Robins and Jays, Symbols of Hope

It's the last day of February and snow still dominates the landscape. This is not unusual in most parts of Canada, but in our West Coast region...

The snow started in early December and except for a couple of brief periods, it's hung around causing commuter chaos. Having spent the last twenty years in the Kootenays of BC, I'm used to it. As is my family. We have snow tires. And use them. So getting to and from, for us anyway, has not proven a problem. But, being accustomed to snow, ice, and slippery roads does not mean we--I--enjoy the white stuff. Far from it.

I have Lizard blood. I like it hot. The hotter, the better. Give me a patch of sand, sunglasses, a good book, cold drink, and 38C and I'm in Heaven. Shoveling snow and scraping ice from the windshield is the equivalent of Hell to me. Which is why I was so delighted to see my first Robin this morning!

Photo copyright Deborah Small 2017

Robins, to me, are a symbol of hope. Of Winter waning as Spring gathers strength. Add in a Stellar Jay--

Photo copyright Deborah Small 2017

and I am positively giddy.

The last few weeks have been challenging; I've found myself mired in lethargy, a distracted funk in which the weather played only a small part, the major player being illness, and a certain new President whose agenda, policies, and striking lack of empathy and respect for the people he claims to represent, are as foreign to me as the seemingly corrupt world he inhabits.

But this post isn't about him. It's about the weather. About how Robins and Jays herald the season's change, how dark, cold, and gloomy days eventually give way to warmer, sunnier, brighter ones that eventually extend to weeks, and months of brilliance and abundance. It's about the power of regeneration, the ability of the earth and its creatures to survive, and emerge triumphant from even the longest, harshest winters.

Yes, some creatures perish before spring, whether from old age, infirmity, or lack of sustenance. But the majority survive. Those that do, owe their survival to preparation, stamina, and cooperation...

Squirrels, bears, Jays and bees are just some of the critters that prepare for winter by stocking up. They store food--either externally or within layers of fat--in advance of winter's first snowfall, a reserve to sustain them through the lean months.

Elk, Moose, Cougar are some of the creatures that rely on brute strength and stamina to see them through the long winter months. It takes huge reserves of energy to plow and paw through crusted-snow for dormant grasses and twigs, and to stalk and wrestle to the ground beasts three and four-times one's weight.

Wolves, Deer, Seals, Orcas are some that find strength--sustainability--in numbers; many eyes are better than two when on the look out for predators. Multiple sets of legs, lungs, feet, fins and fangs increase the odds of cornering or running down dinner. And as it appears a long brutal winter is descending on the US, it behooves all of us, throughout the world, to look to our furred, feathered, and finned brethren for clues on how to get through alive:

Prepare for the worst. The black storm clouds on the horizon might prove a brief, wintry blast; it might herald a lengthy blizzard. Stock up, emotionally and financially; gather happy moments, activities, extra cash, and people to your breast and protect them the way a hamster stuffs its cheeks with seeds. Draw on them sparingly in times of need, restore yourself on the sustenance love, laughter, and new adventures provide beleaguered hearts.

Stamina. This is not a Quarter-Horse race. More a mouse's round-the-world marathon. It can't be done in a minute. Or even a day. It's going to--potentially--take years to muddle through, and like the mouse, one must be clever, and alert. Find safe places to curl up and rest, when not attempting to stealthily navigate open fields shadowed by Eagles, and swim swirling rivers churned bloody by spike-toothed carnivorous pike.

Cooperation. Gather like-minded individuals close, and have each other's backs. Always. It's easy to give in to fear, run bleating, or roll-over and play dead when the Eagle swoops, or the Wolves howl; it takes courage to rally with the herd, form a protective circle, each member backed into the other facing out at disaster, the weakest and smallest sheltered at the center. But it's how entire herds manage to defend against, and even scare off, wolf packs, and ravenous cougars. Resistance and persistence, equal existence.

I for one, intend to continue to stock up on my favorite form of sustenance: fun memories made with family and friends, good books, and writing. Always writing. And I'm going to rebuild stamina by getting back into a regular exercise routine. Six-point Elk don't earn their tines wallowing in a mud bath. As for cooperation, that circles back to preparation for me.

My family, and friends, are my herd. And I will face out and fight to death to protect them. Because without them, who am I?

  Holding my grandson for the first time.
Photo copyright Deborah Small 2016

Deborah

The greatest achievement of the human spirit is to live up to one's opportunities and make the most of one's resources. ~ Vauvenargues

Get it done...

Ranching is hard business. The heroine in my first novel learns this, as did I first hand, on my aunt and uncle's ranch they bought from her parents. And hard as I thought it was when I visited as a child, or later as an adult, it was so much harder in my grandmother's time.

No electricity, no running water, no neighbors, just grandma and grandpa--when he wasn't away working in the mines to supplement their meager income--a couple hundred cows, and a growing brood of children (five, total), and a whole lot of grit and determination.

I found an excerpt on the Net that describes a different woman's experience in the early 1900s, but I expect her description was very similar to a day in my grandma's life when she was a young woman in the early 1930s, carving a life out of BC's forested interior...

"Any bright morning in the latter part of May I am out of bed at four o'clock; next, after I have dressed and combed my hair, I start a fire in the kitchen stove, and while the stove is getting hot I go to my flower garden and gather a choice, half-blown rose and a spray of bride's wreath, and arrange them in my hair, and sweep the floors and then cook breakfast.

While the other members of the family are eating breakfast I strain away the morning's milk (for my husband milks the cows while I get breakfast), and fill my husband's dinner pail, for he will go to work on our other farm for the day.

By this time it is half-past five o'clock, my husband is gone to his work, and the stock loudly pleading to be turned into the pastures. The younger cattle, a half-dozen steers, are left in the pasture at night, and I now drive the two cows, a half-quarter mile and turn them in with the others, come back, and then there's a horse in the barn that be­longs in a field where there is no water, which I take to a spring quite a distance from the barn; bring it back and turn it into a field with the sheep, a dozen in number, which are housed at night..."

Read the full copy here: http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/farmwife.htm

The page shares a routine that contrasts sharply with most young women's lives today, and hopefully provides those same women some insight to what their grandmother's and great-mother's survived to enable them to enjoy their comparatively easy lives. That is what I took away from my visits to the ranch, how much I appreciate my modern existence.

In all those years watching my aunt haul water from the outside pump inside to boil for washing clothes, or sliding wood lengths into the stove before whipping up biscuit mix after a full morning helping feed two-hundred head, perched perilously on a stack of bales to cut twine and hurl hay from a sleigh hauled by a pair of Clydes piloted by my uncle, and this after having already strained the milk he brought up from the barn before they headed out to feed the bawling cattle...I never heard her complain. Not once.

Ranch women don't.

They do what needs to be done, much of it before sunup, and move on to the next necessary task regardless of the weather, or whether they believe they could, or should. It needs doing, so it gets done. That's a good a motto for all of us.

If it needs doing, get it done.


Deborah

Nobody ever drowned in his own sweat. ~Ann Landers

U is for Unicorns

Wow. I can't believe I'm already at letter U in the A to Z Challenge. And I am so grateful to have made it thus far, especially given the last year (or two) (which I will not recap here, focused as I am on what I can make of the present, and future, rather than rehashing the past, but if you're unaware and are curious, you can learn more here). Now on to something delightful—and yes, easy and predictable given the letter—Unicorns! (Or pictures thereof).

(Has anyone really ever seen, let alone photographed an Unicorn? *wink*).

                                                    

 Deborah

It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them. ~George Eliot.

 

 

 

H is for Horses

Day 8 of A to Z Challenge, which is, if you're alphabetically aware, the letter H, which means...

HORSES!!

My step dad bought me my first horse, and that first pony began my long, and enduring love affair with the horse. I think one of the reasons I chose to write a turn-of-the-20th-century novel was so I could ride horses--er, so my characters could ride horses. Rangy roans, sturdy bays, gracious greys, Clydes, Quarter Horses...they're all found somewhere in the story.

Sometimes I miss owning a horse so much it's a physical ache, an itch my dear husband kindly scratched on a recent anniversary.

Me. Photo by my husband.

In honor of the noble horse, a small excerpt from my novel, Everything That Matters (remember, copyright!)


Excerpt:

He found her in the horse barn. Her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, she was rubbing Sonny's face and mumbling softly. The breeze must have carried his scent, because Sonny and four other equines turned their heads as far their ropes allowed, and offered a throaty welcome. Miss Marshall immediately stepped away from Sonny, stared at Jake with the wild eyes of a cornered rabbit. By rights, he should have turned around, relieved her fear by removing its source. Instead, he grasped the handles of the wooden barrow by the door and wheeled it forward.

"Don’t run away," he said when she attempted to sidle past him. "I mean no harm. In fact, I brought you something to eat." He lowered his kit to the ground, the contents clinking merrily as the bag settled on the hard-packed dirt floor like a broody hen on a nest of eggs. 

Her hands balled at her sides, she tilted her chin at him, a tiny quivering spear warning him to stay back. "I never said you would."

He hesitated, and finally realizing what she referred to, he said, "Not in so many words."

"Not in any words," she exclaimed.

"There's more than one way to get a message across, Miss Marshall," he said. "Take Sonny here—" He moved to massage the gelding's neck. "He doesn’t speak any English, but we understand each other just fine."

She took two steps back, crossed her arms. "You mean you interpret his behavior."

"And physical cues. Even the most subtle. It's the oldest language not recorded, Miss Marshall. And much more reliable than words. For instance, right now, you're scared, closed off." He copied her posture.

She lowered her arms, and then her lashes, rubbed a section of her black skirt between her fingers.

"You're still scared," he said. "And furious. With me. Only you're afraid to tell me, scared I'll retaliate, do something to hurt you more than I already have."

 She jerked her head up, eyes wide. "I—I never claimed you hurt me."

"Not in any way that leaves physical marks. But I have hurt you, and for that I'm sorry."

Her lips parted.

"You're not used to hearing those words, are you?" he asked gently. "Probably not used to hearing someone admit he's the underside of a mule's tail, either."

** End Excerpt.**

Where there is great love, there are always wishes. ~Willa Cather

Cowboys

 Day 3 of A to ZChallenge, which means the letter C, and one of my favorite topics: Cowboys.

 I have a soft spot for everything cowboy. Could have something to do with the fact I grew up country. Or the mystique that surrounds the lean, hard men that seem impervious to dust and cold, happy to ride lonely trails with only a horse and the man above for company, sleeping on the ground under the stars, up before the sun, a thick wad of chew tucked in one cheek, boots worn and creased, jeans faded, and jaws rough with stubble. Except for the chew, I described my stepdad, the one I remember from my childhood.

He was raised on a cattle ranch. Tall and lean, with a mustache, and twinkle in his brown eyes, he epitomized the cowboy. Up early every morning, even on weekends, coffee black and real butter on his toast, he drank his whiskey pressed. The only time I remember him in shorts and sandals was a family trip to Mexico, otherwise he wore wrangler jeans, boots—cowboy, and thick-soled work boots (he's a lineman)—button shirts, and occasionally—very occasionally—a cowboy hat. Never without a pocketknife, he often whittled whistles for my brother and I; he bought me my first horse and taught me to ride.

I was a slow-learner. When my dad handed me a brush and told me to apply elbow grease to my new pony and clean him up, I blinked. "Elbow grease?" Dad blinked too; obviously surprised I had no idea to what he inferred. And then he explained. I applied a lot of elbow grease over the years to keeping my succession of horses brushed and shiny.

When that first horse refused to be caught, and instead charged me so I'd drop the bucket of oats and run, leaving him to nosh at his leisure, dad came down to the horse pen with his bullwhip. He never touched the recalcitrant "knot-head", but snapped the whip left and right, working that horse into a corner and then keeping him there, hissing the whip at his nose when he attempted to run, at his heels each time he presented his rump. When Knot-head faced dad squarely, the whip fell silent. The instant that stubborn pony attempted to deke left, right, or run, the whip sang. Eventually the horse caught on. Huffing and puffing, nostrils flaring and ears tipped forward, he stood there on trembling legs while dad slipped his halter on. I never had a problem catching my horse again—all I had to do was crack the lunge-whip (I was too small to master the bullwhip) and he'd face me square, ears forward, and submit to the halter.

Those idyllic years ended when I was a teen and mom and dad separated, but by then the damage was done; I was country. And despite living most of my adult years in suburbia I still love everything cowboy, and in my heart I ride dusty trails on spirited ponies, under clear blue skies.

Copyright Deborah Anderson 2013

Deborah

It is the heart which experiences God, not the reason. ~Blaise Pascal

 

 

 

 

A is for Armadillo

April 1. Kick off day for the A to Z Challenge April 2013 wherein I, and a couple others—okay, over a thousand—bloggers challenge ourselves to blog every day in April except Sundays. That's twenty-six blogging days, equal to twenty-six letters in the alphabet; hence the title, A to Z. So, in honor of the letter A, I begin with a creature that makes a cameo appearance in my first novel, Everything That Matters: the humble armadillo.

Armadillos come in a variety of colors and sizes, but only one type exists in the United States, and for my purposes, Texas, where a good portion of Everything That Matters is set: the Nine-Banded Armadillo.

Somnolent and waddling, with a tapered snout, rat-like tail, and bony-plated outer-shell that earned it its name—Armadillo is Spanish for "little armored one"—the nine-banded armadillo resembles a geneticists' experiment gone wrong.

Cat-sized, and leathery grey in color like an elephant; slow-moving and hard-shelled like a tortoise, grub and insect-eating like the ant-eater, the armadillo is not as hardy as its appearance or name implies.

Though its tough outer-hide protects it from most predators the armadillo's slow metabolism and pedantic pace leave it defenseless against extreme or sustained cold. Prolonged dips into freezing weather can wipe out entire armadillo populations, which is why the sloth-like mammal is more likely found ambling through the grasslands of Texas than trotting across a snow-crusted meadow in Idaho. Unassuming—and plain-headed—as the armadillo is, it's been endowed with two weighty titles of distinction: The Texas State Small Mammal, and Hoover Hogs.

The first title is self-explanatory; Armadillo as Texas Small Mammal Ambassador. The second title is less magnanimous.

The Hoover Hogs nomenclature refers not to the armadillo's appearance—it's more armored rat than plated piggy—but its ignominious reputation as Texas larder fare during the Great Depression, sustenance many Texans resorted to in order to survive the economic disaster for which they blamed President Hoover. Whether barbequed or chucked into chili, armadillo is reputed to taste like pork, and is still popular fare today in Mexico, Texas, and other southern United States.

The armadillo, Texas State's amiable, edible, small mammal emissary.

 

Animals are such agreeable friends—they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms. ~George Eliot