only knows where all the cigarettes went. Den mother lined us up against the wall, the sun in our faces. The light was so bright, I could hardly see a thing. I was first or last in the line depending on where Den mother stood. She walking up and down the line, just my luck, she stopped and faced me. She asked, "Have you been smoking?" Knowing good girl scouts never lie, "Yes mam", I said.
She stepped to Karen and asked, "Have you been smoking?" Karen answered, "No!" I couldn't believe it, getting in trouble for smoking was bad enough, but lying...the girl was going stright to hell, we were in a church for christ sakes. Den mother asked each of the other girls. With each answer "No", my heart beat faster and yet sank.
That day was my last day of being a Girl Scout. From that day on I knew that I was a true Girl Scout in my heart, even though I never got to put on the uniform. Many times I ask myself, if I could go back and answer again, would I change my answer? No, not in a million years. Oh! I didn't get a switching, because I told the truth. My mom and dad, and grandma believed me, that was all that was important anyway.

Playing Nice

We all take turns okay?

Merry Little Christmas

Looking foward to a brighter year.
Peace.

Acceptance of Loss

Last winter while living in the trailer, my upper right second molar started hurting. It had been over two years since I had seen a dentist. I knew what the problem was, but there wasn't much I could do, but accept the pain.
Needing an antibiotic to treat the infection, I had to see a doctor to get a prescription. If the pain had been less and I had been thinking straight, I would have ask the vet.
The medical clinic fee, fiftynine dollars. My face was swollen, eye drooped, blood pressure up from the pain and infection. The MD wanted to see, don't ask me why, he didn't know what he was looking at anyway.
"I need a prescription for penicillin". I was one minute into the four minute visit.
"You have to see a dentist and have that taken out, the infection will only return". Why would I see him if I had the money to see a dentist? He also said, "That looks like it really hurts". Meaning, aren't you going to ask me for pain meds? I gave him a screw you smile, paid the bill and drove to the pharmacy for the penicillin. Pain can make you mean, I do my best to overcome it.
The tooth is hanging in there, I've tried twice to extract it and wimped out. The infection has never returned as well as the initial pain, which is a blessing. I wonder when I will lose this tooth, a month, two, or six? I'll miss it, it's been with me a long time. Why cry about one tooth I say, I have all the others, and some people don't have any. Even still, I'll miss it when it goes.

Good and Evil/ Wrong and Right

Mandorlas
A mandorla is the almond-shaped segment that is made when two circles partly overlap. It is the Italian word for almond.
Language is a mandorla. "The fire and the rose are one." By overlapping the two elements of fire and a flower, T.S. Eliot is making a mandorla. When images overlap what brings them together, unites the beauty and the terror of existence?







Words have the ability to suprise and shock...to remind us that there are links between the things we have always thought of as opposites.
A mandorla is conflict resolution.
Feet on earth, head in heaven, as written in Coptic script on the orb of earth at the feet of Christ. The second photo is Seattle street art.

Anything to Know

A Sunday walk in Golden Gate Park, she was singing with some guys. "Damn, she's good", I thought to myself.
Walked into the Camel Bar in North Beach and saw her again. She was real drunk, loud. Who is she? From across the bar I could see her pain, but she had so much energy, drugs? I was a mouse, she a lioness with a thorn in the heart. "Fucking this, fucking that", she needs to, loose a few pounds, take a shower and change those sweat stained cloths...No thanks, I'm better than you, and have a thorn of my own.
Winterland with my friends, everyone was high...No thanks, I don't smoke and it messes up my time reality. Ball and chain pounded from the inside out, I could feel the words on the souls of my feet, psychedelic orange and pink, liquid smoke lights rolled in waves. "I've got to get out of here, I can't breath", I walked home to my studio on Gough street, higher than a kit.
My friends would point, "There she goes", they'd say. "Yah, so what? Nice(car) nasty paint job". I would listen to Cream and "her" album, and drink. I envied her guts. At eighteen I was already a drunk, only roaring a little, even then fear ruled my life, best to play it safe.
She had many lovers, one girlfriend had a shop in the Haight Ashberry. I made things to sell, so we talked often. "If she hurts you so much, what's the attraction?"
"She's wild"!
"Oh, but she's on self-distruct." How the hell did I know?

Aiming At Shadows

First thought, Barb holds a rifle funny.
Second thought, I feel aimless.
What's the point? I wish I knew.
Aiming at my shadow.
When the unstoppable bullet hits the impenetrable wall.
Ah! The wheel is turning.

Over The Rail

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

My birthday bucket.

When an Ice Fog comes right up to the front door, and looking out the windows reveals nothing but grey, it's time to make, Blackbeans and Rice to heat up my insides.

I love Chile Peppers, and their colours. I love to string them together in long ristras, and hang them on my kitchen walls to be used as needed.
Chile Peppers come in so many sizes, shapes, colours, textures, flavors, and degrees of peppery temperature.
As a child I learned to love them for their beauty, anticipate their variety of flavors, and respect my parents warnings of, "Some are to hot to handle and don't rub your eyes". Even thought I didn't listen, I learned. Here is a great site where I learned even more.
Where I live is far from the optimal climate for growing peppers, but they grow well in containers and many of the ornamental varieties are my favorites anyway. It's funny that as I write this, I hesitate to rub my eyes, some things we never forget. Hasta la vista!

Chains of the Past

The Chains That Bind Me

In June of 1967 I was released from highschool. My twelve-year mandatory sentence was over. Like a dog unchained from a tree, the frayed collor that I had worn was greatfuly unbuckled by the California State School Board. I was free at last, or lest it seemed as so.
Years earlier my father had told me how lucky I was because the goverment could no longer snatch children from their families and send them to schools in different states. Such a thing had happened to my grandmother, which had caused a sadness in my great-grandermother's heart that never healed. My great-grandmother had been lucky too, she was blind, so the goverment didn't want her. My two grandmothers didn't see eye-to-eye on most things.
All these things were passed on to me. Having two belief systems living side-by-side is not an easy thing to deal with. It had twisted my father's heart so that he drank himself to death when I was in the sixth grade. How do you make sense out of other people's nonsense?
"Pay attention Chicken", my dad would say, "It's all about how you look at things". Now I know why so many Native people's last names include the word "look", or "looking". Names that begin or end with the word "heart" have also been passed down. Some things never change. I have spent many years trying to find some kind of balance between what my eyes see, and what my heart feels.
I learned many things at school, but it was hard to distinguish what was true. My dad had discribed stories about how the U.S. Army had freed thousands of people from "Concentration camps" in Europe near the end of World War II., and how millions of good people had died because they differed in what they believed. He said that World Was II. was about the U.S. Goverment stopping other countries from doing bad things. Then he told me how forty miles away in Susanville, the Goverment had imprisoned all the Japanese people that lived along the West Coast in what was called, "Internment Camps". I ask him, "What's the difference between "Concentration Camps" and "Internment Camps?" He told me to look it up in the dictionary.
At school things were either right or wrong. Books held all the answers in black and white. "If you read it in a book, it must be the truth." My dad would say this very seriously, then he would wink and hold his hands out with one palm up and the other down, then he would rotate them back and forth several times. That hand gesture would drive me crazy for many years. I hated the fact, he would never give me a straight answer.
My dad was different, guess that's why my mother loved him so. She would always say she, "she worshipped the ground he walked on.", which I thought strange because she was a Christen. It was my father who held ground sacred.
We would sit at the kitchen table and my mother would tell me different Bible stories while she fixed dinner. My dad would say, "Now chicken, pay attention." Later he would tell me different stories, stories his grandmother had told him. He belived all things had a voice and could talk when they wanted to, one just had to learn how to listen. It was all very confusing.
At school I was taught to be ashamed of my father. He was a crazy drunken Indian, but he held my hand, and brought me to the doorway of my own understanding to the best of his ability. I can see him in my minds-eye turning with his hands out to the four directions saying, "Look, but don't get a twisted heart". I didn't have a clue as to what he meant at the time.

A character pastiche: Looking through Jo's eyes

Peddling up the steep dirt road was hard. Heart pounding, her forty-eight-year-old calf muscles burning, she said to her self, "Screw them, screw them all. I don't need any of them." Gulping air, her voice was dry, but forceful, like her dogged determination to reach the top of the hill. "Don't be that way Jo", she countered the shadow-self that follow her every step. "I'll lose another ten pounds by the end of this month, and tomorrow, I'll get my hair done. Screw the money."

The early morning was cool, the sun just peeking over the grey-green mountains to the east. If she weren't riding her bicycle, a sweater would be needed to block the chill in the air. The sky was a power blue, not a cloud anywhere to be seen. By ten o'clock, it was going to be hot, and by four in the afternoon, unbearably so.

Jo was almost to the crest of the hill, her legs screamed for her to stop. She put her head down and focused on the thick knobby front tire. One, two, one, two, over and over, the front wheel making only a half revolution for every gush of hot pain in her legs.
"Keep going, just a little future. Stop now, and you might as well eat a whole pizza for lunch, with a bag of shortbread cookies for a chaser. Stop now, screw it... No, no, NO! I can make it. Don't look up until you get to the top. I can't...You can and will. Think of something else."

"I want to walk around naked in my own yard. If only we could have bought the whole mountain there wouldn't be new neighbors a quarter mile away with their snooping binoculars; I should do it anyway, it's my property, my body and my life.

She looked up, sweat rolled down her cheeks to puddle then drip from her outstreached chin. The black lab pup that had tried so hard to keep up, was now sitting in the middle of the road wagging it's fat tail in the dirt. He barked incouragement as if he understood her effort to reach the finish line. There was no yellow ribbon to break, no cheering crowds, but he was enough. She smiled as the bike stopped. "Yes!", she yelled to the open mountain sky. The pup wiggled with pure joy, and licked the salty dirt on her left ankle. "Stop that! it tickles!" She eased the bike to the ground and stepped wobble legged to pick up the dog.

"Thank you little buddy, I didn't even see you pass me." Holding the puppy close to her chest, it squirmed while licking the salty dirt from the underside of her chin. Her heart hammered loudly in her ears, the smell of puppy's breath, and pine trees over-powered her senses. Squatting to sit down she breathed deeply. The puppy gyrated, feet kicking, but she cribed it tightly. The ground felt cool on her bottom, she twisted sideways dislodgeing a small but sharp stone.

"What a wonderful morning, yes it is.", and the pup yipped in agreement. She could hear a black bird somewhere near, and the high pitched whisle of the red-tailed hawk that circled overhead. At that moment, she was happy. Her shaddow whispered, "Now what?". "Screw you", she said and laughed out loud.

Clear and crisp morning, my mind is wrapped with words and ideas, want to do's and have to do's in conflict. My chainsaw needs sharpening again. I want to drink hot cocoa and write, learn all the things I missed by putting my nose to the grindstone.
Breaking free of the chain of fear that held me.

The Road Less Traveled

Where I was born in Bakersfield, The land is hot and desert like. Then, it was bare rolling hills covered with tumbleweeds and oil derricks, it was not quiet and still but always moving. The hot winds would blow the tumbleweeds, sometimes at a lazy pace and sometimes with a fury. It was kind of like you could tell the mood of someone sweeping off a front porch, study and methodical, or fast and furious with dirt flying everywhere. That's how I became aware of the land being alive,the moveing of the twmbleweeds. When they were green and growing they stayed rooted to the soil, but when summer came they dried out, and went with the wind. Along with the movement of the tumbleweeds was the stationary movement of the oilrigs pumping oil, their pace never changed and the sound they never stopped, and they smelled bad. They were not alive like the wind, and hills, the weeds. Oil derricks had no moods, they never wavered in their mechanical duty. I didn't like them, I would watch them, but thet never changed. I didn't trust them because they weren't real, that is, not alive. My dad worked in the oil fields for a time as a derrick-man. He had followed my grandma and grandpa out from Oklahoma to work for Shell Oil Company.

Bakersfield lays in the foothills of the Greenhorn Mountain Range, on the far end of the Sequoia National Forest. I remember the name of the road that wound its way over the mountains from the desert vally floor, it was called the Grapevine, and for good reason. It was a steep winding twolane road, which took its toll on the breaks of any vehichle that tried to climb or decend its narrow path. I had no trust in that twolane road, it was dangerous and life threating. Looking down over the cliffs you could see the cars and trucks that had failed in their attempt, they lay there, unburied bodies to rust and wast away in the hot mountain sun.
One of my earliest memories is of that killer road, and how close I had come to being a dead body in a rusting coffin at the bottom of a steep cliff. I must have been three or four years old, walking, talking, and beginning to understand the dangers in life, and how you had to stay aware to stay alive. The befores and afters I don't remember, it's just a small piece, a fragment of memory which I'll never forget.
It probably means alot to who I am today even if I don't understand it all. I guess that's why I'm writing about it now, to understand how it effects me, fifty some years later. I have always had less fear of dying than most people, not that I don't understand the precious gift of life, because I do.
My dad and I were in our old nineteen thirtys pickup truck. It was a faded dark green, so old nothing of its once polish suface remained. When you looked at the doors at just the right angle, you could see a faded black bell with a circle around it, and the letters of Pacific Telephone Company. The truck had lived out its life of usefulness and when its value was next to nothing my dad was glad to get it cheep.
I remember Judy was with us, she was a Walsh Corgey. I still have a picture of me holding her as a puppy. She was my first dog and I would have given my life to keep her from harm She was mine to care for.
I don't know where we had been that day, or why mom and my little brother David were not with us, because we were always together. Guess I was just to little to know. Dad, Judy and me were driving down the grapevine. I had to stand up on the seat to see out the windows. Judy sat in the middle between dad and me. Judy would move closer to me when dad was down-shifting. The gearshift came up from the floorboard, and divided the front seat in half, the lowest gear or compound brought the gearshift knob almost into Judy's nose.
Dad said the brakes were getting hot as the old truck wound its way down the mountain. I could smell the over-worked brakes, and Judy sneezed several times not liking the smell either. We pulled off onto the shoulder of the road at what dad called a vista point. I remember thinking, vista was a Spanish word, we weren't suppose to use Spanish words. I'll explain that some other time.
You could see the vast rolling hills and the valley below, you could also see how far up the mountain we were by the winding road below us. Dad got out of the truck to take a walk he said, which meant he had to pee. Judy and me stayed in the cab of the truck. I must have grabbed the gearshift knob and moved it like daddy did when he was driving. The truck started rolling fast. Dad yelled and I could see him running for the truck. I picked up Judy and stood up straight on the seat. Dad was running at full speed reaching for the handle of the truck door. He was yelling something at me and I could see the fear in his face. All I could think of was saving Judy. With all my strength I held Judy with out stretched arms for daddy to grab. The door was flung open and dad was screaming for me to come to him. I held Judy out for him; he couldn't grab us both. The truck was rolling real fast and I could see we were going over the edge of the cliff. Somehow dad grabbed the steering wheel and jumped in slamming on the breaks. I remember the dust and the feeling of the truck as it skidded sideways to the cliff edge. Holding Judy close, I was pushed hard up against the passenger door. Looking out the window through the dust, I could see an old rusted shell of a car far below.
Daddy didn't move for the longest time, his knuckles were white and the vanes in his arms stood out as he gripped the top of the stirring wheel. Slowly he slumped forward resting his head on his hands while still gripping the top of the stirring wheel. Sweat ran down his cheeks to drip off his chin. I could smell fear, dad's fear, Judy's fear, and even my fear.
Slowly dad looked at me and smiled, "What am I going to do with you chicken?"
"Just keep me daddy." He always called me chicken because I hunted and pecked at everything.
"You and that damn dog", he said. I could feel the pride in his voice and knew if I had jumped into dad's arms as he ran along side the truck, we would have lost Judy. The truck meant nothing, it was like those oil riggs, not alive, but Judy I loved with all my heart, like the wind, she was alive and real.
Dad ever so slowly moved the truck from the cliff edge up to the shoulder of the road. We all got out, Judy had to pee and dad opened a can of beer. He took out his red bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. He picked me up in his arms and we watched Judy pee, she peed along time and we both laughed.
"We really scared the pee out of her daddy." I remember dad taking deep breaths and letting them out slowly as he held me tight.
"You scared the pee out of the both of us chicken", we laugh again and stood a long time looking at the view below.
Dad walked to the front of the truck and grabbed the canvas water bag that always hung in front of the radiator.
"Give your dog some water, animals come first, then you drink.", nothing else was said. I remember how important my decision was to me and I felt it was the right one to make...me and Judy, or nothing at all.

Cutting Through The Past

Looking out the window, a cold grey mist raises off the mountain this morning. Memory ghosts hang on my shoulders, the coffee cup is warm, the dogs are sleeping and my hearts joy is alive. Closing my eyes I can see the falling snow of the cottonwood trees along the river. The pungent smell of weeds and railroad ties shimmers unseen. My brother hop-scotches between the rails, his head down, the sun at his back, little boy talking to me as I put one foot in front of the other and walk on greased steel. Insects humming, small birds dart through the blackberry briers down along the elevated railroad bed. Berrys as big as thumbs, the sweetest always out of reach, we mark the spot and plan, next time bring our buckets and hook-cane poles.

Momma got a job that week at the cannery, pitten peaches. Sticky thick apron, her hair snooded and those round white pins with the horses heads attached to her blouse collar. Her eyes drained of energy, to tired even to read to us before bed. Dad worked a few days making sure labels got glued to cans going down miles of conveyor belts. He preferred to drink from a gallon jug of sweet wine under the cottonwood trees with his friends; someone had to stay home and watch us kids, get us off to school and all.

I ask him, "Why do we have to go to school, the kids that live in the ambulance don't have to?" He said, "You don't want to live in a tent and sleep in an ambulance do you?" At the time I thought the ambulance was bigger than our teardrop trailer; we hooked school anyway. Living on the wrong-side of the levee in a trailer court can leave a whole lot of emotional debris that hang like plastic bags high in the tree tops. When the river floods, trailer trash packup and head for high ground, fast. The ambulance family didn't have any tires on their home. Kids at school didn't even know there were some worse off than David and me. Name calling on the play ground of life, my fists were bloody. School was teaching big boys never to push my little brother, some learned faster than others. It was peaceful walking the railroad tracks, school was for people who lived in houses.

David pointed to something bright down the tracks. "It's just the sun shinning on a tin can or something." I told him.We meandered towards the trussle-bridge chucking rocks, the birds kept their distance. Judy, our welsh corgi took off barking. I always made her stay close, so I could pick her up fast, in case a train might come along. She scooted down the loose gravel toward the river, and stood barking at some old cloths a hobo probably tossed off a slow moving boxcar. We hurried to catch-up with her, she was having a fit, making all kinds of noise. As we ran closer, I reached out and grabbed a handful of David's shirt bringing him to a full stop, he squirmed and squawked, but I held him tight. Judy ran back and forth barking her head off. That pile of cloths was occupied... with a yellow handled knife in its back. The sun reflected off the silver pommel as if it were magic. It was so bazaar, we were frozen in fear, and yet that dagger was beautiful. "Deads is dead." I said, "Go get me that knife." David took a step forward and I pulled him back, still having hold of his shirt. There is something about right and wrong, good or bad, when to stay and when to leave. Like my daddy would say, "When a little bird whispers in your ear, listen." I was and I did, somethings things are best left alone.

I could feel David vibrating through his shirt and Judy was shaking against my leg; it was time to turn and go.
We ran back to the trailer court. Out of breath, I tried to tell daddy and his friends what we had seen. The gallon jug was almost empty, it was hopeless. "Can't you see I'm talking? Go on now, go play. You can tell your mother when she gets off work." David pulled on my sleeve, "We can tell Marie".

Marie owned the trailer park and lived in a pink trailer with a white pickett fence around it. She was short and plump, had curly white hair and one eye that looked up all the time. Her English was hard to understand. She cussed at us for following the ice truck as it made its deliverers through the trailer court. Guess she thought we were going to steal, like the other kids did.

We ran to her," almost a house". Again out of breath but on a mission, my fist felt like a sledgehammer against her pink metal door. The mid morning breeze sent cottonwood seedpods flying to cover everything in white. Bam! Bam! Bam! "Go to hella away, you come backa later" she growled. I knocked softer. She opened the door, her bloodshot eyes stared at us, at least one of them did. She groped at closing her grubby housecoat as I told her what we had seen. "Ifa you a lieing, I killa you both." Standing on her step waving away cottonwood down, we could hear her tell the police to, "comma quick". They did, we could hear the trailed doors closing as everyone outside went inside. A police siren sent everyone for cover to peek out their dirty curtain windows. Two black and whites pulled to a stop in front of the white pickett fence. Marie had changed into a dress, her car keys in hand. She leaned her head in the passenger side of the police car, then stood up pointing toward the railroad tracks that ran on another levee by the river. The dirt had hardly settled as the two police spun a billowing cloud of dust sending seedpod fluff rolling in sprawls. We hopped on Marie's running board and followed in hot pursuit. Her faded gray Dodge sucked in air instead of gas, cough and bucked like the old men who sat smoking on their trailed steps in the early morning hours.

One arm around David and the other held tightly to the Marie's open window jam, my feet planted firmly to the running board. David looked up, his blond hair I can almost smell now, his blue eyes alive with excitement, a grin wider than the river. "Do you think they'll give us the knife?"

Cigaretts And The Yew Trees

We lived in a small tear-drop trailer that my dad pulled behind our old Ford pickup truck. My parents earned a meager living by picking fruits and vegetables in California. Most people looked down their noses at us. "Migrant workers" they'ed say, which sounded bad just because of the way they said it, nasty-like. We moved around alot, up and down the length of the state following the different crops: apples, peaches, grapes and cotton, tomatoes, beans and a variety of different nut crops. We lived hand-to-mouth with nothing extra to spare. Seems like it was always about money, and we never had enouh to take away the pressure of it all. My parents fought over the fact we didn't have enough, it was the old, "Blame Game". My mom pressured my dad that us kids had to eat even if they didn't. This didn't make much sense to me then or now because they had their alcohol and cigarettes, even if it was cheap Port wine and Bull Durum tobacco to roll their own and not "tailor-made", as they called them.
I remember this time well, David and I were very little, we were in northern California waiting a few days until the grape vineyards were ready and the ranchers would start to hire pickers. I wasn't old enough for my consciousness to pickup on everything, but for my age I was aware of quite alot. We had no money at all, not even for cigarettes.
David and I were sent outside to play. There was a cheep motel next to the vacant lot where the trailer was parked, and next to it grew three huge evergreen trees, maybe "Yew trees". They were very tall and dense, with boughs that went all the way to the ground. My little brother and me walked around those trees, the branches were so thick you couldn't see their trunks. For some reason, I wanted to get inside those trees. I pulled the ground branches aside and David and me crawled in on our hands and knees. All the green seemed to be on the outside of those trees, the inside looked like three joining towers with spiral branches going up, up, up.
It was dark inside and it took some time for our eyes to adjust to the lack of light. This magic place was spacious, quiet, and best of all, carpeted with soft fragrant pine needles. David and I smiled at each other knowing we had discovered a sacred place where no grownups ever came, only us. As we looked around our living cathedral, we spotted on the spice scented ground, four whole perfect cigarettes. Our mom and dad had been out of cigarettes for sometime, which made them somewhat grouchy and easy to anger. David and I were delighted...we had found a treasure, and thought we would be heros to our parents.
I carefully held those cigarettes and crawled out of our new found sacred space. I felt pure joy running for the trailer. David, running as fast as his little legs could carry him was right behind me. We found what seemed so important to our parents,"cigarettes".
It was not joy expressed at our gift, but a bombardment of questions. There were so many questions and the stress in their tone, made me feel guilty, as if I had done something terribly wrong. "Where did we get them?" Cigarettes, new ones, not half smoked and thrown away, but new ones. We both told them but they didn't seem to believe us. Our gift was tainted somehow.

Now, as I think about it as an adult, it seems they were afraid we had either stolen them, or worse yet, ask someone, breaking the famile rule in letting someone know my parents had no money. I felt shame, their shame...it was not mine. I was probably five or so and David a year and nine months younger. We had found what they wanted most...no one knew, their secret was safe, but the fear they felt ruined our gift. It was to good to be true. I don't know if they believed us in the end, but... I am sure, they smoked the cigarettes.