Swallowing ego and playing our part. Or not.

When people ask I tell them I grew up on a traditional family farm. There were roles for the women and roles for the men. I knew the roles existed. I knew the traditional expectation too. So did my mom.

My mom taught me two lessons though. The first, how to fulfill the role of the wife and mother. The second, that we don't always have to.

As a little girl I was taught that if the men are out working it is our job to make sure they have food to eat when they come in for lunch or supper. That our job is to make sure they have everything they need to do their job. Some people would likely view this as sexist, but what it truly was, was every member of the family finding a way to contribute to the end result. To getting the job done. If we aren't needed out in the barn/field/woods/workshop, then we can be of help in the house. I felt like it was unfair at times. Times when I wanted to work on the tractor instead of making sandwiches. Tractor work earns a lot more clout than making sandwiches does. I wanted to be the one who everyone pats on the back for a good work day put in. For earning my keep. Instead, I had to eat my ego and do what was needed of me. A lesson I hope my kids learn.

As much as my mother taught me lesson one, she was sure to show me that just because we are good at making sandwiches doesn't mean we can't run the tractor too. We can do both jobs. I liked this lesson best. A lesson that I'm sure my kids have learned. Not only can I keep a house, but I can also get a pat on the back for a good days work. As a kid, this pleased me to no end. I thought of us girls as the most useful can't-do-without tool in our family toolbox. My brothers noticed this too, and so they learned to cook to try to even the score. Growing up I always challenged "girl jobs" and "boy jobs". So often that my mother was called by the school. (I am sure she was most concerned and likely promised the principal that she would speak to me about my bold stand. At home she just smiled at me.)

I've never thought of myself or my mother as a feminist. I just never liked the term. I'm sure we fit the definition though. We just didn't care. I have experienced inequality. I was even flat out told I wouldn't be hired because I was a girl. But I learned to swallow my ego a long time ago.

I work in a male dominated industry. Farmers, men and even some women, still look at me and say that I can't, that I shouldn't and ask where my husband is. I just smile knowing something they don't and make the sandwiches, then go to work on the tractor. Thanks Mom, for two great lessons.

Earning luxury

When I was 7 or 8 I was helping my family build a new fence. I was too small to swing the sledge hammer or pull the barbed wire or to do any of the fun jobs like hammer the nails. My grand father, father and brother got those jobs. But I still wanted to be helpful so I got to carry the can of Green Pentox and the paint brush. My job was to paint the bottom of the fence posts that go in the ground so they wouldn't rot.

Preparing for fencing was an annual job and whether you wanted to help or not, you did or had to anyway. We all would head out to the wood lot and find the hackmatack trees (a.k.a. tamarack) and cut them down. The fun job (I use the word fun in that cruel way like piling 8 cord of split wood is fun or hauling 1000 square bales off a field in 30 degree weather is fun) was peeling them. The men (my oldest brother included) got the best jobs, again, and ran the chainsaws and hauled the branches out of the way. The rest of us, under my grand mother's instruction got to peel the logs. Except she had this nifty peeling tool to peel her logs nice and easy. There were only 2 of those tools so my mom got the other, leaving me and my other brother to use a hatchet and our fingers. If you think getting sap on your hand in one little spot sucks, don't ever, ever, ever peel hackmatack trees. My hands turned instantly black and sticky and my fingers hurt from the dirt and sap building up under my nails.  One thing I was sure of is that after all that I did not want those fence posts to rot, because I didn't want to have to get more.

The fence we were building was along side of an embankment that ended in a ditch. The bucket of Pentox was a big gallon paint can. For a little girl like I was, it was heavy. The ground wasn't exactly level. It was recently cleared and mounds and hollows were left from pulling the tree trunks. Weeds and shrubs were growing in with the new access to sunlight. I moved ahead of the men having the post painted and ready by the time they had the previous pounded into the ground. 

I was doing a great job and keeping up. I liked being helpful. I liked the feeling of pride and accomplishment that came with it. A sense of being of value to the family.  Right up until I slipped, and fell down the embankment, landing in the ditch with the entire can of green Pentox poured over my head. Pentox Green is green. It's a stain. It's designed to penetrate the wood. It penetrated me. Despite an hour in the tub with my mother scrubbing me raw, I was green. A bright orange red head with green skin. I looked like some kind of leprechaun. It lasted weeks before finally fading away.

Today, I use black spruce, untreated fence posts, that I buy, already peeled and sharpened. I can swing the sledge hammer if they rot. I gladly will.  It's a luxury I think I've earned.

I'm done!

                                                                      365:365

I'm done!  I can't believe it, but I am finished my project 365!  Remember a year ago when I said I was starting. Yeah, that was forever ago.

A year ago I didn't know enough to know what I didn't know. I thought that the project would be a piece of cake until about day 11.  I was bored and uninspired and had no idea what to shoot.  I can see my progress through the year of pictures, but can't articulate quite what I learned or how that makes me feel. Mostly I feel proud.  I can't believe the task went from a struggle to a habit. Not only did my pictures improve but the days where I just took something to say I did were fewer and fewer. I can't tell you what I learned technically, but I'll offer you this:

A few things you should know before you start your own project 365:

• A year is both very short and very long.
• I suggest owning a dog or cat or both. If you don't, then get one - even if you have to rent it.
• Having kids is crucial to success. If you don't have any, rent them too. You will need them.
• Have a house with good light.
• Have interesting things in your house that you can take interesting pictures of when it's 11:30 pm and haven't got your picture of the day yet. That, or do what I did and take pictures of boring things.
• Plant a flower garden. This will supply you with material to photograph for a good 100 shots anyway.
• Get a good camera bag because you will be carrying your camera everywhere you go for at least a year. I say at least, because even when you're done, you'll likely still carry it around out of habit.
• Lenses make great gifts. Ask for one you don't have. New toys always give you new inspiration.

In my year I took 54 pictures of my kids, 20 pictures of my dog, 11 of my horse, 9 of my cat, 7 of chickens and 6 of my cows. If I didn't have these props I don't think I'd be able to complete the project.

In my year I learned a few things about myself too.

• I don't like taking pictures of people. Especially in public.
• I like shooting into the light.
• My dog is very photogenic.
• I am glad I live in the country because there is a lot of things to take pictures of.
• I suck at prompts.
• I can take pictures of kids.
• I'm not a big fan of textures.
• I need rain gear for my camera. Being stuck indoors for a week when it's wet and cold kills photographic mojo.
• I am not very good a picking my picture of the day. Some of my favorite pictures now, I didn't choose at the time as my picture.

The best thing I learned this year was how to capture what I love, the way I see it, so you can see it too.

These are some of my favorites for the year.

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297:265

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318:365

311:365

25 things about me

I was going to try for 50, but couldn't think of that many.

1. I first learned to ride a horse when I was 3
2. When I was sixteen I flew to Toronto on my own to show cows.
3. I'm not easily impressed.
4. When I got married my dad finally told me I was no longer grounded. Yes, I was that bad.
5. My dad is a pilot and I've been flying in small planes since I was a little girl.
6. My first time on a commercial plane was when I was 15.
7. I can't play volleyball. The only sport I've tried that I truly suck at.
8. I learned how to drive a tractor when I was 12. My brothers were younger than that, but I had to wait until I could reach the pedals and was heavy enough to push in the clutch and brake.
9. I drove from Las Vegas to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. Best drive I've ever made. I want to go again and again.
10. I've seen a ghost.
11. For fun as kids, my brothers and I would climb to the top of spruce trees (30 - 40 ft) and jump from tree top to tree top.
12. I don't like wearing gloves, it makes me feel blind.
13. I have excellent long term memory. My first memory is when I was two years old.
14. Sometimes eating chicken drumsticks grosses me out.
15. I have two older brothers. One to get me into trouble, the other to get me out.
16. As a kid I had an imaginary friend named Banjo.
17. I can swim, but I can't do the front crawl.
18. I started boxing to see how hard I could hit.
19. I like to draw.
20. I wish I hadn't quit ballet when I was 7.
21. I don't like nail polish. It makes my fingers feel heavy.
22. In junior high I played the trumpet in band.
23. I used to win money playing pool.
24. I don't like most seafood.
25. I like heights.

It's silly right?

She emailed me and said something so simple. When are you going to start selling your work? I read it and laughed. I have no idea how to even approach such a thing. Plus, who'd want to buy, as in pay money for, my pictures? Silly right?

Then I told Martin what she said and chuckled as I did at the ridiculousness of the idea, waiting for him to laugh back. Except he didn't.

Now I'm reading stuff online and asking questions and putting together a group of pictures for friends to critique, all the while hiding under the couch waiting for them to laugh and tell me I'm silly. Your pictures are nice, but they aren't professional. You need to know everything in this here big stack of books if you want to be good enough to sell your pictures. Then I'll crawl out and laugh and say I know, I was just checking.

What do I know? Nothing. Well, I know I don't even dare breathe the words and I feel bare naked in front of the whole world when I don't like being in public in a bathing suit. And I can't even remember the password for my paypal account if it still exists and I'm not good at remembering to mail stuff and I have cows so I can't possibly have time for this. I know that.

The stuff you remember

I went to school with both of them. She was the cousin of an elementary school friend. He was just a kid from Hebron that lived close enough he walked to school. I met them in grade 7 when our elementary schools combined in junior high.

She was awkward and religious and didn't celebrate birthdays or Christmas or anything else. I understand more now, but at the time, that's all I knew. She played the flute in band. I forget what year it happened but she was in a bike accident and knocked out all her front teeth and had to get an insert of fake teeth. She wasn't pretty, her long brown hair was drab and often greasy. She dressed like an old lady in clothes that looked like they were going to be thrown away. The difference between her and most was she didn't seem to care. She was the opposite of cool.

He was the definition of cool. With good looks and nice clothes, he was popular. He pretended to be a bad ass but it was clear to see he was a softy at heart. He hung out with the cool boys, all of which I think I had a crush on at one time or another. The popular girls hung at his side and held his attention, but I don't recall him with a girl friend. With a word, be it a compliment or insult, he could sway the school population and change your position in the social ranks. He was funny. We shared a home room in highschool and sat next to each other in typing class. He called me Mistybush Rouge Cheveux, of course curious if I was a true redhead.  In his group of friends he was apparently the last to get laid and the most curious about it. On his own, without peer pressure, he was a really nice guy.

In the six years they shared a school and likely classrooms, they must have known the other existed. Our school was small. But I don't think I ever saw them speak to each other, or even acknowledge the other. They were after all, pretty much complete opposites. Their circles did not over lap.

A few years after graduation I heard that they married and lived in the same neighbourhood he was born.

And that he killed himself.

Our graduating class has never had a reunion. If we did, I wonder if she'd come. I wonder if people, who never cared about her one way or another back in school, would suddenly see her. I wonder how loud the whispers would be.

Highschool is a strange place. I'm left wondering about a lot of things that happened back then. How the paths of people cross, intertwine and veer away again. I've always wondered about theirs. How their paths came to cross. How it started, how it ended. If anyone else wonders too.

Romance

Me: When is Valentines Day?

Mart: Hmm? I dunno. Monday I think.

Me: You don't know? How can you not know?

Mart: I don't know. I know it's the 14th. I think that's Monday.

Mart: Why do guys always have to know these things? Why can't women do stuff for men?

Me: Because it's important. Just like it's important that men know that their wives like daisies.

Me: And it's important men know which day their wives like to receive daisies most.

Saturday

On more occasions than not, I stumble into my weekends.  A million things to do zip by my brain and yet, I sit still and watch the time be wasted.  As much as I want things done, I don't want to do any of them.  I just want them done. 

I crawl up the stairs from bed, having slept in, because the devil (or angel, depending on perspective) on my shoulder told me I deserve it, and I believed them, to find Owen going full tilt.  I make my coffee and contemplate my day, knowing full well, half of my ideas won't get done and watch Owen play. 

I'm in awe of him.  He leaps into his days.  Bounces from bed with ideas seemingly carried from his dreams.  One foot touches the floor and he's a lion, a soldier, a .... Ordinary objects become extraordinary and he's traveled through time and around the world before I've finished my coffee.  All the while my butt remains planted.  My mind unable to decide with ease where I should start on my long list of chores.  So it gives up and I sit here. 

Where did that go? That boundless energy?  The eagerness to greet the day?  I must have vacuumed it up by accident because I haven't seen it around in a long time. 

Project 365

6:365 Mart
Originally uploaded by Misty Croney

On July 28th I started a little project. Together with a group for support, I decided to take a picture everyday for a whole entire year. I'm currently on day 11 and I've already run out of things around my house to take pictures of. So it shall be interesting to see what I find to change things up a bit. That's the whole idea of the project though. To help me (force me) try new things, take pictures of things I wouldn't normally and break out of my comfort zone. I'm pretty comfy in my little zone.

This picture is from day 6. We went to Scots Bay along the Bay of Fundy. The tide was way out so the beach was long and the mud extra squishy. If you'd like to follow along visit my flickr page.

Rain

Maybe it's genetic. My Grampy loved the rain too, and never missed the chance to drive through puddles, wether it was on bike, tractor or truck. Or maybe having the name Misty predisposes me to liking the rain. Either way, I do like the rain. And puddles.

Today we had my most favorite kind of rain. Warm and straight down, not too hard, just steady. Almost lazy. Just right to leave drops hanging from leaves and bikes and toys forgotten. The whole of outdoors stood still. Quiet. The only sound was the rain. All the trees and plants seemingly heaved a collective sigh. Not a bird or bug was seen or heard.

I like plodding around in raincoat and rubber boots on days like today. Weaving my way around the newly washed world. Witnessing the toys lying wet in the grass, the hammer next to the not yet completed shed, the bird feeder hanging still for the first time in days. Everything is different and everything is the same. Everything stands still and listens.

Oblivious

It's funny who we surround ourselves with sometimes. Alot of the time it isn't people we would necessarily choose. Most of the time it's by circumstance. Like work, you take a job and hope the people you'll be working with are nice. They may not be who'd you pick to spend 40 hours a week with, but you make do the best you can because what choice do you have. Sometimes it works out and a new friend is found. Other times you quit your job.

I attended my new sister in law's stagette party recently. I never had a party for my own wedding. I guess at the time, I didn't really have anyone local that I was really close with to be bothered.

At the time of my engagement I was working at a jewelery store. It's probably the last place anyone, myself included, would imagine me working since I don't really care for jewelry, or dressing up, or being indoors, etc. To be honest, I was snobbish towards the job. I was fresh out of school with a piece of paper, it's ink still wet, that read Bachelor of Science. I thought I was over qualified. It was retail, anyone can get a job in retail. So long as I didn't have a criminal record and I could solve a simple skill testing question, I was in. I took the job because I had to. Mart and I had student loans we were drowning in plus a 3 year old to raise. I tried working in my field, on farms, but despite the good pay the hours are impossible if you want to see your kid. So I put what I loved to do, the only thing I loved to do, on hold. I worked at a jewelery store that had decent hours and paid over minimum wage plus commission.

Just tonight, while thinking of the party held for my sister in law, I remembered suddenly that I did have a party. A surprise party at that. The girls from work told me we were having a staff meeting and everyone had to attend or else. The or else was because I loathed staff meetings. I thought they were the biggest time waster ever conceived by the retail industry. Apparently my manager new that and made sure I attended. When I arrived, there were balloons, snacks, cake and gifts all prepared for me. Prepared by people that I spent numerous hours with, but not who I'd call on a Saturday night. We were all different ages and in different places in our lives, with completely different interests.

It surprises me to think that a group of people could do something so thoughtful for me and 8 years later I forget. It was a year later that I left the jewelery store. Some of the original staff were still there, but most were gone. I've never seen or heard from any of them since. Why would I? It makes me wonder if they remember throwing the party for me.

I don't make friends with girls easily. In fact I have only 2 close girl friends. People who know me inside and out and still like me. I'm not sure why. It scares me to think that perhaps I've just had my head stuck up my ass all these years and have been completely oblivious to the friendship offered. Perhaps I've been too busy noticing how different people are instead of how alike.

pale grey

They say (I don't know who, just they) that horses are colour blind. I imagine being completely colour blind means you see everything in shades of grey. Like watching my old TV. Except I could imagine colour and in my mind imagined what colours Casey and Finnegan really were. Horses, having never seen colour before wouldn't know it exists.

Patches was the horse I grew up with. A beautiful Canadian mix kind of mutt with a thick neck and round rump. He was smart and full of mischief. We went away for a week to a riding camp and when we left, the house bordering his pasture was pale yellow. To him perhaps pale grey. When we returned, the house had been painted a pale blue. To him, I imagined this would also look pale grey.

I let him loose in his pasture and laughed as he galloped from one end to the other, tail raised, snorting and huffing at this house, who was no longer pale grey, but instead, pale grey. Obviously what I imagined about the sight of a horse was a tad off. Regardless, it caused excitement in his day.

Today, I'm watching guys paint the store across the road from my office. It used to be pale grey. Now it's bright blue. If I were a horse, what a day I'd have.

The art of being grumpy if there is such thing.

It's ugly. I can't picture anything uglier. It feels ugly and I have no control. My sugar drops and like a full moon rising this thing builds inside me and I change right before your very eyes into a beast. Werewolves would be kinder I think.

I snarl and spew venom at anyone within range. The kids run and hide. The oldest son, teaching the youngest to just stay away. Martin treads carefully testing the degree of grumpiness, and asks what's for supper. I snarl, growl, show fangs. Wolves come out of the woods hearing my howls. If it's full blown he ducks. If it's not he guides me and I grumble and growl as I prepare the meat for the meal. Some days he tries to make the meal but ROAR, I don't want to eat that! So he doesn't.

When he's brave, Martin puts on his armour, yields his sword and tries to tame the beast. Deflects my bites and gets close enough to shove some food down my throat. Beer works. Or wine. Sometimes even a cookie. Then as quickly as it came, the murderous tendencies fade and I purr like a kitten. The beast is sedated. He gives me a scratch behind the ear and I change back into myself.

Some people in my family like to tease the beast (not naming names brothers) and poke me to see just how enraged I can get. A game to them. I snarl, they laugh. Which is why when I was a kid and kicked my oldest brother square in the nose, my mother told him he deserved it and I got away scott free.

It would be nice if I never got grumpy at all, but it's genetic. A characteristic of my father and I that the family has decided is within limits to tease us about. (no they did not consult us when that was decided) My father and I growl at each other and as life would have it, understand each other quite well.

At least my kids are like Martin. Slayers of dragons and not dragons themselves. My oldest brother has the kids with the grumpy gene. Who said nature doesn't have a sense of humour?

Float like a butterfly

It seems fitting that I'm here during the time of year full of resolutions and weight loss. And since it's not February yet, those resolutions haven't even been broken yet.

I woke up to 2010 amongst four piles stacked high of files, each in a different state of completion, and working every waking hour. Feeling swamped and stressed and similar to a pile of shit, I decided to do something different.

I chopped off my hair. Well, that's not all that different, but it's been in a pony tail for a long time. I even highlighted it. Which to all the ladies out there wouldn't give cause for a cheer, but it did for me, as I've never ever had anything put in my hair. So I felt much the same as I did when I was 7 and was allowed to get my ears pierced. Finally taking the step long after it was considered cool. But still, my own token of whatever to show that I'm not so different from all of you. I just wanted to feel pretty.

I also checked off another item from my life list. If I were to actually write one it would contain things such as: husband (check), kids (check), farm (getting there), career (check), Africa, learn Italian, dog sled, learn violin and on and on. But the one I checked off has been nagging at me for a bit. So I'm super excited to have joined boxing.

If I had to identify myself in two words I'd say farm girl. That's probably the best fit. Being a farm kid, strength was always considered an asset. Growing up in, and working in agriculture, I've always been a little girl, largely under estimated, in a big man world. But, secretly I know that I can hold my own. Pound for pound I may even have some guys beat. This is something I've always taken pride in. So this boxing fits perfectly with me. It's full of heavy metal, sweat, swearing, grunting, ugly gym pants and workouts from hell. These girls are tough and there will be no gentle. When I leave, I am exhausted and satisfied I have given every ounce of effort. I can't lift my coffee mug the next day, but it feels so good. I float like a butterfly, heart and soul.

So this year has begun fresh and strong. What is good for the muscles is good for the mind. Twice per week I climb out from under my piles of work and give a heavy bag hell. At this pace, 2010 is going to be a great year.

water water everywhere

Have you ever been desperately thirsty? Drink out of a mud puddle thirsty?

My brother in law was visiting. It is a treat, his company, travelling far and sharing his time with us. So with his arrival the celebration began. After an evening sharing many beer and a bottle of wine we tucked in for the night. It is then, that I experienced thirst like no other.

I was travelling, visiting kitchens of folks with no faces, but with a feeling of familiarity and friendship. Other places unknown, new to me. All quite pleasant, and all with one thing in common. Water. As dreams often take you, chopped and pasted together with little continuity, there I was gulping glass after glass of crystal clear water. It sparkled and shined like the sun, magic in my hand.

Then I woke up. My breath like dust in my mouth.

Nothing dries you out like wine. It sucked water from each cell that forms my being. Certain if I were to glimpse my image reflected at me I would see a shrivelled mummified creature. I dared not look when I passed the mirror hung on my bedroom wall. Instead, searched for my robe and traipsed upstairs at 2:00 am. A glass is left on the counter, I grab for it and fill it. Eyes half, closed, brain only functioning with one purpose, screaming WATER at me, I gulp it down. Then realize the off taste is due to the dried milk from the previous user. It was the glass Owen had used at supper.

This has happened to me before. Well, not the dream, but the desperation from thirst. Far from a water source, and not fussy about the ownership of water bottles, I drank what was left of each I could find. Mart's, Reiley's, Owen's. Owen's bottle was last. It wasn't until the last few gulps remained that my brain stopped screaming WATER at me, and I was able to process other things. Unfortunately it was to notice Owen's snack floating in the water that remained.

The next day, the ache in my head reminded me of my dehydrated state, but after the milky drink, my gag reflex won out over my thirst. I had returned to bed to finish the night in a fitful sleep without another drop.

The moral of this story: Make sure you drink plenty of water after wine, and kids backwash.

a theory

I love animals. Not in the save all the kittens and puppies kind of way (but all the power to those of you who do). More in a scientific study of the species kind of way. They interest me. I like watching their interactions and place in the world. I find it amusing to catch mirror images of humans in them. To remind me that we aren't so far removed from our old animal selves. We aren't necessarily at the top of the food chain, or the intellectual chain as we so like to think.

Driving down the highway, have you ever seen tire tracks that for no apparent reason take a 90 degree turn into the ditch? Straight stretch of road, then bam, in the ditch. I've always wondering what would possess someone driving at 110 km/hr to suddenly crank the wheel to the right and head for the weeds. On my way to a friends house the other night, I came up with a theory. Raccoons.

Raccoons are interesting things. I love their dexterity, ability to learn, resourcefulness and cunning, but that is where it ends. I have no affection for these guys beyond an interest in watching their paws work like hands and watching them make easy work of opening a latch to a garbage can. There is a second between 'huh, cool, he figured it out' and chasing it away, sticks, rocks and curse words flying. Raccoons and I have a bit of a history.

While camping in Kejimkujik national park, we packed up for the night, stowed our food and things away and tucked into the tent. I've just found that sweet spot in the bed that is perfectly comfy and warm, and sleep is taking over, when a few campsites away I hear rustling. Rattle of pots and pans, the scrunching sound of plastic bags, boxes being upset. The sound progresses campsite to campsite, heading our way. Then I hear them on our picnic table. Just outside the tent. I wait. No big deal, we've put everything away. So they'll lick a spoon, who cares? I didn't care until I heard the unmistakable sound of our cooler opening. I have never jumped from bed and scurried out of a tent so quickly in all my life. I jump/fall from the zippered opening, flash light in hand. "AHhhrrrrr! Get the fuck out of my food!" Two steps out of the tent I stop and see 5 raccoons staring at me in my underwear. Stunned looks on their faces. One on the picnic table, one with his paw in the cooler, 2 more around the edge of the campsite and another not more than 3 feet from me. All frozen. They didn't move. I took a step forward, stomped my foot. So did the raccoon. What the hell?! I'm in a stand off with a raccoon. A big raccoon. Apparently they get quite fat off people food. Go figure. In a flurry of throwing rocks and more cursing I win the stand off and they retreat to the woods. I place 20 lbs of fire wood on the cooler and tell them to fuck off and go back to bed. They woke me up twice more that night, but never got past my clever barricade on the cooler. So hooray for me, I'm smarter than a coon. All they got was a loaf of bread.

So it's with mixed feelings the way I developed my theory on those tire tracks. On a straight stretch of highway Mr Raccoon scuttles out onto the road, changes his mind, changes his mind again, and line dances back and forth in front of me until he finds his way under my tire. I saw him. I saw him do his little dance of indecisiveness. I could have tried to avoid him, but then I'd be doing a zig zag myself. In a car. Going fast. And I'd end up in the weeds with headache and a 90 degree skid mark in my wake. Maybe that's what people do. Try to save the cute little animal. Instead I held tight to the wheel and hoped Mr Raccoon would get his ass off the road, or at least decide under the truck would be better than under the wheel, but no. With a considerable thud he's hit. Sorry about that Mr Raccoon, I didn't wish you dead, but better your hide than mine. You should have stayed off the highway, and out of my cooler.

for you

I dare not whisper his true worth to me. A treasure I want keep all to myself. They would try to steal it for themselves if they knew our souls were one. That such a thing is possible, that such a power exists.
He is so much a part of me, I forget he cannot hear my thoughts.
I thank the gods each day. Praying they won't take it all away. And leave me to crumble, forever cold and hollow.

For the love of God, play something else!

Dearest local radio station;

I understand the morning crew wakes up at ungodly hours to bring entertainment to the community of people within range, and therefore may not be capable of making difficult decisions or ones which require thought. Certainly my brain does not begin to function until the sun rises and burns away the fog. Your grand library of music probably makes these decisions even more difficult with so much choice.

I prefer to wake up in the morning on my own, but since my boss frowns upon tardiness, I use the alarm clock. The jarring beep beep beep is simply too much for me. At it's sound I jolt from the bed and run outside half naked in the belief that the house is aflame. So instead of giving myself a heart attack each day, I wake up to music. To your radio station in fact. The problem I'm having is everyday at the same time, I wake up to the same thing. So I write to you to ask that you provide extra coffee to the morning crew, or something, to help wake them up so they can navigate the great hall of music and make new choices. Enough with ZZ Top at 7:10 am. I can't take it anymore.

My dreams scatter at the sound and no matter how determined I am in remembering them, I fail. What is worse is how the song creeps it's way into my day. Standing in the shower, half asleep, pretending it's heat is that of my bed, I hear the song repeating in my head. It claws it's way into my brain and digs the talons in to hold on all day. I tell myself I'm not going to let it get stuck in my head, but the more I fight it, the tighter it grips. Nothing can shake it. So please, I beg you, play something else. This is the cruelest most unusual punishment. I may have to tune into another station.

Sincerely,
Lazy Waker

Last day on horseback

This spring mom delivered Bud the horse, Stella the cow and her bull calf Fuzz Butt. I had the pasture ready from the year before and really expected no problems. When I woke up the next morning to the horse throwing a hissy fit in the field, I knew I was silly to expect anything but trouble. During the night, probably just before dawn, the cow and calf got through the fence and were on the loose. They hadn't been in the field for 24 hours. I'm not even sure they made 12.

In our part of the country there are rolling hills, forests and open fields likely once used for farming but long since left. The cows found them all and called each one home for a night or two. They weren't hungry, or scared, or wild. Just looking for the herd of 80 cows they left behind when they climbed on the trailer. How could they know the herd was a 3 hr drive away? I kept track of them everyday. Every stressful day. But I couldn't catch them no matter how many times the horse and I herded them back to the gate. After 2 weeks on the lam, mom came back and we decided come hell or high water we would catch them Saturday and that would be the end of it. (I must add that Martin wanted to help, but we only had one horse, and the cows were mine, so the responsibility and hardship belonged to me, not him.)

Early in the morning we set off and picked up their trail, finding them fairly quickly. Cattle are predictable creatures, and like I said, they weren't wild, they just wanted no part of us or our company. We walked through brush, up hills, down hills, through rivers, along paths, swamps, fields and back again. If the trees were too thick, I'd tie the horse and follow on foot, letting mom know by walkie talkie where we were. She'd find the horse and catch up.

The whole experience was stressful, hard, tiring, frustrating, and beautiful. We found babbling brooks and wild blueberries patches. Waterfalls dappled with sunlight, all but hidden, nestled between cliffs. We'd struggle through brush and come out into a stand of hardwoods, and couldn't help but think we'd just found some secret place, never before witnessed by human eyes. Bud was amazing. He went places most horses would never go. Trees so thick I had to hug his neck and let him push through. We galloped across a field at full speed, smooth as silk, his feet hardly touching the ground, to cut off the cows from going in the woods. A thoroughbred couldn't have gone faster. I've never rode like that. I've been riding since I was 2 years old and I've never rode like I did in those two weeks, or on that morning. I get butterflies thinking about it. Mom picked up the horse while I tracked through the woods on foot at one point, and she followed along an old 4 wheeler trail. Crackling across the walkie talkie I hear "there's a tree across the path"...."we jumped it!"...."I stayed on!"

We ended up catching the pair by lasso in the woods and brought them back to the field by tying Stella to a tractor and walking home. The calf followed the cow, I followed him on the horse, mom followed me in the truck. After two weeks of freedom and 6 hours of hard walking and riding that morning, we had ourselves a parade down Greenhill rd. I've rode in parades before, but none that special. Definitely none that made me that happy.

Months have gone by since that Saturday morning and Mom still talks about it. About seeing her daughter fly across a field on a horse, about walking all those miles through the woods, about jumping the tree, and riding this horse who couldn't be rode a few short years before. On and on she'd go, telling everyone the stories. She taught me to ride. It's something we've always shared, just the two of us. But I don't think I've ever seen her jump. I thought at the time it was pretty cool, but the stress of the whole thing skewed my perception. She was thrilled though, that we got to do that together. People pay good money to round up cattle on horseback.

Friday I'm bringing mom to the MS clinic to get an official diagnosis. She's been sick a long time, so we're looking forward to hearing what they have to say in a way. In another way the reality of it all becomes clear. Her legs give out now and then. I see why she thinks it was such an amazing day and holds the memory so close. At least if it was the last time, it was great.

as they see it

Reaching for the door knob, I push my way into the house. Disappointment written clearly on my young face.

"What's wrong?" Mom asks

"My bike is broken and Dad is gone and so is Danny and I can't fix it" I reply in one long breath.

"Well I can fix it" She replies.

My eyes pop in wonder. "You can? Really? But you're Mom, you're a girl"

She takes me outside so I can show her my bike and I learn that girls can do anything and that my mom is a super hero in disguise.

Her hair was longer then, to her shoulders. She was slim and strong and pretty and so smart. I had to look up to meet her eyes. Laughter came easy and she liked my company. I thought she could do anything, she told me I could too, and I believed her.

I often wonder how my kids see me. I don't feel like the grown up I remember thinking my mom was. I giggle now at how relative age is. But I guess I must look the same to them. I had Owen at the same age my mom had me. Sometimes I feel so much the child, still leaning on my parents, learning and finding my way, that it's hard to imagine my kids look to me as I did her. I hope they do. I hope I give them reason to.

So much of this life is perspective. Owen took this picture of me. I wonder who he sees.