A FEELING OF CHRISTMAS -Colorado memories

The night is clear and cold, and the sidewalks, front and backyard are covered with the first winter’s snow.  Our house stands pretty much on its own on this side of town; city lights enliven the front courtyard while a triple row of tall oaks protects the back.  A fire pops in the grate, Christmas lights twinkle in our freshly cut Douglas fir -I better go out and get some more firewood as our kids one by one, will surely arrive - anytime now.

I can hear the whistling wind changing directions, buzzing through double paned windows as I cross the kitchen towards the back door. The ever present aromas coming from the oven and pantry enfold my whole being in an elated feeling of home and communion: cinnamon, cloves, sage and rosemary, the roasting turkey providing the wonderful bouquet of the season at hand.

Nearing the neatly stacked woodpile, I select a few logs and as I straighten, the sounds of a slight rustle on the freshly fallen snow hold me captive in total awareness. I turn quickly to see what it is while my forehead hits some of the heavily snowed-covered pine branches.  There are prints on the lawn.  Small hoof prints. I am not aware we have deer living or foraging nearby; birds for sure, but not deer.  Taking a closer look, I see that there’s a string of prints leading towards the side of the house, as though something has barely touched down on its way elsewhere. And then, the prints stop, they disappear.

Strange, I think, as I look down toward the thinly forested area below. With trees in their rustling splendor, and light snow flakes circling up in the air, there seems to be a definite commotion that I cannot fathom, or even describe.  Stars twinkle in the early frosted eve, plumes of smoke rise in the sky, the crackling of bark and branches underfoot, and a melody. Yes, a melody of incredible sweetness appears to be rising from the forested area into the heavens beyond.

The scent of pine needles, and the clear night confirm the vast meaning of this season in my heart. The sound grows weaker … until suddenly it tapers altogether as a light snow begins to drift upwards, aloft.

As I pace back towards the house, I am overflowing with a newly-found euphoric emotion for the sense and marvel the season conveys.

A LONG-AGO HALLOWEEN -Colorado Memories

As the first snow dusting dissolved off our withered back yard, I knew that from one day to the next, things could change radically. Even during those inexpert early years of motherhood, I knew that.

A perfect autumn suddenly gave way to cold wintry weather as the new school year evolved before us. I felt right on track, anticipating sufficient student-teaching hours to occupy my schedule; my husband, deep into his PHD studies…
Contemplating a good season ahead, I abruptly, became aware however, that this was the month of October and with it came PTA meetings, parent-teacher conferences, and above all, HALLOWEEN! Yes, out there -- threatening from the kitchen calendar, accented with little pumpkins and skulls as reminders -- the last day of October appeared nastily outlined in black and orange crayons.
It seemed amazing a whole year had passed since my failed attempt at sewing triple Chubaka costumes.
Preoccupied with the subject of Halloween attires, I still felt it was up to my children to make the first move, “They’ll let me know soon enough” I thought. “I won’t say a word. They’ll shortly start pondering -- they will change their minds and make them up again -- deciding what they’ll be this year for their Halloween school parades, and for trick or treating as well.”
At the time, I used to survive in ‘motherhood mode’ which supposedly prepared me for producing anything, even smart, identifiable outfits with feathers and sequins, tails, patches, horns and zippers, regardless of my skills at creativity with needle, patterns or scissors.
With their never-ending prattle, the children disputed the possibilities of being a pirate, a princess, a mummy, E.T., a tiger, perhaps. Still with a few days to go to the end of the month, my son approached me first, and then the girls, one by one decreed what they would be for that impending Halloween.

With squeaky voices teetering on the edge of hysteria, they talked about specific costumes, as I devotedly obliged with my slim talents, and a slimmer pocketbook. I would surely face a chorus of boos, and grumpiness if my creations failed to please their challenging couture tastes.
In a panic frenzy, I did my best to create satisfactory pieces from forgotten costumes tucked away in our “Halloween Box” while acquiring feathery boas, hats and moustaches in the clearance racks of the local drugstore. Their little hands helping in a fury of delight as a patchy-eyed pirate, a mean-looking Satan, and one ballerina costume became that year’s salvation. Late into the night, I worked and improved the old and purchased items -- tucking here, adding there.

I could now settle down, heart free of heavy remorse, my mission accomplished for this year once more. Now, I could hardly wait till the very next day, when my little goblins all dressed up and ready, flash-lights and goody bags in tow, would stand all aglow in the foyer, calling out, “Hey, Mommy let’s go!”
For years before and past, we always reached into the “Halloween Box”, a magic treasure trove of ribbons and vests, beards and wigs, crowns, boots, plus sequined and beaded skirts coming to our rescue every October 31.

As twilight set in on all-hallows-eve, some photographs were taken, baskets ready for sweets, my kids brazen and ready to face the streets. It was so cold outside that stuffed with untold layers underneath their slight costumes, masks, hats and crowns they set off in a riot of chatter, laughter and wonder. Their father trailing some steps behind making sure all went well (he and I took turns each year.)
Donning my black witch’s hat and my warty hooked nose, I turned out the lights and lit up the candles in the cavernous depths of our three huge jack-o-lanterns resting down our front porch steps.

I could hear the squeals and prattle as the neighborhood kids transformed our street into one miraculously lit passageway of strange looking fellows in all kinds of disguises and cloaks. And I, alive with enchantment, spiked warm cider in hand, sat back by the fire, awaiting the raucous trick-or-treaters, who doubtlessly would be at my door in no time. Through my sheer curtains, I noticed the ambling creatures lighting their way up the steps to our house, their ‘Trick or Treat’ shrieks echoing loudly, as I offered them sweets.I soon realized my kids would be home before I knew it; their bags jam-packed with candy, mirth, and witty tales; their fun trick or treating escapade -- a nostalgic memory soon -- innocently, unconsciously being cherished and saved within the family bond, linked to past, present, and future, through the magic of time.
“Maybe next year, I’ll sew up a storm, making sure to start early in the fall,” I thought.E.W.

MAX AND SHAWNA -Colorado memories

I think that every living being, holds a sense of deep love and compassion and I do believe that we must make a conscious choice to be cruel or vile.

Max was our large, 5 year old Shepherd mix dog (those who know about dogs will know that a five-year old is an almost mature, middle-aged dog; something like 45 for you and me) when he adopted the orphaned scrawny female kitten with the long tail we named Shawna. Our son had discovered her asleep, and curled-up in a fetal position below our wrap-around porch steps; perhaps someone left Shawna deliberately, or maybe her mother was hit by a car and Shawna wandered up the hill, towards our house. 

When Max came out to see the reason for our son’s excitement, I think he recognized Shawna’s immediate need for attention, and like any caring human would do, he set out to watch quietly at first, observing us while we bottle-fed her. That same evening, Max was ‘picking up’ the kitten in his mouth and for months thereafter he protected her, pending her ability and maturity to look after herself.  

Max became a totally absorbed and dedicated ‘Daddy’; Shawna even shared his warm bed and when her teeth were sharp enough she curiously and brazenly ventured to eat from his bowl. Their relationship matured into one of unconditional love and trust.

We grow up thinking that cats and dogs can’t be friends; nonetheless, these two had a perfect relationship going; they were nurturing friends, they played or sat quietly on the porch steps watching the world go by.

Max and Shawna lived in harmony for many years; in fact, Shawna licked Max’s stitched wounds from a car accident, and constantly sat next to him during his recovery time.  And when she had her first litter of 4 precious kittens, you’ve never seen a prouder grandpa!

Max is gone now, but he lived to be almost 12! Unusually quiet and fatigued, Shawna stayed indoors for almost a week after Max’s death, pacing around the porch often, perhaps hoping to see him one more time. 

Shawna has also now passed on, her first and only litter made her a joyous mom; you should have seen her relocating those babes from porch-to-garage-to-bedroom closet, wherever she thought they’d be safe and out of harm’s way.

Once those kittens found new homes, and her time with Max had passed, Shawna settled into her new-found patrician lifestyle, sprawled on top of the upright piano -- her long tail alongside the Chinese pot of cascading ivy -- dappled in the sunshine coming in through the French doors of our music room.

Animals, much like people, prosper and grow from responsive and treasured relationships.  Max and Shawna shared a mutually caring friendship, free of prejudice and brimming with love ©ESW@1989