Meanwhile, Between Times

 

            “Boss! What are you doing up here?” said Maeve, taking a perch on a nearby branch.
            “Oh, hi, Birdy. Figures you’d see me up here,” said Ralph, just as his head cleared the last large branch. He blinked because the sunlight was suddenly so bright. Looking around as his eyes adjusted, he could see miles of deep green Douglas Fir canopy below, and the vast blue arc of our planet’s atmosphere above.
            “It’s a fine place, Boss,” Maeve remarked, softly as if speaking to herself.
            “Did you ever notice that everything sounds different up here, Birdy? Oh, of course you did,” said Ralph. “Down there among the tree’s trunks and all the brush, it’s soft and like cushioned. Up here it’s sharp, wide open and goes for miles!”
            “That’s true. If you listen right now, you can hear a train whistle clear down in Milltown,” agreed Maeve. “The crows are all down on the ground somewhere by now, or we would hear them yakking it up too.”
            “You see further than I do,” said Ralph.
            “That’s true. Do you need me to see something for you, Boss?” said she.
            “Well, I wanted to see for myself, you know? Ever since we got that letter from Maurice, I have been feeling that something different is coming in a way. Some kind of change or something. It’s been keeping me awake a little,” said Ralph. “Ramona told me this morning that I had been talking in my sleep.”
            “You know I love a mystery,” said Maeve.
            “You like to pick a mystery apart, Birdy. I know that,” he said. “Hey, look! Rick just drove off. That means Dexter is in charge today.”
            They watched for a few seconds, until Rick’s service vehicle disappeared from view.
            “Dexter should just marry that girl, then they could both live in the mobile. He’s there all the time anyhow,” giggled Maeve. “It’s a wonder he gets camp chores done!”
            “First, he’s got to talk Hannah into it,” said Ralph, gently. “The worst thing about climbing fir trees is that now I have pitch in my hair, and it’s going to be murder to get it out!”
            “I bet Ooog has some kerosene or something. Might cut it. Ramona could comb it out with that and then you could wash the kerosene out,” said Maeve.
            “Are you worried about something, Boss,” she said, further.
            “No, not worried. I just feel a shift, like when the wind suddenly changes direction and blows the smoke into your face instead of away from you,” he said. “I’ve heard the wind whispering, but explaining nothing,” said Ralph, hefting himself up to sit on a sturdy branch near the very top. “It’s like when a storm is coming. Your ears might pop.”
            “Yes, like that. Does it have something to do with Maurice?” said Maeve.
            “Maybe. Not sure. I think he’s part of it. Or maybe, he’s just in it, you see?” said Ralph.
            “Boss, would you like to come up into the sky with me again?” She cocked a wise eye in his direction.
            “I don’t have the feather you gave me! It’s back in the cave at home,” said Ralph.
            “Oh, fiddledeedee, Boss, I have all the feathers we need right here!” said Maeve. “Just come with me!”
            “I will!” he shouted.
            Maeve spread her mighty wings, and Ralph followed her as she lifted off.
            Up there, the air was a bit thinner. The sunlight fiercer. There were clouds looming over to the east, further up into the mountain lands. He looked up and thought he could almost see a few of the brighter stars. But that seemed impossible.
            The wind blew long, feeling no hindrance.
            He looked down, and wept, because of the beauty of it all. There was sorrow too, but he saw that sorrow has an end.
            “What do you see, Boss,” called Maeve, from above him.
            “I see love spread out, above and below, Blackwing!” Ralph answered.
            “So it is,” said Maeve.
            “I see that all comes back to the place where it began,” he said. “I see that love has no beginning and no end.”
            “It’s easy to see clearly up here,” said Maeve.
            Her wing covered Ralph’s eyes for a moment. And when he looked again, he was seated on his favorite log and Maeve was perched on his left shoulder. He had quite a bit of pitch stuck in his hair.
            “Wait ‘til Ramona sees this mess,” and Ralph giggled.
            “She’ll clean you up somehow!” said Maeve.
            “She always does,” he agreed.
            At that very moment, he saw Ramona and Cherry, with Blue the white wolf, coming up the path toward himself and Maeve. He nearly wept again because he loved them so much.
            When she was near, Ramona said, “I thought you might be up here with Maeve!”
            “You’ve found us out!” said Ralph.
            “I was trying out a recipe for flat pan cookies, Baby, so we brought you some to try. They have raisins and oats in them, and I cooked them in butter!”
            Cherry carried a dozen or so of the new cookies in one of Ooog’s nice wooden bowls.
            “I smell spice, Mona,” said Ralph.
            “Yes, cinnamon. Thaga says it’s good in cookies,” said Ramona.
            So, Ramona took a seat on Ralph’s log right beside him, and Cherry did too, after a little lift off. Blue sat below, and they all sampled the cookies.
            “These are so good, Mona! Everything you do is perfect!” said Ralph.
            “Evermore!” said Maeve, then she winked!

🍀

Mew-onday Open Thread with Doggerel!

 

Booker in the window. Sweetie on Piano. Re-used photo because it's the best of them.

⭐⭐

Warrior Scouts are we!
We strive for liberty.
 
All that can shake, will be shaken!
It’s adventurous mischief we’re makin’.
 
I’m Booker, the watcher, the wise.
I’m Sweetie, the wildest of us guys.
 
3X the kittens in just single skins.
Bengal Bros, with sweet kitty grins!

🤍

Booker, I caught up with last night.

Maybe it should be called kitterel!

My apologies.

PS, hard to photograph moving targets!

😹

A Sleepy Fieldtrip to The Skagit Valley

 

Taken on Fir Island, on the way to La Conner.

Those little hummock are the result of glacial action scraping over

harder rocks, leaving them there.

The same glaciers that dug Puget Sound.

A typical rural scene. He was going about 15 mph.

            Once upon a time, there was a little city on the South Fork of the Skagit River.

It prospered for a while in the 1800s, but then the town of Mt. Vernon took over.

Skagit City disappeared. Only the school is left.

View of the Skagit Bay Estuary.

 

Mt. Baker slightly to the left of center with winter wheat, we think.

Path atop the dike that separates the estuary from the fields.

            The original plan was to drive up highway 9 to Burlington and environs, but we got diverted. One site of interest on highway 9 is this park and museum at the site of the Nakashima dairy farm. The barn was built in 1908. The same year as this house!

            This family was interned with the rest of the Japanese, it's not a kind story.

Some photos of the working farm and family members.

One last photo. We drove by many dikes. The Skagit River is very prone to flooding!

So, there you have it. Photo report from Skagit Valley, May 9, 2026.

🌸

Here's Some Cat Fur for Catfurday!

 

Sweetie on the left, and Mr. Baby Sir on the right,

are taking a moment to send their furry blessings for a great day!

The rug is supposed to protect the chair from cats!

One must try.

Booker and Suzy chose not to be photographed.

All the best!

p

💙

Train Time

 

            Maurice waved anyhow, and he whispered, “See you on down the road maybe.”
            Catching an open freight car going west in Springfield was a whole different deal from catching one going east in Skykomish. It had been easy deciding that he was going to do exactly that, but now he had to find the right car, with an open door too.
            There were many tracks. Maurice knew which direction was west, but he wasn’t sure it was that simple. He walked out among the lines, examining two trains that were headed by locomotives faced in a westerly direction. He kind of liked one. There were more than a dozen cars behind the locomotive. He walked along the track examining each car’s door.
            He thought about Ralph, and where he was going and it lifted  his heart. As he was standing there in the dark yard grinning, a small lighted thing with wings, no bigger than a large dragonfly came to him. It flashed around his shaggy head a few times and then having gotten his attention, it zoomed off to one of the cars and hovered there impatiently.
            Now, Maurice could take a hint, so he decided that this had to be the right car. He slipped on over there and tried the door. It slid open easily.
            “Say, did Mable send you?” Maurice asked the flashing winged thing.
            “I’ll tell you a spell, but will not tell,” it said in a voice like a bee, if a bee had a voice. “Say, ‘I’m neither here, nor there. You cannot find me anywhere!’ And they won’t see you!”
            “A gift indeed, small one. You have the gratitude of a true Howler,” said Maurice as the tiny being vanished into the darkness of the Springfield, MO night.
            He climbed into the car, and slid the door shut. The car was empty except for wooden floorboards. He backed up to sit against the wall beside the door, remembering other days and other train rides. He took off his size 15 high top sneakers. He suddenly felt silly wearing shoes. So, he tied the laces together and set the shoes beside himself. That felt better. He could feel the floor under his feet, and it made him feel more like himself. Then he remembered the Oreos Mable had given him. He ate them all and thought fondly of a cup of coffee, as he dozed there.
            Right before sunrise the train started to roll, dead slow, but picking up speed after a bit. Soon it was making that familiar clacking sound, and Maurice slept all the way to Kansas City. When he woke he knew he needed to find something to drink. The train was still, so he slid the door open a few inches and looked out at another enormous train yard in the blasting sunlight. He pushed the door a few more inches open and hopped lightly out, leaving his sneakers behind without a thought. Looking around himself he saw a man in a BNSF uniform walking his way.
            “I’m neither here, nor there! You cannot find me anywhere!” Maurice whispered, hoping for the best. He picked his way across several lines of tracks, heading for the tall buildings downtown. No one even turned their heads as he passed them.
            Maurice considered his options. He and Sleeky Sue and Folkie Joe had done well in parks, so he kept going. He knew there were bound to be parks in a city as great as Kansas City. There were usually water fountains in parks too.
            The park he landed at had a small lake in its center. Maurice padded over to its edge and bent down and drank lake water. It was a little muddy in flavor, but it was wet. He got up and wiped his muzzle on his coat sleeve and thought about food. He was still pretending that he didn’t have two hundred bucks on his person, playing it like a game. Could he do this or not?
            Folkie Joe had been able to feed the three of them by busking. Maurice was pretty good with a harmonica. So, why not try it, he thought.
            Not giving a thought to the spell, he found a nice bench on a path by the lake and settled in. There was a newspaper folded on the bench, so since he didn’t have a hat he laid the paper down on the path in front of the bench and put his two feet on each side of it to keep it from blowing away.
            There were a few passersby, not paying him much mind. “OK,” Maurice said to himself. He pulled his harmonica out of his pocket and started a quiet bit of Train Time. He felt pretty good about it, so he played it louder.
            A black lab dog walked up to Maurice and sat to listen. This was cool, but didn’t make any money. Several pigeons wandered over, setting up camp under the bench.  Their soft cries added a little something to the music. Then several mallards swam over to the edge of the lake and started walking to Maurice’s bench. They gathered in front of him and sat, listening.
            A small boy, hearing the harmonica, pulled his mother by the hand over to the bench with Maurice and his entourage. They listened for a while, then the woman handed Maurice a five, which he tucked in his pocket with Allegory. “Bye, bye!” the child yelled as they walked away.
            You’d think that being a Fae sort of critter, that Maurice should have been used to magic and such, but such was not the case. He played some more Cream tunes, and then All Along The Watchtower, wishing someone was there to sing with him. A singer would  have been a lot of help.
            A blind woman, in dark glasses who looked strangely familiar, walking with a Rottweiler dog came slowly down the path. She sat beside Maurice. “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now,” she sang when he played the song. Then they did All Along The Watchtower again, together.
            Two men, one old and one maybe his son, listened for a few minutes. The older one handed Maurice several ones, said thanks, and they walked away.
            “That was really cool, Lady,” he said, putting the harmonica back in his pocket.
            “I was a singer in a band,” she said softly.
            “I believe you, Lady,” said Maurice. “I better go find something to buy with the money those folks gave me. It’s getting hungry out here.” He folded up the newspaper and put it back on the bench. The black lab wandered off. The ducks went back to their lake, but the pigeons all went to sleep underneath the bench.
            “Tell you what, Honey,” the blind lady said, “I’ll give you my lunch, then I’ll go on home. I’ll get some lunch there for me and Roscoe here. We live just across the street.”
            It was a strange sort of a lunch for a little old lady to be planning to eat herself. There were two very thick roast beef and horseradish sandwiches, half a dozen oatmeal/raisin cookies, and two bottles of chocolate milk. Maybe she was going to share with Roscoe, was all Maurice could surmise.
            “There’s a westbound BNSF freight calling your name, pilgrim, and you better go get on it before it leaves Kansas City,” said the little old blind singer.
            “Thank you!” was all Maurice could get out, sitting there with his mouth hanging open.
            “Now, git!” she said, so he did, at a lope.

🤎🥪🍪🤎

Maurice, A True Ozark Howler

 

            It was after dark and he was already feeling the call  of the road in his bones and fur. As a last bit of business in Branson, he had reminded Joseph, the cat of many colors, to watch out for Sleeky Sue, (Sneaky), and to do all she asked of him. Joseph promised.
            “I’ll probably come back,” said Maurice, hardly able to hear anything but the wild world calling outside.
            “If you can. Come back. You will always have a home with Joseph and I,” said Sleeky Sue. She was feeling change, and was a bit misty about it. Somebody had to stay with the ice cream shop, and those somebodies were herself and son, but she missed the carefree, hungry days on the road with Folkie Joe, and Maurice.
            “Thank you, Sneaky Lou. I will come back if I can,” promised Maurice.
            Then he stepped out into the night, closing and locking the door carefully behind himself. The night wind ruffled his rough grey fur. A moon overhead winked down on him through scudding clouds. The urge to howl was heavily upon him, but he decided to hold it in until he got away from Sneaky’s house.
            Perhaps his days as a House Howler were over. It was YTBD! Meanwhile the night was there, drawing  him.
            He brought almost nothing with him. Just his clothing, his harmonica, and his Allegory book and a ballpoint pen. He did have a couple hundred dollars in cash taped to the inside pocket of his old black raincoat, but he was going to act like it wasn’t there, for old time’s sake.
            Maurice planned to walk or hitch north on Highway 66 to Springfield and hop a freight train there, and get out in Milltown when the BNSF got to Smith Island outside of town. Then he would make his way to the Great Forest by hook or by crook, or walk.
            It was 10PM when he hit the highway. The night enchanted him. He wondered why he hadn’t taken night walks all the time he had lived in Branson. He had lived so tamely there. It was a busy road. Many cars drove past him as he paced northward.

            Maurice howled once, just for the joy of it.
            Finally, after a good five mile hike, Maurice decided to try hitching. It would save some time, and his feet, which had gotten soft from his time in the city. Therefore he started walking backwards, thumb stuck out in the regular way. A dozen cars drove past him, maybe his old coat and raffish appearance put them off. He didn’t feel scary, but maybe he looked scary, he thought.
            As he was about to give up and turn around, an ancient black Buick slowed down and paced him for a few feet as he continued walking backward. At last it stopped. Someone inside leaned over and cranked the window  one the passenger side down. An old face framed in white hair, looked out at him, checking him out. Then a frail voice called out, “Where to, Pilgrim?”
            “Springfield, Ma’am,” Maurice said, hope brightening his face.
            “Are you dangerous?” the wispy voice asked.
            “Not any more, Ma’am, and certainly not to you!” Maurice sang out.
            She unlocked the door, the old way, pulling that little knob up, and said, “Hop in, Pilgrim.”
            “My feet thank you, Madam!” said Maurice, settling into the Buick’s wide cushy seat.
            “I’m Mable Green. You got a name, Pilgrim?” said Mable.
            “Mama called me Maurice, and it stuck somehow,” said Maurice. It was one of his classic, standard lines, and Mable laughed.
            “What’s a nice girl like you doing driving around in the dark, Mable,” said Maurice, to further break the ice.
            “Well, now, funny you should ask. I guess I just get tired of sitting around in my old house. I like to look around and see what I can see. Night time is interesting. You see different stuff at night. I’ve seen some of those funny lights in the sky, you know which ones I mean?” said Mable.
            “Indeed, I do,” said Maurice.
            Mable kept driving north. The moon kept winking in and out of the clouds, and Maurice was feeling the wildness of the night in his soul.
            “Say, Sonny, you aren’t a werewolf are you? I keep notice the moonlight hit you,” she said.
            “No, Ma’am. I am not a werewolf of any kind! I assure you!” said Maurice.
            “You could be one of them dogmen,” said Mable. “You are pretty hairy.”
            “Mable Green, Ma’am, captain of this old chariot, I swear by all that good and proper that I am not, nor have I ever been a dogman!” insisted Maurice.
            “Then what are you?” she said.
            “Armenian, Mable,” said Maurice.
            “Come on…..!” She was laughing at him, Maurice felt a bit ruffled. But he laughed too.
            They continued this open-ended banter until Springfield signs began appearing along the highway.
            “Where would you like me to drop you,” said Mable.
            “Train station would be good, thank you,” said Maurice.
            “Freight yard, Pilgrim?” said Mable, with satisfaction.
            “Yes, Ma’am, that would suit just fine,” said Maurice.
            Mable stopped the old black Buick in some shadow in the vicinity of the freight yard, put it in park and turned toward him. “I have a package of Oreos in the glovebox if you want them,” she said.
            “Thank you, yes,” said Maurice, waiting for Mable to fetch them out, but she said “go ahead,” so he got the package of cookies out of the glovebox and put them in his other pocket.
            “Take care, Maurice. Mama gave you a nice name,” said Mable as Maurice got out of the Buick.
            “Now, tell Mable the truth, what are you?” she said, leaning down so she could see him standing in the fitful moonlight.
            “A True Ozark Howler, Ma’am, at your service,” and he bowed, grinning.
            She nodded, waved, and Maurice walked off thinking about catching a ride out west.
            In a moment it occurred to Maurice that he should wave at the nice old lady who had helped him get to Springfield, but when he looked back there was no old black Buick sitting in the shadow.

🤎🐺🤎

This Photo of A Dirt Road Somewhere

🤍 

  

👁

            I’ve hung onto this photo for several days. I’ve been thinking about it.

            I don’t know if it was taken at twilight, or just before a gray dawn. Could be either, there are no clues.

            It was borrowed from a photographer on Tumblr. His handle is Whe-renot, in case you want to sign up and go exploring. His photos aren’t fiddled with. I appreciate his way of seeing. I do relate!

            It could be seen as frightening, with those thick bushes pushing in from either side, and the scraggly trees rising up out of the bushes. It’s tempting to make reference to the Blair Witch movie, which has generated so much imagery.

            However, I believe that to be facile. I thought about it some more. I’ve been in the bush a lot, and it was just the bush. Not scary.

            It seems like an open question. A flexible scene, like a lot of situations that occur.

            No fork in the road is visible, because it’s inherent. The fork is in the mind. A person walking that road could be in deep sorrow, and feeling that the scene reflects sorrow and fear. Or, they could be walking home, down a long rural driveway, to a lighted house, dinner, company, and rest, their quickening steps echoing cheerfully. Or, maybe it’s morning and a person is walking to meet their friend, at home, or at a camping place, or maybe to go work in some field just beyond the trees.