A Ticket To Evermore.

It's not really the feather.

It's what the feather signifies.

The sky, if you will it.

Love, Maeve

 🖤

Just Leave Them Alone!

 

            Nobody knows how he got to the Mt. Baker Snoqualmie National Forest. It’s a mystery. He didn’t explain. Maybe he was sick of the animosity between Man and Hairy Man where he came from. Maybe he swam. It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility. After all, his kind do swim mighty distances, going from island to island up there where he was born.
            It’s a good thing he was solid black. If someone had spotted him in the water they might have assumed they were looking at a very large sea lion, or maybe that they had seen the flash of an Orca in the water. As it happens, we must surmise that he came ashore somewhere remote on the coast and started walking inland and then up hill.
            Did he have a name? Did he know any human language? Maybe that will all come out as his history proceeds.
            He waded upstream in rivers, avoiding highways and houses, slipping silently always upward. Sometimes he walked straight up the flanks of mountain sides.
            One evening, he began to hear music. He was not familiar with music, but he knew voices when he heard them. There was also a strange sound binding the words he heard together with a kind of cord of sound. He was curious.
            As he came closer, he saw a fire burning, and he smelled food. Cooked food such as made in the homes of humans. But gathered around the fire were folk such as himself, however lighter in color and somewhat smaller in stature than himself. To say that he was intrigued is to say nothing at all.
            What he saw was an upright creature somewhat like a large wolf in form, making the sound with his mouth on a small object he held in his hand. He had a bag tied to his waist. The voices he heard interspersed with the music belonged to two Forest people. One was a smallish dumpy-looking guy, and the other was a female, a grandmotherly looking female.
            Watching them, seated on sections of fallen tree trunk were a more imposing looking male, a motherly looking female, and a small light haired child. A white wolf and two big cats completed the group.
            The strange sounds, the odd calling nature of it seemed to be a demonstration of some sort. The people around the fire didn’t speak over it and seemed very happy with what they were hearing. He came closer, doing his best to stay beyond the light of the fire, and to not make noise.
            But, as we know, not much gets by Ralph.
            Ralph knew that the visitor in the dark must be one of their own kind, or he wouldn’t have walked right up on them.
            In the old language, known in some form all over the world, Ralph called out, “Welcome, brother, come and join us at our fire!”
            The visitor, fully a head and a half taller than Ralph, stepped into the light, but still hung back a bit. He was blacker than the surrounding night. His eyes were golden, reflecting the firelight.
            “I come without hatred. May I truly join you?” he said softly in the old language.
            Ramona stood up, motioning with her hands. “Come sit by my fire, wanderer. Please, sit with us.”
            He seated himself carefully on one of the logs. The group of three making the demonstration of sounds had fallen silent. The girl child watched him closely, with her hand on the wolf’s head. The two cats observed him silently.
            “May we have your name?” asked Ralph.
            “She who bore me called me Lorik,” said the visitor in a soft low voice. “My father is Willof.”
            And so, introductions were made between them, and they chatted the evening away. It was determined that Lorik spoke no English, though he had heard it spoken, or rather shouted by the people where he came from.
            Ramona brought Lorik a bowl of leftover stew, and then refilled the bowl when he was finished the first time. He was delighted with her stew.
            Maurice got sleepy, and left to find his bed in the old house. Uncle Bob and Suzie went home next. Then Ramona and Cherry and the animals, all went to bed in the cave, leaving Ralph and Lorik by the fire.
            The moon passed over, the stars looked down, and sparks flew up in the darkness.
            “What brings you to us?” said Ralph at last, talking as men do together when the night is very old and truth is spoken.
            “My heart was broken, Sir. I fled a long war. My people torment the native dwellers of my home, and those men hate us in return, going always armed and willing to shoot,” replied Lorik.
            “Just call me Ralph, we are equals here,” said Ralph. “I see.”
            “I want to see what else there is. That hatred can’t be all between our people and them, not everywhere,” said Lorik.
            “No, not like that everywhere,” said Ralph. “Wiser human voices have said that it’s best just to let us live in peace, as we wish in our forests and mountains. I think it also makes sense for we who inhabit the forests to just leave them alone too!
            “Oh, sometimes friendships grow up between special humans and very agreeable such as ourselves. But it’s rare,” said Ralph.
            “I long for peace between man and forest man. Far be it from me, to beat on cabins, or roar at fishing camps,” said Lorik. “Some of my brothers thought me weak.”
            “To long for peace is not weak, Lorik,” said Ralph.
            “The sun will be coming up soon. Will you thank your good Firekeeper for the food? I will keep walking. Maybe some day I will walk this way again. All my thanks to you,” said Lorik, standing up and stretching.
            And just as he said, the sky began to lighten just a little.
            “Yes, come back and sit with us again,” said Ralph. “Good travels to you, Lorik.”
            And so, they parted as the fire died down, and the wind blew the last of the smoke away.
            Ralph, yawning, went into the cave and sat on the side of the big bed. He reached over and patted Ramona, to let her know he was there.
            “Hi, Baby, where’s Lorik?” murmured Ramona.
            “He kept walking. He’s looking for something,” said Ralph, reverting to English, after a long conversation in the old language.
            “He seems pretty determined. I bet he finds it,” said Ramona.
            “I’d like to  hear that song again,” laughed Ralph. “They hardly got started when Lorik snuck up on us!”
            Ralph slept in a little. Ramona got up as usual and got everything ready for the day. She and Cherry sang a little Firekeeper song together as they worked.
            When he finally woke, there was breakfast and the sun was shining.

☀️

A Bengal Scouts Photo Essay

 

            Recently, I was asked by a relative to provide some photos of the new kittens, who are not so new anymore! 

            I started at the beginning, as far as I had record of it. The above is the photo my granddaughter sent first. I was allowed to pick from this litter. The one on top of the other one is Sweetie now, and the one looking at the camera, top right, is Booker.

            Booker when he first arrived here. Totally boggled by the changes.

            As we got to know them, and they grew, rapidly, we discovered that Sweetie was the most independent, adventurous, and most likely to be awake. He is also the one who hungers to get into the fridge. No one knows why.

          Booker is a totally different guy. He stands back and watches Sweetie's shenanigans, then may decide to join in. He is in some ways, the most affectionate. He will leap into my arms suddenly at any random time.

          Brotherly affection. When they're not grooming each other, or Mr. Baby, they wrassle! Then the thundering runs through the house!

             Booker, just waking.

             Manic Sweetie, guarding the box.

            And so it goes. Lots of snuggling, grooming, and running, and climbing. They are super nice guys, heart mending after Willie left us so suddenly.

💌

The Dancing Man

 

            There was a small lonely empty house. No one had lived there since the 50s or 60s. It was on the same piece of ground where Twigg’s B’s had been living in the old pickup cab. The truck had been removed but the house was still there, largely intact, if you didn’t mind grass on the roof, or a couple of broken windows, things like that. There were a few pieces of old style furnishings inside, stuff nobody wanted. Maybe the owners had died and there were no inheritors. Maybe a few treasure hunters had gotten the good stuff.
            Maurice, when he wasn’t at the Stump House, with Bob and Suzie, had been sleeping there. It suited him. Howlers don’t need luxe, or even very clean. They need a roof and somewhere to lie down.
            He was remembering how to live on his own hunting skills. So, cooking wasn’t an issue. Sometimes he brought his kill to Aunt Suzie, she knew what to do with it, which suited him excellently.
            Many nights, if anyone had braved the brush, vines, and tall weeds to approach the small house they would have heard some startlingly familiar blues tunes played on harmonica. They might even have thought the place was haunted.
            Maybe if they had known who was really there, they would have preferred a simple ghost.
            Many mornings, he would rise when the sun woke the birds. He’d sit up and listen, and maybe try to put some of that into his tunes. Maurice slept on the board floor, on a pad of two or three old quilts and blankets folded over thickly. There was no running water, so if he wanted a drink or something he needed to get up and go out.
            He usually ended up at the Stump House. Bob and Suzie could always hear him coming when he was headed their way.
            On this particular midsummer morning, Maurice was riffing on the robin’s song, and adding just a little Jack Bruce to it. It was getting pretty good. As he trotted along he could smell the smoke of Suzie’s fire and something cooking.
            When he loped up to the fire, Bob was sitting there smiling in his dreamy way. Suzie was poking at something in a pan.
            “He don’t believe in matter much,” sang Uncle Bob, in his husky tenor.
            “Alright,” sang Suzie, in her smokey contralto.
            Maurice took that as a cue to play his robin blues tune over again for them.
            “He’s a dancing man,” sang Uncle Bob.
            “Why does he dance?” sang Suzie.
            Maurice was too excited to sit down. He paced around the Stump House, putting a little Train Time into the tune.
            “When he dances he becomes a cloud, a rock, a river!” sang Bob. “He unwinds himself from self. He’s light as air.”
            Maurice worked on that for a few minutes.
            “But what does that mean?” sang Suzie, looking from Bob to Maurice and back again.
            Maurice played some more.
            “It means he dances for all of us, light as a feather, no mass at all,” sang Bob.
            “I bet he could fly!” sang Suzie suddenly, as the idea occurred to her.
            “You bet he can!” sang Bob. “He flew with Maeve and her feather!”
            “Oh, he did!” sang Suzie.
            Maurice kept playing his robin blues. He was so into it that he had tears in his eyes.
            “It’s all about love,” sang Bob. “The Forest is filled with love.”
            “I see it now,” sang Suzie.
            “He dances for love of the Forest!” sang Bob.
            Maurice sat down then, and kept playing quietly. He was getting hungry now. Then he said, “You know, we could probably turn that into a song.”
            “It is a song, Maurice,” said Suzie. “And it just happened while we were waiting for this bird to cook!”
            “We just have to remember how it goes,” said Uncle Bob, grinning, because he had a good memory for a song and there was no way he would forget this.
            They sat around discussing what had just happened, and how cool it was, and sort of committing it to memory among themselves, while eating wild turkey soup from some more of Ooog’s nice wooden bowls, drinking the liquid and using their fingers on the turkey.
            “We need to practice it a few times,” said Maurice. “Then we should go perform it for Ralph and Ramona! They’ll love it! And you know what guys? It’s just as good as anything Folky Joe ever did, and he’s rich now!”
            “But we can’t do what he did,” said Suzy. “We can’t perform in public!”
            “No, that’s true,” said Maurice, “But maybe I could take it to Joe, and he could make a hit out of it, and he could give us a cut of the profits.”
            “I don’t know, maybe we should just start by doing it for Ralph, and his family, and whoever knows him around here,” said Uncle Bob. “I think it would be OK to invite Ranger Rick and Dexter.”
            “OK, Bob, I’m with you. Let’s just practice and do it for the Great Forest for now,” said Maurice agreeably. “I don’t know what we need money for anyhow. That might be too big of a change. Let’s just stay the way we are, or we didn’t learn anything from the song at all!”
            “We don’t even have any place to spend money,” said Bob.
            “I love it,” said Aunt Suzie.
            “So do I,” sang Maurice, “So do I!”

🍃🍁🍃

A Happy 6th of July To You! It's Summer! Rejoice!

 

            This is a good representation of Booker's attitude toward all that racket. Booms? Who cares?
            Sweetie's feelings were roughly equivalent. But he wasn't available for comment when the camera came out.

            It was an impressively noisy night. As soon as the show was over downtown, the volunteers came out to play. I'm not sure who the jolly boys or girls were, but they were like one house away. I dozed off listening to the happy mayhem. 

            There are still a few stragglers going off, as of Suzday evening. 

            I found it comfortable and cheerful to hear all that going on all around the city.

            It brought to mind other Independence Day celebrations, such as out on the Tulalip Reservation before they moved Boom City.

            When we were living out there in the '80s, Boom City, which was just a lot of homemade booths selling the ammunition, was right on the bay, within a couple blocks of our place.

            It was nuts. Should have been illegal. It looked like a movie war zone. The noise was constant and near and loud. There was red smoke in the air. It went on all night. And in the morning there was the little of all of those explosives all over the beach. Incredible mess.

            One year, some of the local men were stopping cars on the way into the neighborhood, trying to keep the crowd down to locals, and keep real damage from being done.

            Great days! They'll never come again like that. 

💥

Surely You're Joking!

 

            “Ralph,” said Milly, one day when they were taking a little drive in her Escalade, “I have a question for you.”
            “OK, I guess that’s why you called this meeting!” said Ralph, gazing at the passing scene. Highway 9 was new to him. It was neat because once you get north of Arlington, there are lots of dips and curves, and even some switchbacks.
            “It’s about a word. I think you probably know what it means. You’re the only one I know to ask. It’s not in the dictionary. I did look,” said Milly.
            “A word? What kind of word?” said Ralph, turning around to look at her.
            “Wicha, or witcha. If you heard a Forest guy say that, what would it mean to you?” said Milly.
            “Where did you hear that?” Ralph laughed.
            “On a podcast! It wasn’t just some guy saying it. He had it on tape! It was real!” insisted Milly. She was a little startled by his laughter.
            “That’s pretty rough talk for a lady, Milly,” said Ralph. He was still laughing.
            “What happened was one or more of you guys were out in the woods hollering at each other, and some guy took a shot at them. I don’t know if he was trying to hit them, or just trying to get them to pipe down. Right after the rifle shot you hear this voice say witcha, or something very close to that, quite distinctly!” said Milly.
            “I’m not surprised then,” said Ralph. “If some hotshot with a rifle fired at me, and missed, it must be noted, I might say the same thing!”
            “What does his missing have to do with it,” said Milly.
            “Everything!” said Ralph.
            “It doesn’t have an exact English equivalent. You know you can’t really put this in your column at the paper, Milly,” said Ralph.
            “Some commenters thought it translated to missed me, and some of them thought it was like some Lakota words, meaning like non-Indian. Some wags had waggish suggestions. It’s not that huh?” said Milly, still driving up and down hills and around sharp corners.
            “Roughly, I guess,” said Ralph.
            “Oh, just spit it out, Ralph,” said Milly, finally.
            “Really?” said Ralph.
            “Really,” said Milly.
            “Well, to water it down a little, it means ‘kiss my foot, loser, no hair bozo!’” said Ralph.
            “Oh, come on, that’s not so bad!” she said, looking relieved.
            “I said it was watered down, Milly. If you print the real word and anyone says it to one of us, they are going to get beat up, at the very least. And you will be accused of dirty language. It’s a little more biological than what I said,” said Ralph.
            “Oh,” said Milly. “Well, OK. I guess I’ll leave it at that. I don’t want to trigger any cross-species incidents.”
            “Yeah, I’m not surprised the guy said it, but you don’t want to spread it around,” said Ralph. “Peace, yanno, if at all possible.”
            “Thanks, Ralph, I knew you would tell me true. I guess we better turn around and I’ll get you back to Ramona,” said Milly, doing that very thing. She could have driven all the way to Canada on 9, but Ralph didn’t have a passport anyhow, and he would be hard to explain to the border guard.
            By the time she got to the wide spot on SR20 the sun was sinking.
            “Love to Ramona and Cherry, Ralph,” said Milly.
            “You got it,” said Ralph, piling out, and vanishing into the Forest. She could still hear his laughter for a few seconds, then she turned the big SUV around and drove back to Milltown.

🍁

Ralph Sends His July 4th Congratulations

 

 

            I’d like to take a moment to say, “Happy Birthday, America!” Why, looking back I remember when America was only 200 years old. Has it really been 50 years? I was just a little guy, hanging out with my mom and dad, and Uncle Bob, before we called him that.
            But, I remember the hoopla! Even up in the forest, we sensed the excitement, heard the loud booms, and if you looked in just the right direction, we saw the colored explosions in the sky over Milltown way downhill.
            Mom said, “It’s like a big birthday party. Humans like to mark the days and the times with big celebrations.
            “200 years ago, these people’s ancestors broke off from another older country, because they were not being treated fairly, and they started their own country here on this land. And here we are!
            “Now, we Forest Keepers were here all along, and way before too, so we’ve seen it all, mostly from a distance. But, we have our ways of knowing, don’t we?”
            Dad said, “We’ll see what it looks like in 50 more years.” Can’t argue with that.
            Ramona and I, and, in fact, all of us here in the Great Forest wish all of you busy humans the very best. Have a Bang Up holiday! I know you will, because I’ve been hearing the warmup, and smelling the smoke, for days.
 
            We’ll be watching! We always are!

Love, Ralph 💚