Sunday

The Pasture, by Robert Frost 

I’m going out to clean the pasture spring

I’ll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

I’m going out to fetch the little calf

That’s standing by the mother. It’s so young,

It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

I sha’n’t be gone long.—You come too.

This path leads deep into the forest. Care to join me? 

I chose this hike today for two reasons. The first—the best—is that it rained last night, and I love what happens to the woods when they are saturated, all the colors and contrasts, the rich scents and quiet drippings from the tall trees. The second reason isn’t nearly so nice; this is a hike I rarely do because Thomas, my favorite hiking buddy, doesn’t like it. No doubt he has gotten more than a whiff or two of the wild things that roam here, and he is always on high alert and anxious when we come. Alas, I resignedly accepted the news from the vet on Friday that Thom will no longer go on walk-abouts with me. He has severe arthritis in his shoulder, poor old man, so he has been placed in retirement, limited to short walks but not limited at all in the amount of love and affection (and treats) he will continue to receive.

If it’s 40° when you set out, taking a photograph—even with your phone—requires removing hands from pockets, the glove from your right hand, and the phone from your left pocket. Take the shot, then repeat the process in reverse. We may do this a few dozen times on this walk. Never, though, get so caught up in getting the right shot that you cease to be vigilant. Your eyes must always keep scanning for movement, for the deer or the bobcat or the bear or the coyote… or the mountain lion you’ve heard tell lives here but have never seen.

Have you noticed, as we walk deeper into the woods, that the rush of traffic on the freeway has died away? The soft crunch of our footfalls on the damp, leaf-strewn earth is all we hear. Wait—that quick, muted thudding we hear as we stop for another photo is… something. Deer? Probably. Let’s assume so, and keep walking.

Oh! Did you see that? If you looked up in time, you saw the redtail hawk gliding past directly over our heads. She carried nesting material in her beak. Is it time? Already? It’s time. This is what winter is for. Getting ready for spring.

A brightly colored male towhee hops around on a branch, eyeing us suspiciously without taking flight, flicking his tail dismissively. “I am not afraid of you, wingless creatures!”

You can see now how the rust color of the wild buckwheat looks almost crimson with its saturation of rain water, and the moss on the side of that tree trunk is the best color of “forest” green.

How do woodpeckers make such perfectly round holes in the trees? It's another one of those mysteries of Nature that makes us stop in our tracks in amazement.

My goodness—Have we walked a mile already? I have hot soup waiting at home. Let’s turn around now and walk back.

 

Gotcha Day #7

 

I used to love going into Petco or Petsmart, reading labels, talking to dog and cat rescue volunteers on the weekends, browsing the cat toy aisle. Then the pandemic happened, and at my daughter’s suggestion, I began using Chewy.com. Besides saving me money and allowing me to stay home and stay safe, the folks at Chewy actually sent Sgt.Thomas Tibbs a birthday card. How cool is that?

I count his “Gotcha Day” as his birthday. Sort of. I have no idea how old he is, but he’s definitely a senior boy now. At his initial exam, I asked my vet his approximate age and he replied, “Maaaayyyybe six-ish…,” so that would make him at least thirteen. How those years have flown.

Seven years ago, I went to my local shelter looking for a 30-40 pound friendly female dog. I came home with a 60 pound feral problem child with severe fear and anxiety issues. The first time I actually touched him was the day after I adopted him, after he’d been neutered and I had to pick him up from the vet. In those first hours, I wondered if I’d lost my mind. He wanted nothing to do with me. I had to corral him in the garage in order to get a leash on him. He was afraid of everything—people, cars, motorcycles. (The sound of a motorcycle engine blocks away would send him into a panic.) Cell phones. The cats.

The first five days were challenging. Then he adjusted to the routine, allowing me to catch him and walk him (though he kept his tail tucked the entire time). For months, he spent his days curled in a tight ball in a corner of the back yard, and he spent his nights restless and pacing. We walked every day, and I sat with him at night before bedtime, petting him and brushing him, but he would flinch every time I touched him. So that he wouldn’t feel alone, I gave him a stuffed bunny my son had given me the previous Easter. She became his favorite companion, his emotional support friend. I lost track of the number of times he buried her in the back yard. She would sometimes remain underground for months. But like him, she is resilient, and while he no longer ‘hides’ her, he does get anxious when I wash his bedding and, once again, Bunny Tibbs disappears for a few hours, only to return smelling of that awful stinky laundry detergent.

He still flinches when I touch him. Every. single. time—except in the wee hours of the morning, when I lean over the side of the bed, reach my hand down and stroke his head if he’s having a bad dream. Then he sighs and settles, stretching his legs and drifting back to sleep.

About a year and a half ago, it occurred to Thomas that he actually liked being petted and having his back rubbed at night (something I’ve been doing just about every night since bringing him home). He realized that my bedtime ritual meant he was going to “get love,” and he started his new habit of plunking himself down on the bedroom floor just outside the bathroom, wagging his tail and watching me brush my teeth. When I finish, he moves his head excitedly from side to side, sort of pointing to his back with his nose, if that makes sense. When I sit on the floor beside him, he immediately flops over on his side. As I rub his back and scratch his ears, his entire body relaxes. Sometimes he falls asleep there on the floor. Sometimes Purrl gets jealous and bites his toes. Or the tips of his ears. Owww! She’s lucky he never retaliates, just sits up, looking crushed and startled, then lumbers to his feet and trots away.

Lately, we have been doing fewer walks out in the hills together. His joints are old and creaky, and he hates doing hills. (So do I, but they are necessary in order to maintain fitness. As a dog, he doesn’t care about all that.) I’ve started him on a new supplement (Nutra Thrive—have you watched the entire online commercial?), and I’m hopeful it will help him with that, but even still, he’s not enjoying the walks out there, so I’ve had to go by myself.

We still walk, though, every morning after he’s eaten his breakfast, usually around 5:30. Sometimes we leave the house late enough to see the first glimpse of the sunrise. We do a lap around the block, during which time he basically power-walks me so that he can get back home and get his Kong filled with peanut butter treats. In the evening, I take him ‘round again, just at sunset. He hates to walk when there are people still out and about, but he has learned that part of being a good boy is to tolerate what I ask of him, so he goes, but reluctantly.

After all these years, he never overtly shows me affection apart from wagging his tail when he’s happy, and he’s still learning to trust me. His medical issues—first pemphigus, then a bout with pancreatitis a year ago, then another day-long ordeal in the emergency room for stomach issues in December—have drawn us closer, however. He is always so relieved to finally return home and feel safe again that it strengthens his bond with me. He knows that when he hurts, I will help him.

Conversely, I know that when I hurt, he will help me. The past year, with its social unrest and political chaos, to say nothing of the pandemic, has been difficult at best and heartbreaking in the worst moments of it. In those times, though, I seek out my own emotional support friend, who lets me say as much as I need to, or cry if I need to. He never interrupts or cuts me off in mid-sentence to interject a point he feels is more important than what I have to say. He just listens. And sighs. And goes back to sleep. Even if his fur is dotted with my tears.

In Harm's Way

 

Friends, I have been trying to write this blog post for a week. It’s been in my head, but somehow, I couldn’t make my fingers dance across the keys and tap it out. In fact, with the exception of two rather lengthy journal entries, I haven’t been able to write at all this week. (Apologies to my beloved characters in the middle-grade novel I’m working on.)

No doubt we’ve all been processing what took place in Washington D.C. last Wednesday. There’s been a lot to discover, sort out, process, discuss… even, perhaps, argue over just a bit, as I have done with my neighbor.

I had thought about opting out, not writing about this event at all, just skipping over it. There’s another topic that’s been in my head for weeks, and I really need to divest myself of those thoughts… but it will have to wait. My reluctance has been mostly my reticence at sounding like a broken record. I’ve said these things before. Do I want to say them again? I guess… yes. Yes, I do. Maybe it’s true that if we keep saying the same thing over and over (“The election was rigged!”), people will begin to believe us.

When the chaos had cleared in the Capitol, I told someone close to me that I was sad about the death of Ashli Babbitt, the young woman who was shot while storming the building. His response was, “I’m not. She put herself in harm’s way. It’s her own fault.” And then I was doubly sad. Because, while what he is saying is correct, it is wholly lacking in empathy. I am sad for the loss of her life, for the grief this has imposed on her family members.

Am I sympathetic to the insurgents? Well… yes and no. This is where the repetition begins.

What made Ashli Babbitt react so strongly to the result of an election that she, an Air Force veteran, would use force to attack her own nation’s capitol in order to overturn that vote?

Fear.

I know, I know. You’re going to say she wasn’t frightened at all. She was “angry” or “radicalized” or “batshit crazy.” Of those three speculations, I believe anger comes closest. Because when we’re frightened, we often lash out in what looks like anger. (A quick scroll through Babbitt's Twitter feed, which is still active, may validate my point for you--if you can stomach it.)

Look, just let me say this again and get it off my chest. Then I’ll go on to post a nice blog about my dog, with lovely pictures attached.

Here it is: Trump’s base has followed him so loyally because he has unleashed the hounds of hell. He has acknowledged, legitimized, and promoted the worst racist factions in our country. There came a time, after the Civil Rights Movement, in which it was seen as ignorant or backward or rude to display a Confederate flag. Most nice folks just didn’t do that anymore. But Mr. Trump made doing so not only acceptable, he made it fashionable. And those who have kept a low profile, who previously only expressed their true feelings about non-white races to others who were like-minded, have now crept out of the darkness. Their rallying cries have been echoing across the country for four long, dreary years now.

I don’t know much, but I do know about racists. Truth is, I am far too familiar with them. They share one thing in common. Talk to any racist long enough and bluntly enough and eventually you’ll hear his story, the defining moment that made him begin to fear those who are different, some incident in which he was harmed in some way or cheated or stolen from. Believe me, I’ve heard far more stories than I care to remember.

Or in some cases, you’ll hear about their parents. “My Daddy always told me….”

Fear is often an unconscious response. After Trump was elected, and he instituted the Muslim ban by executive order, I heard many of my white conservative friends express relief at no longer having to fear terrorist attacks. (Little did they suspect, I’m sure, that they would watch a terrorist attack carried out by their own countrymen.)

Sadly, there has been too much fuel dumped on this fire of fear, this kindling of ‘what will happen if.’

Just before the election, my neighbor, a devout Christian and avid Trump supporter, told me, “I’m afraid of what will happen if the election doesn’t go the way the Democrats want. I’m afraid we’re going to see more rioting.” (The rioting he referred to was related to the protests against the public lynching of George Floyd—“public lynching” being my words, not his.) When I tried to reassure him that Democrats might be profoundly disappointed but certainly not violent, his response was, “I hope you’re right. But if you’re wrong, I will bring my guns and defend your home.”

Let me insert here, I don’t live anywhere near a major, diverse metropolis. I am blessed to live in Southern California, but Los Angeles is over 70 miles away, as the crow flies. My little, semi-rural town has a densely white demographic, the majority of whom follow conservative party lines. If left-wing individuals wanted to plan some sort of violence, they’d have to do some pretty serious recruiting from places far, far from where we live.

But my neighbor’s fear is very real to him. He feels it viscerally. He sees the violence on TV, and the news outlets he prefers amplify that sense of threat and menace and urgency.

This is not the first time we’ve experienced this in our country. I was 11 years old in August of 1965. We lived in Lakewood, a suburb of Los Angeles. I remember a neighbor coming over to warn my siblings and I as we worked on some project in the garage that we needed to go inside the house and lock all the doors because the “negroes” were rioting.

I was living with my children far from L.A. during the riots of April, 1992, but a neighbor stopped by with a similar warning even then, saying that “blacks” were “getting on the freeway and driving this way.” That neighbor was a retired law enforcement officer. He was certain that he had “solid intel” from his sources in Los Angeles.

Psychologists long ago documented our innate fear or at least mistrust of anyone our brains characterize as “other,” anyone who looks or speaks or perhaps worships differently than we do. And we have known for countless generations that the most powerful weapon that can be used to control others is fear. Create terror in the hearts of the masses, then offer yourself as the one chosen to deliver them from that evil, and you will have their abject loyalty and devotion. Sadly, we have seen this play out in history over and over again, most recently with the president who told us we needed to close the borders and build a wall so that terrorists, murderers, drug lords, and rapists could no longer threaten us. Oh, and also those from “shit-hole countries” who might come here and take all the jobs.

I say all this to simply reiterate what I have said before: What happened at the Capitol was absolutely heartbreaking, yet no surprise at all. When you spend years fomenting violence by inundating the human psyche with warnings of unspeakable things to come, constantly stimulating that ‘fight or flight’ response, eventually, humans will explode.

We saw that mass explosion on January 6, 2021. Tragically, until we stop the hate speech, the lying and the threats, until we silence the fear-mongering, we will continue to witness similar events. Until we all work to find common ground, to be willing to lean in to hear the voices of others who may be far from us on the political spectrum but still close enough to reach out to if we stretch ourselves, we will continue to be profoundly polarized, and that is heartbreaking indeed.