🍁Ralph Country, October 26, 2012 🍁

 Just a quiet drive into the forest one day.

It was a misty, perfect October afternoon.

You'd have to be pretty tough and very adapted,

to live out there.

They make the local Indigenous, before contact, look high tech!

I hope you also have a perfect October day.

Ralph agrees, and his invitation still stands.

💚

I'm Not A Plaidie!

 

            Berry saw it first. He gave Bob a significant look, and nodded toward it.
            “I wonder if it’s edible,” said Berry, standing up and trying to get a better look.
            What they saw was a red pointed object moving around through the melting snow and fallen brush in the smaller meadow, out beyond Uncle Bob’s Stump House. It moved in an wandering pattern, like some creature trying to get through rough terrain.
            “I don’t know yet,” said Bob. “I think we had better go find out!”
            “Oh, I hope it’s good to eat!” said Berry.
            So, together they slunk carefully, and subtly as they could manage, golden eyes shining, in the direction of this anomaly. It took a few direction changes as the quarry moved in an erratic pattern, following no known path.
            At last, their paths met with a small person wearing a tall red cap, little leather boots, and the whole deal. He also had long silver whiskers down to his belt in front. There were silver buttons on his jacket of blue.
            “It’s a Plaidie,” whispered Bob to Berry.
            “Ho there, Plaidie,” said Berry. He licked his lips. Bob laughed beside him.
            The wee fellow looked at them in alarm. “I’m no Plaidie!”
            “It’s true that no Plaidie would dare run loose in here,” said Berry, rather disappointed, because he was a bit hungry.
            “We’ve never eaten a Plaidie,” said Bob. "And now we can't eat this guy!"
            “There’s always a first time,” said Berry. "But not this time!"
            They watched as the manikin took off down the meadow without wasting a moment.
            Soon, Aunt Suzy, who was outside sitting on her little chunk of a trunk, saw the pointed red thing approaching. She stopped what she was doing with the fire, and stared.
            “Bob!” she called. “What is that?”
            He came out of the Stump to take a look, standing there with a confused look on his face, not an uncommon occurrence
            It was zipping along pretty well now because there was an actual path through the crunchy snow and beaten down grass.
            “It’s a Plaidie!” said Uncle Bob, when it got close.
            “It can’t be, Bob. They can’t get in here,” said Aunt Suzy. “But what can it be?”
            If they had been trying to grab him it would have been an easy catch. He ran right up on them standing by the fire, and slid to a stop, looking up at Bob and then Suzy.
            “Whoa!” said Uncle Bob. “Are you a new kind of Plaidie?”
            “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” said the short man in the red hat. He looked disgusted by the question.
            “We’ve never seen you around here before,” said Uncle Bob.
            “That’s obvious!” called the little guy as he took off again, heading toward the Home Clearing, whether he knew that or not.
            “Not something you see every day,” said Aunt Suzy, with her hands on her hips watching him split southward.
            The next party to notice the red pointed thing moving rapidly through the brush was Cherry, who was perched up on Ralph’s cedar log with Maeve, having a nice conversation about stuff. You know.? It was dry up there, because the sun had been shining for a couple of days.
            “Do you see that?” Cherry asked Maeve.
            “Now I do. Whatever can it be?” said that lady bird. “It just can’t be a Plaidie. Anyhow, I’ve never seen one in a pointy red hat!”
            He ran right up to the log and looked at Cherry and then looked at Maeve.
            “I’m not a Plaidie, in case you are wondering,” said he.
            “You’re new around here, aren’t you?” said Cherry.
            “Yes, I am. I must say that it has been a strange introduction to this forest!” he said, in exasperation. “I don’t even know what a Plaidie is. They must be real stinkers, from the sound of it.”
            “I think we better go see my father and mother. My father is the Forest Lord here,” said Cherry. She jumped down off of the log, to be on the same level with the little man.
            “Is he friendly?” said himself.
            “Oh, yes. No problem. If you’re going to be around here you should probably meet him anyhow, and mom too,” said Cherry. “I’ll show you the way.”
            Cherry walked beside him, and Maeve flew-hopped, as they followed the well-worn path to the fire circle.
            “What’s your name, by the way?”
            “Sven Olafssen.”
            “I am Cherry, and the Raven is Maeve,” said Cherry.
            “Evermore,” remarked Maeve, mid-hop.
            In pretty much a twinkling, this group presented itself at the fire circle. Ralph looked at them and smiled.
            “Welcome,” said Ramona. “Sit by our fire, Sir!”
            “His name is Sven Olafssen,” said Cherry, rather proud because she remembered the very unfamiliar name.
            “You are welcome, Sven Olafssen,” said Ralph, who was very curious. “I’m glad the Forest gave you passage among us.”
            “My thanks, Forest Lord and Lady,” said Sven very nicely.
            “No need to be so formal, I am Ralph and my Firekeeper is Ramona. I see that you have already met Cherry and Maeve.”
            “You honor me,” said Sven.
            “Please be seated,” said Ralph. “So tell me, Sven, how do you come to be here?”
            With some difficulty, Sven climbed aboard one of the convenient log sections placed around the fire.
            “Sir, Ralph,” he said, “And Ramona, I am a professional. I go about the forests and fields. I have certain duties. I plant mushrooms. I encourage bees. I count and succor the field mice. In addition, I tidy the nut trees, and keep the blackberries from smothering themselves with overgrowth.
            “If you will allow it, I will stay and nurture this forest,” said Sven. “I see some need.”
            “You are certainly welcome,” said Ralph. “But where will you make a home?”
            “Oh, I will make a small underground house, and in time I will bring Rosa. You will barely notice us.”
            “That sounds wonderful. You must bring Rosa to meet us too,” said Ramona. “Now, would you like to have some fish soup with us? It’s just now ready.”
            “Yes, thank you, but tell me, what in the world is a Plaidie?”
            “In two words, a wicked Fae,” said Ralph.
            “Oh,” said Sven. “Them! Never heard the name.”
            “Local variant,” said Ralph.
            So it was that Sven and Rosa Olafssen, Forest Gnomes, professionals, came to live in the Great Forest.
            Sometimes someone saw Sven, but usually they didn’t!

🍁💚🍁

The Story of The True Cat, As Told by Aunt Julia

Willie, helping.

A Chapter from Mirage.

            To entertain Emmy, Julia decided to tell her a story. It was the story of the True Cat. It may seem strange to tell such a young child a story that way, but Emmy was an unusual baby and Julia knew it. As you have surmised, Julia knew a great number of things.

            “Long ago, Emmy, in a land far away by the sea, when language was growing and branching and becoming itself in many ways, there were three important words that I want to tell you about.”
            Emmy turned her shining dark little eyes on the old lady. Any child likes to hear a story. Even the two animals seemed to attend. We know Billy did.
            “These words are, troth, truth, and plight, in the sense of pledge. These may not seem related at first. But they are very old words. Usually, they are part of a marriage ceremony, even up to the present times. To say ‘I plight my troth’ means to promise on risk of being a liar or untrustworthy. This promise is made to a true love. That is a love in truth or in troth.
          "Well, Emmy, we have inherited these old English peoples’ language. So, we have to deal with it. We Indians came to the same conclusions by different means with different words. Now we borrow these meanings.
            "So, true love. But there is also another story. In every cat lover’s life, there is also a True Cat.”
            Billy looked wise and kept his own council, as this was a story he knew well.
            “A girl or a boy never knows how their True Cat will come to them. In fact, they usually don’t know there is such a thing until it happens. Sometimes a child is given a kitten by a parent or some friend, and the child and the cat grow up together. This might be a very true love.
            “Sometimes a kitten or a cat just comes to your door, and you let him in. In that case the cat has chosen you, and that is very special. You must never turn a cat away from your door for he or she may be your True Cat.
            “But then, sometimes when you are an older person, you will be walking somewhere minding your own business, full of all kinds of thoughts, and you will find in your path a cat or a baby kitten even that is in dire need of help. You must help. For this one likely will become your True Cat. If it needs a doctor, you must provide one. If it just needs food and shelter you can do all of that yourself. To help this creature that God put in your path is a very high calling indeed.
            “When you answer that calling you are pledging your honor or your truth, to love and care for the cat. Not in so many words usually, Emmy.
            “Now I will tell you how Billy came to me.
            “I had never been alone. All my life there were others. First a mother and father, then just my father. Then I got a husband. Then we were parents of two children. But children grow up and they must live their own lives. Soon my children became adults and left my home. Then John Chee, who had been my husband for so long weakened and died. Then, Emmy, I was alone most of the time. I gave his old truck to my son, Ben, because I never learned to drive. I probably should have, but I didn’t.
            “One day I asked my son to take me to Winslow for grocery shopping. In an alley beside the store there was a dumpster. I could hear some small cries coming from the dumpster. So, Ben and I opened it. Inside, in a plastic bag, was a small wet tabby kitten. He had been thrown away as if he were garbage. Thrown away alive! Well, you know what happened of course. I brought him out here. Then I set about mothering him.
            “First, I fed him a little. Then I gave him a warm bath and a good rub down with a towel. Then, more feeding. Then he was sleepy. I made him a nest by putting a folded towel in a square basket. Ben and I had picked up litter and canned kitten food, and a box for the litter, after we found the kitten, so that was taken care of also.
            “He never used his nest much. Only when I was up and busy. Most of the time he slept on my shoulder in bed when I slept. I hope this old story isn’t putting you to sleep, Emmy!
            “So, I was not alone then. I called him Billy because it seemed like a fine name for an Indian kitty. In time, I noticed as he grew, that he was an unusual cat. He watched out for me. He could hear and see things which I could not perceive. If someone walked near the house, he told me with gestures and by his expression. If my thoughts wandered down sad paths he knew and he came to me and he lifted my heart. He was in fact a Watcher; a sort of angel and he was my True Cat.”
            The old lady stopped speaking then. She sighed and smiled at the tiny girl asleep in her carrier. She patted Billy’s head as he sat beside her. Honda opened his eyes briefly. She smiled at him too and he went back to sleep.
            When the blue pickup drove back up the driveway no one was awake in the house. The slight rattle and engine noise didn’t disturb the sleepers at all.

💙

🐈‍⬛Reflections on Passing The Baton & The True Cat

 

            Like many of us, I have known a lot of cats! I believe I loved every one of them, though my appreciation has developed over the years. We always had cats at home, but my old man, being essentially a farmer, didn’t have pets in the house, neither cat nor dog. It’s a different kind of relationship when the animal doesn’t live in the house with you at least part of the time.
            I didn’t know any better. My first dogs, but not Layla, lived out of doors, and so did the cats. That seems very strange now. Now, I think what’s the use of having a cat or a dog if you don’t actually live with the creature?
            So, who is the True Cat? I think that primarily he is the cat who takes a personal interest in his human friend. It seems like he is on an assignment of his own choosing. I guess it takes perception to see that interest in a cat. I know there are people who think that cats are all the same, aloof, and maybe unloving.
            We know differently, of course. Each one of the little fur bombs is totally on his own little trip. Examples abound. Sweetie will move over if I ask him to. Booker will not. Either he doesn’t want to, or he doesn’t know what I’m asking for. Sweetie stays awake to be with me, Booker sleeps a lot and I often don’t know where he is. Like that.
            I think that one might have several True Cats over the course of a life. I loved Henry, who lived before Willie and Suzy, and was a wonderful creature, fine and beautiful, but I didn't know about the True Cat yet.
            After I wrote about Julia telling Emmy the story of the True Cat, I began to wonder if I had such a cat, a cat who is my personal friend. At the time, Willie was with us, and he sure fit the description. If I looked up, he was there. Most usually he was looking at me. He was a little bossy. He knew when it was bedtime and would make sure I knew too. He was a fine watchcat too!
            Ah, it’s hard to explain. But I remember many a night, here at the desk, with him on the pull-out typewriter extension, and he would be holding my right wrist, eyes closed. I had never known an animal like him. I know he loved me, but I didn’t know why. It was an experience of a type of grace. Maybe some of these guys are messengers?
            Now that Sweetie, and Booker of course, are about 11 months old, it seems like the assignment has been passed to Sweetie.
            He is a well-named cat.

💙

Cherry & The Bear! 🤎

 

            She stopped. There was a strange little cry, repeating. She looked all around, but didn’t see anything. She looked up. Something was about 80 feet up a fir tree, that is by our lights, 80 feet. It was dark, and seemed furry.
            “What are you doing up there?” Cherry said. She didn’t get an answer, just more crying. It wasn’t exactly clear who was up there either.
            What could she do? Naturally, being Cherry, after all, she drifted up the tree trunk until she was near the creature. It turned out to be a bear cub. Not very old.
            “Why did you climb up here, Bear,” she said, kindly.
            The cub, who had been crying and hanging on, with his eyes closed, opened his teary little eyes and looked at her. He was so shocked that he almost lost his grip on the bark.
            He closed his eyes again, and turned his head away.
            “Can you talk?” she asked.
            There was more crying, and tree clinging.
            “I think you should talk. Would you try please, Bear?”
            “Mama!” he blurted suddenly.
            “That’s a good first word, Bear. Everybody wants their mama. Especially when up a tree! Do you have a name, or don’t bears have names? I don’t know because I’ve never talked with a bear before,” Cherry said.
            “What’s a name?” said the bear cub, actually looking at her curiously at this point.
            “The sound your mama makes when she is calling you, maybe,” said Cherry.
            “Oh. Wruff. That must be my name,” he said, actually smiling a little.
            “How would you like to climb back down, Wruff?”
            “I’m afraid!”
            “Why?”’         
            “I’m lost. I’m hungry. I figured I would have to die up here,” said Wruff. “And I saw a big scary creature like you.”
            Cherry laughed. “You probably saw my father. He is very big, but not scary.”
            “What if he picked me up and ate me?” said Wruff.
            “Don’t be silly! I can’t help you find your mama if you stay up here,” she pointed out.
            Wruff lowered himself down a few feet. “Do you know where my mama is?”
            “No. But I bet she is looking for you right now. I bet she won’t be hard to find, but you gotta come down. Your mama is too big to climb trees to go looking for you!”
            He dropped down a few more feet. Cherry stayed right with him. So, he wouldn’t be scared. They worked they way down, bit by bit.
            About the time Wruff and Cherry were head height, for a Squatch, they heard a lot of commotion in nearby bushes. It sounded like an enormous animal on four feet.
            “Wruff! Wruff! Wruff!” the approaching voice called out sternly.
            “Mama!” said the cub, who let go entirely, and fell to the ground.
            “Oh! Where did you find him?” she said when she saw Cherry bobbing gently in the air above Wruff.
            “He was up in this tree here. I heard him crying to I went up to see,” said Cherry.
            “Well! Thank you, Ralph’s Child! Maybe now he will learn not to wander when I sleep!” said the mama bear, as she marched her son away. Cherry could hear some of what she was telling her son as they went off to wherever bears go when they go.
            “I’m glad you found him,” said Maeve, from a branch overhead. “She wanted me to search from the air.”
            “I never talked to bears before, “said Cherry.
            “Well, now you have, Ralph’s Child!” said Maeve.
            So, little platinum blond Cherry, standing in a bit of snow, smiled up at the great black Raven, who gave her a little wink, and a Raven smile.

🖤🐦‍⬛🖤

It's As Simple As Keeping a Fire!

 

            Ranger Rick had been watching some guys chat on a certain podcast. The subject matter, as you can well imagine, was dear to his heart. Naturally it was the mysterious race of Forest Keepers, those who officially do not exist.
            The guys were talking about handprints, greasy big handprints, face prints even. Apparently, this waxy grease is powerful stuff. Once, applied to a vehicle or a window, it stays, resisting all attempts to remove it. And, it can etch a surface!
            Now, Rick had been familiar with a certain family, Ralph and family, for some time. In all of that time he had never seen any ominous white handprints. He couldn’t remember one, on the dumpster, or his truck, or Dexter’s old Honda. No camper had complained to him about strange waxy prints either. It was a mystery to Rick.
            He needed to talk to Ralph. Ralph would know.
            Rick, made a mental note and went on with his business. Eventually, Ralph would appear.
            And he did. It wasn’t a week later when Ralph poked his head into the office, and then slid all the way in, adjusting his size a bit.
            “Ah, just the man I want,” said Rick, as Ralph got settled in the big chair in front of Rick’s desk.
            “I’m all ears,” said Ralph, glancing toward the kitchen nook.
            “Hang on, coffee coming right up,” said Rick. Ralph smiled encouragement.
            “What’s up, Rick,” said Ralph, holding his coffee mug in both hands.
            “I have a question. As usual, it’s because of something I saw online. Two guys talking about you guys, with all attendant mysteriousness. The thing that stuck out to me was a lot of discussion of big white waxy handprints left by some of you guys on cars and such.
            “Why don’t you leave big white handprints on every thing you touch? What’s going on here?” said Rick. “I figured you must know!”
            Assuming sort of a professorial expression, Ralph said, “Well, I guess you know that many differing tribes of Forest Keepers exist. Some live primitively. Basically, they don’t have fire. It really kind of comes down to fire. The real backwoods types have developed this coating to stay warm and dry, instead of relying on fire and shelter.”
            “Why are you different?” said Rick. “Fire, you said? How did that happen?”
            “I’ll tell you that story in a minute. When I was a child, I was just as waxy as one of those backwoods types! So were my parents, brothers and sisters.
            “Ramona’s family were not like that. She came from a long line of Firekeepers. They were not greasy, because they had fire! It sounds funny, but it’s the only difference that I can think of,” said Ralph.
            “So, Ramona built fires, and you stopped being coated with wax? It was that simple?”
            “Not quite. For a while she had to clean me up!” laughed Ralph. “What a production!”
            “They say it’s hard to remove!” said Rick.
            “She was pretty determined,” said Ralph. “She used to boil down pigs to get the fat. After it cooled, she would set me down and massage it all over me, to loosen the wax. Then I had to wait a while for it to work. Then she scraped it off as well as she could.
            “Then she would dig up a pile of Soaproot. This was before she knew Thaga, so no soap! Anyhow, she used to pound it and mix it with water, make a bunch of lather, then completely cover me with it, and work it in good. It took all day, Rick.
            “Then we went swimming and the river took it all, soap, grease, wax, all of it away. Then when I was dry, she combed me.”
            “I think I kind of quit making that stuff in self-defense, and I didn’t need it anymore, since she made fire and cooked food By the time Twigg was born, I couldn’t have made a greasy handprint if I wanted to!” Ralph said.
            “Ralph, you’re not making this all up?” said Rick.
            “Now, Rick, have I ever lied to you?”
            “No. But it sounds like a Just So story, you know?” said Rick.
            “Hey, Mona made some nut balls, a lot like Hannah’s, but with what she had. They turned out really tasty! She said to tell Hannah thanks for the idea and the samples,” said Ralph. “Rick, I might have telescoped the truth a little, but we live in mythic times, don’t we, old buddy?
            “Ah, it works for me, Ralph. We’re the same. Both of us. Somebody had to start making fires, and everything that came after. Sometime, somewhere, there was a first time,” agreed Rick.
            “We need myth. It makes sense of the unknowable,” said Ralph. “Got another cup of coffee out there?”
            “Yeah, there are some Oreos too. Did you ever have an Oreo?”
            “Nope!”
            “They are the physical manifestation of an ad campaign, Ralph,” Rick laughed. “Sweet enough to knock your hat off.”
            “I’ll take my chances!” said Ralph. He didn’t have a hat anyhow.
            Then Ralph took his mythical big old self back to the Home Clearing, laughing as he slipped behind the dumpster.

💚☕💚

🍁October 18, 2026, One of Those Open Threads🍁

 

We come in peace!

Believe us, truly!

Ask anyone. Ask the crows, as if!

However, we wonder if you have about you

Something worthy! 

A bit, a bite, of this or that?

Oh, anything, surely!

Please be assured of our gratitude!

Gulls are the most honorable of birds!

💙