Before I sleep

Robert Frost wrote a poem much beloved of Nature-philes and English teachers: “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” You may recall it from your school days—“Whose woods these are, I think I know….” The narrator sits in a sleigh far from home, watching his neighbor’s woods fill up with snow. The little horse pulling the sleigh “gives his harness bells a shake to ask if there is some mistake,” and we can almost hear the solitary jingle of those sleigh bells in the silent night. “The only other sound’s the sweep of easy wind and downy flake.”

Many a time I’ve stood in the forest on a dark snowy night, listening to nothing else but the whispered soughing of the wind in the trees and the slight padding, just below our conscious hearing, of snowflakes piling up. The experience, to the uninitiated, might seem fraught with loneliness. But… “the woods are lovely, dark and deep….”

Frost was not happy in his life of tending a farm to survive financially when all he really wanted to do was read literature and write great poems. I understand. Another season, another potato crop.... Eventually, though, the poet came to balance his time spent in subsistence and creativity and in fact to incorporate his passion for Nature and the outdoors with the workings of the pen.

What thought was in his mind on that night, “the darkest evening of the year,” as he sat watching the snow fall? Was he tossing around the beginnings of a new poem as he watched the trees become top heavy with snow, contemplating the image of birches, and how, when loaded with ice, they bend, “like girls … that throw their hair before them over their heads to dry in the sun”? Or did he muse upon the idea that “promises” kept him from what he would really like to do if unfettered? Or did he simply celebrate, finally, the passing of the solstice, as I will in 22 days, knowing that more light each day means more time outdoors?

“The woods are lovely….” Thankfully, in these days of disappearing sunlight, the trees retain their statuesque beauty. Indeed, that beauty is only enhanced when draped with the diamonds of ice crystals or robed in a soft pelt of powder snow. I, too, have promises to keep, and will attend to them… after a walk in the woods. If only I had the horse and sleigh….

Ben, pre-flight

My grandson, Ben, turned fifteen last month. god. I know. How did that happen? Last year, it seems, he was ten, and we were riding bikes together and learning how to skip rocks. The year before that, he was five and graduating from kindergarten. I remember everything about that bright, spring day, Ben and all his friends in their brightly colored caps and gowns….

Now he’s a sophomore in high school, on the wrestling team. And exactly a month ago, the day before his birthday, I taught him how to drive my truck. Like the memory of us skipping flat rocks across the surface of the slowly rolling Santa Ana River, I will remember the experience forever.

I didn’t tell him in advance. We’d joked about it from time to time, about who would be brave enough to teach him how to drive. And it was really more on a whim than anything else, but we had a half hour before I had to return him to his mom’s, so I pulled into the parking lot of a church (“Close by,” I told him, “in case we find ourselves in need of any prayers for the dead or dying”), stopped but left the engine idling, then got out and told him to move over to my seat. He was at first confused (pretty standard for Ben), then thrilled. And he was a tremendously adept pupil. At first, we drove agonizingly slowly, just letting the truck roll and making sweeping turns around the oval lot which was empty save for one burgundy Camry. We wondered aloud how the owner would respond if Ben hit it, whether railing or forgiving. Eventually, I made him use the gas pedal to accelerate up to 20 miles per hour, then stop. We practice stopping over and over, so that he could feel how long it took to make something so huge come to a complete stop. Never once did he hit the brakes too hard. Never once did he jerk the truck forward as he took off again. A natural. Of course, we’ve yet to drive on the road. That will come.

As we switched seats again and hurried off to meet Mom (since our half hour had—oops—doubled), he watched everything I did, how I handled the truck in traffic, what I did as I came to stop lights, how I seemed so at ease driving 45. He chattered incessantly. I hadn’t seen him so alive in a long, long time. “Ha,” I said, “you think this is empowering? Wait until a year from now, when you get your license, and that first day comes when your mom tells you to go pick up your sister at someone’s house, and you’re out there, solo. Your uncle would drive for hours, just to see where the road would take him.” As any young person will who needs to escape. I did, as well. As we drove, I told Ben about how I dreamed of turning sixteen and getting my license just to get away from my wicked step-father. And the day I took ownership of my first car? Few things top it.

There will be lectures from me, the next time we drive, about speeding, grandstanding, risking the lives of others and so forth. And, to Ben’s mind, his next birthday probably seems like a lifetime away. To me it is no more than twelve turns of the moon, one Tour de France and a World Series away… the blink of an eye. I wonder if I’ll lose him then… if he will simply drive away one day—to college, or on a road trip with his friends—and when he returns from his journey he will have crossed the threshold into manhood, no longer in need of his Nana to teach and guide him.

On his twelfth birthday, I took Ben out to dinner and told him how sad I was that I had only 365 days left with him, that he would turn thirteen in a year and, as a teenager, would no longer want to hang around with me or—God forbid—hug me in public. He promised quite solemnly that, as a teen, he would continue to hug me and “of course” want to hang around with me. So far, he’s been true to his word. Time, which moves with strong wings when it comes to the changing of a child, will tell. For now, I still hold the keys.

Breaking the silence... with a sledgehammer

I went through a divorce when my kids were little. The pain of it—hurting them, uprooting them, depriving them—became a weight that only got heavier over time, a thick blanket of sadness and unrealized dreams and guilt that I couldn’t throw off. My then-friend Lana Buckley told me one day, “Don’t worry. Someday you’ll feel safe again, and you will be able to write again.” Funny. I don’t know how she knew I wasn’t writing. I’d been working on a book on Downs Syndrome kids. I had photos and interviews, and it was a project for which I felt great love, pride and satisfaction. But it was one of many things I was forced to abandon when I left my husband, a loss I could not fully account for until years later, when I finally had to simply let it go, accepting that I would never get back to it.

Lana was right. It took years, but I finally did begin to write again. And so I recall her wisdom now. I spent this past summer writing, posting to this blog, working on some projects I’d wanted to get to during the school year. But all that creativity came to a screeching halt when my brother passed away on Labor Day. Yes, we knew it was coming. I’m here to tell you, you can never ‘be prepared’ for the finality of a loved one’s death. Ever. Knowing we’d lose him soon didn’t diminish the sadness at his loss. For awhile, that sadness was my constant companion, shadowing me as I ‘chopped wood, carried water,’ carrying out the daily routine that enables me to make forward progress even in the emotionally dark times.

I can’t say I’m ‘over it’ now, that I’ve come to terms with his death. Close friends have offered honest comfort in saying that this kind of loss isn’t something from which one recovers; one simply accepts that the wound will never fully heal. This seems right, given my experience with the death of my father and a few close friends.

But I have at least come to the place where, after over two months, I was able, last Wednesday, to write again. Some of you know that I journal frequently. When I finally did put pen to paper, I had a lot of catching up to do. I sat in the waiting area of Big O Tires in Rancho Cucamonga for two hours while they put tires on the Tacoma and changed the oil, and I wrote page after page after page.

In the coming weeks, I will try to be more faithful about posting here. Several of you have sent emails of gentle inquiry, missing my writing. You can’t know how much I appreciate that; writers do what they do in solitude, as I have noted in the past. The process is at times a horrifically lonely ordeal. Knowing that the words are finally read and appreciated gives one courage to go forward.

And go forward we must. Life is all about making forward progress, is it not? If we halt in our journey we most likely are not learning or growing or giving. It is my intention to continue doing all three of those things while breath remains, so—onward!

Bear as token

For several weeks now, trails on the mountain have been closed by the Forest Service as fires continue to burn in Riverside, San Bernardino and Los Angeles Counties—most notably, the Station fire, which is now the largest fire to ever sweep through the mountains above L.A. The folks who ‘manage’ the forest worry that if a fire breaks out here, resources will already be critically depleted, so the trails are closed in order to reduce the odds of yet another fire being started up here.

No one is allowed on the trails, and big signs have been erected at the trailheads, in pull-outs up and down the mountain: STOP. NO ENTRY. EXTREME FIRE DANGER. This results in a quietness and serenity on the mountain that is indescribable. For a time, I will hear no loud hikers at 5:00a.m. passing by on the road to the falls above my cabin, stopping to pitch rocks over the side into what they think is a deep canyon, talking loudly of all manner of things, from hating their bosses to their sexual exploits—all of which is heard by myself and whatever neighbors are up at that hour.

With the peace and quiet, the animals come out in record numbers, as do the mountain residents. We sneak onto the trails when we know the rangers won’t catch us. We see bighorn sheep nearly ever day who use the nearly abandoned trails themselves. Turning a corner in the trail, we’re no longer surprised when we see a few ewes, sometimes with a baby or two.

Last Sunday, I heard a commotion outside at 5:30a.m. shortly after I’d gone out to refill a water dish I leave out for birds, squirrels and raccoons. I approached the French doors leading to my deck to try to peer out into the darkness to see what was up—and realized by the sheer bulk of the shadow on the opposite side of the doors that I was staring at the form of a bear. When I switched on the outside light, I saw a beautiful, cinnamon-colored bear strolling around on the deck, sniffing the air around the doorframes. It’s hard to appreciate the size of a bear’s paw and claws until you see him standing on your back porch. Without shouting, I asked him to leave, and he did so.

I celebrated the bear’s visit by walking up to the Sierra Club ski hut later that morning, a journey that takes me a bit over two hours, walking slowly up a gain of 2,000 feet in elevation along a single track trail at the edge of the canyon that feeds the waterfall. I didn’t pass a single soul that day. I sat for a half hour at the hut, eating some hummus and flatbread, tossing tiny crumbs to the jays, breathing in the silence and the scent of sun-warmed pine. Clouds danced overhead.

I walked early this morning, before dawn, so I could stand up near the falls and watch the sky turn pink behind the eastern ridge.

I am grateful that my cabin hasn’t sold, that I am here on the mountain during this time of grieving. I will think of these things today at my brother’s memorial service. The silence of the canyon will come back to me in the midst of my sadness, the soft brush of the mountain breeze against my skin.

Ain't gonna let nobody turn me 'round

On my way home from work today I stopped to pick up my mail at the Baldy post office. Along with my Newsweek and another opportunity to donate to the L.A. AIDS Project, there was a large manila envelope with my address inscribed by my own hand—a rejection. The ‘snake story’ was declined by The Sun. Thanks to those of you who read it and raved about it; your words give me the courage to send it out again. I’ll keep you posted.

I wasn’t about to let anyone take my jubilee today, though. The marine layer has been creating quite the spectacular show as I drive to work in the mornings. (See photo at right.) And--I received an email today from Belinda Nantz, a woman who has lived in Catawissa all her life. (Catawissa is where Bertha Gifford lived… in the so-called House of Mystery.) Belinda wrote to tell me that she’d just finished reading Tainted Legacy, that she’d heard stories of Bertha all her life, and that mostly folks said she was the kind of person who just really wanted to help members of her community. She said, basically, that the older people in the community—the “seniors”—had nothing but good things to say about Bertha. I’ve suspected for some time that the further we get from Bertha’s trial in 1928, the more sensationalized the events of those times will become. A few decades back, folks thought she was eccentric. Now there are “ghost hunters” trying to find her spirit roaming around in Morse Mill and postings all over the web about her being a serial killer. What if Bertha never really poisoned anyone? What if it really was all about arsenic in the drinking water?

At any rate, it was comforting to receive Belinda’s note. I thought about it as I walked to the waterfall this evening, the wind soughing high in the pines and the squirrels chattering about where the best acorns are. As I noted in a previous post, it’s been pretty quiet up here with the trails closed. A neighbor, returning from the waterfall as I was headed up, mentioned casually that she’d just seen a baby bear on the trail. We haven’t had bears around for two years. It made me wonder what’s coming next—mountain lions, maybe? Kind of like the snake story—What’s next? Maybe I’ll send it off to ZYZZYVA. Maybe Howard Junker will like it. Wouldn’t that be a kick?

Eternally grateful

Last weekend Grandson Ben came up to spend the three-day weekend with me. In the evening, we walked up to the waterfall to stand in the cool twilight and watch the bats fly over our heads. The mountain has been serene and quiet since the Forest Service closed the trails to hikers. Those of us who are residents are especially blessed during these times, as the threat of fire diminishes and the local wildlife quickly takes over the space the campers and hikers had occupied. On Sunday evening, Ben and I stood and watched a young fox down by the falls, then saw a baby king snake on our way home. And more bats, of course.

All of this was a comfort to me. My brother Dan had gone into hospice on Thursday. His cancer had spread to so much of his body that he was in constant pain. In hospice, he could be on IV drugs. Our last conversation had taken place some days before. I’d called in the evening just to check on him. He was tired and, as we talked, he climbed into bed with his cat, Wilson. “Yeah, move over, cat,” he said gruffly, but I knew he was scratching Wilson’s head or stroking his fur as he said it. From his boyhood days, Dan has always adored animals, and we once had a conversation about how dogs were just people wearing other ‘suits.’

When Dan entered hospice care, I sent emails and Facebook postings out to as many people as I could, asking them to pray for him or chant for him or send positive energy or simply think loving thoughts for him, so that his passing would be easy. That was my prayer. That his passing would be peaceful. I told my cousin I just wanted Dan to “float off on our love.”

On Sunday evening, my other brother, Kevin, flew to Washington to be with Dan. He said he felt compelled to do so. Monday morning dawned beautiful and clear on the mountain. Ben helped me and for hours we cleared brush and cut branches. Apparently my phone had been ringing, but I didn’t hear it.

That morning, a harpist came into the hospice room with Dan. She asked Kevin if she could play her harp for Dan, and of course Kevin agreed. A nurse was in the room as well, and when the harpist began to play, she reported that Dan’s heart rate and respirations were slowing down, calming. She said he must like music because he was responding positively, and he was “peaceful.” The nurse left the room. When she returned ten minutes later, Dan was gone.

Since Dan’s passing, I’ve been walking up to the waterfall every evening, just to sit and listen to the water rushing as it has for hundreds of years. Wordsworth told his sister that, in times of trouble, she should consider the immutability of Nature, how a forest glen or a meadow or a stream could remain the same through the turmoil of countless generations, through war or feast or famine. It was the unchangeable character of Nature that he held onto when the world itself seemed to tilt out of alignment. And thus it is with me.

Addendum

Just wanted to add a quick note as an addendum to recent posts:

(Hate to sound like the doting mother, but seriously, doesn't Sugie look, well, just like Sugie in this photo? All ears sideways and wild-eyed, like she's about to attack something?? Glad it wasn't my hand... this time....)

So I stopped by Upland Animal Shelter (cat hell) yesterday. Two serendipitous events occurred. The first:

When I entered the smaller cat room, I was surprised to find it crowded with women. 'Wow,' I thought, 'lots of folks looking at cats today.' But then I realized these weren't potential adopters, they were volunteers. Three of the women had Down's Syndrome. The fourth looked up from a cage and smiled.

"Are you all volunteers?" I asked.

"Yes," she told me. "We come here every Thursday, just to interact with the cats." Is that cool or what?? More angels!! I thanked them all and four kind faces lit up. I watched for awhile as they carefully brushed and stroked the cats, then put each one gently back in its cage. Wow. What a blessing.

Then I headed off to the big cat room. There was a black kitten curled in a ball whose gender I could not determine, so I went to the front desk.

"Can I help you?" asked Mr. Jackass. I ignored him as if he were invisible. A woman swiveled around in her chair. I hadn't seen her before.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes," I replied pleasantly, and asked if she could check the gender of a kitten for me.

"Of course!" she replied, just as pleasantly, and off we went to the cat room. Little Miss Thing turned out to be a girl, and as I held her, the nice officer and I got to talking about black cats. She confirmed what others had said, that black cats are very difficult to place, and often 'grow up' in the shelter.

"I have one at home right now that I'm fostering," she told me. She went on to explain that a batch of kittens had been brought to the shelter in such bad shape she didn't think one of them would make it through the night. They were dehydrated, anemic from the fleas that covered them, full of worms, and starving. She took the worst one home--he had an infected eye filled with pus (shades of Homer Cooper!!)--and started caring for him, picking the fleas off, giving him fluids, treating his eye... and loving him.

"You should see him now!" she boasted. "But I'll have to bring him back, and he'll probably just sit here, because he's black...." Hmmm....

Anyway, this lady was great, and she clearly cared for the cats, so we'll have to conclude that she is an angel who has volunteered to work in hell. Now that's impressive!!

Of course, at the end of the day I ended up back in cat heaven, spending a luxurious half hour in the sunny yard with "Elmore," "Chesterfield," and several other furry children whose names I didn't know. (Angel was busy inside, sweeping out each and every cat apartment, so I couldn't ask him.)

I still haven't made a decision about who's coming home with me, but I appreciate all the response I've had to the blog and your comments. Love you, animal lovers!!