Leave It To Twigg

 

       “Mama, mama,” wheedled Twigg, “I want a pet. I want a kitty, mama!”

        Ramona looked down at her son, trying to determine what the genesis of this latest bee in his bonnet was. What did it spring from? How did he even know what a kitty was? She pondered.
        “Now, Twigg. What is a kitty?” asked Ramona.
        “Well, Missus Thaga said a kitty was a pet, and I think if she has one, I should have one,” said Twigg, logically enough, in his own estimation.
        “What does a kitty look like Twigg?,” asked Ramona, mentally deciding to speak to Thaga.
        Twigg opened his mouth, then shut it again. He hadn’t expected a grilling.
        “I think a kitty is an animal with fur,” said Twigg hesitantly. He felt like maybe this whole thing was slipping out of his understanding.
        “You know, Twigg, sometimes when we ask for something we don’t understand, we get a real surprise!  Sometimes it’s not a good surprise.  Sometimes it is a good surprise, you never know,” said Ramona.
        “Basically, a pet is an animal friend.  Don’t you already have animal friends? You have Maeve, I know, she’s just a bird. You have that baby skunk, Fredrich. You think you need more animal friends? Then, there are rabbits all over the place,” she added.
        Just when she couldn’t think of anything else to say, Ralph himself strolled into the clearing. He looked highly pleased with himself.  Of course, he usually did. But this time even more so. His broad, amiable face shone with amusement.
        Standing there by the fire circle he appeared as a glorious figure to his son, for in the crook of each elbow he carried a cougar cub, squealing and wriggling as hard as he could.
        “Hey, look what I found Ramona! These two little kitties have been down in a little badger den for days without their mama.  Something must have happened to her. They are hungry and thirsty.  Also, very noisy!”
        At the word kitties, Twigg’s eyes lit up. All his fondest wishes looked to be coming true, right before his eyes! This was more like it!
        “Twigg, sit down, and I’ll hand em to ya,” said Ralph to his son.
        Twigg dropped right where he stood. His hands reached up! He couldn’t wait.
        “They’re both boys,” said Ralph. “One is smaller.  You can name him first,” he said as he handed one hungry looking cub to his son.
        “Berry,” said Twigg, giggling.  “His name is Berry, because he is berry little!”
        “Here is the big brother,” said Ralph, handing down the bigger cub.
        “Bob!” said Twigg.  He thought he was very funny naming the cub Bob. He knew about bobcats and their short tails, but this Bob had a long tail. Kids think weird things are funny.
        The cubs crawled all over Twigg, hissing and growling, but snuggling too.
        “Ramona, what do you have that these two can eat?” asked Ralph. Ramona could see the writing on the wall.
        “OK, I’ll just chop up something raw for them. Um, you do know you are going to have to hunt a little more now, right?” said Ramona, realizing that she now had four men to feed.
        “Yeah, yeah, It’ll be great Ramona!  When they grow up a little they can help me hunt!” chortled Ralph.
        So, Bob and Berry it was, and would be thereafter for the immediate and foreseeable future! And a very fine future it would be!

        Anybody could see that.

Reprise. Oct 5, 2022 - In The Presence Of Stones

 

A dream: 

The man I have chosen is a painter of images on the walls of stones.  

When I think on him, my heart becomes hot and I breathe quickly.  I have seen him working. I saw his back and his arms and his thighs.  I have seen his black eyes which give nothing away. 

Today I wear my leather leggings made new at home.  Today I wear a new dress, with colors worked in.  Today I make myself beautiful, with ochre on my nose and chin.  But I will tell you, that even without all of that, I am the best of all the young  women.  My face is like that of a perfect child’s, my hair is very long and braided by my mother.  I am straight and strong. 

I have a walking song.  I will walk this path this way only once.  But all my life I will sing to myself this song to help me walk and work.  I know what life will be. 

Morning is soft.  Light is just touching the highest of the walls.  A kind wind is blowing down the canyon.  Insects are waking. Dew is drying.  I smell the sweet smoke of our morning fires. 

There is a blessing song the mother’s sing to me, laughing as they do at my desire.  They walk behind me, as I will walk behind my daughter some day. 

To make my children come to me, all my neighbor’s children walk beside me.  They make a blessing. Little black heads and sleepy voices.  Small rabbits.

                                           

When I find him, standing with the fathers, he is wearing a robe of beaten wool with a red stripe on the top and the bottom.  He makes a slender figure standing in the deep shadow of the morning stones.  The fathers wear their beaten robes also.  Behind them are the paintings of the ones who are not living among us, but in the other world.  Their memories are on the wall.

 

No one may know what we say to each other.  I have dreamed a saying for him.  He alone will hear it.  I am waiting to hear what he will say to me. 

His black eyes give nothing away, but are sweet like a young hawk’s.  He says my name to me.  He says it softly, only to me, and I become his in that moment. 

There is a blessing song the mothers sing.  There is a blessing saying the fathers say deeply.   

The sun is rising now.  A day is here.  

(I decided to lightly edit this old post and re-post it because I was interested in seeing it again.)

A Highly Apocryphal Conversation

 

Suzy: “Willie, somebody is talking to me, but I can’t hear him.  Can you?”

Willie: “No. And I’m hungry. I don’t like Sheba roasted chicken anymore.”

S.: “He says he’s been talking to Toots too. I wonder who he is.”

W.: “Maybe it’s one of your fleas Suzy.”

S.: “I don’t have any fleas.”

W.: “Well, assuming that you’re not hallucinating, you could try asking him who he is.”

Suzy shuts her eyes, sitting meatloaf style. She is silent for a while. Minutes tick over. She sighs and opens her eyes.

S.: “I was thinking really hard. I don’t know if it worked. I said who are you. Um. Wait a minute.”

W.: “I’m waiting. Nothing else to do around here. Did I mention being hungry?”

S.: “He’s laughing. That tickles.”

W.: “I told you it was a flea!”

S.: “He says all his friends call him Uncle Bob. I wonder why?”

W.: “You worry me. I don’t think they have head shrinkers for cats. They only have the needle Suzy. Don’t let it come to that!”

S.: “What a horrible thing to suggest, brother dearest! No matter what, I know she loves me, even if I am a little sensitive at times.”

W.: “Oh, is that what they’re calling it nowadays? You make ‘sensitive’ look like a sofa! Suzy, where is Uncle Bob? Did he tell you that, or is he still yukking it up? Why am I even talking as if you are making sense?”

S.: “It’s getting easier. Hang on.”

W.: “Mrrrp. Prrt. Zzzzzzzzzz.”

S.: “He’s in the forest. I’ve never been in the forest. I wonder what that is?”

W.: “This is what I’ve heard. It’s outside this house. You can see the start of it from the windows. There are huge plants and litter that goes on forever. It’s endless. But remember that we are rescues. Our mother was from the forest. So, I know there is a forest.”

S.: “I don’t remember her. Who told you that we are rescues?”

W.: “When we were kittens at the very beginning, I heard them talking about us that way. So, why did Uncle Bob contact you anyhow?”

S.: “Oh, Toots just wanted to say Hi, and that we shouldn’t be afraid of the Forest Keepers. They’re alright.  They don’t eat cats. She thought if one of them told me I would stop worrying. He said they don't eat cats and that everything is fine."

W.: “In some odd way, that makes sense Suzy. Maybe you aren’t completely goofy! Maybe!”

S.: “Prrrrrrrr. Getting sleepy Willie.”

W.: “Let’s slip inside the bedroom and nap in with her! Warmest place in the house!”

S.: “Good idea!”

Millicent Price vs Ralph, Round 2

 

            So that’s what they did.  Maeve would go forward by one means or another, and Millicent would catch up. Eventually they arrived at her car, which was still where she had left it, and she was very glad to see this. It started right up, just like in the normal world.  She drove around the grandfather cedar three times to the right, and then turned right at the big rock, onto the highway taking her back to Milltown.
            On her way back home, Millicent tried to imagine how she would present this article to her boss on Wednesday.  A very good question indeed. She thought she would need to sleep on it.

(A bit of overlap... )

 
            Millicent woke up Wednesday morning with the problem still on her mind. Would this story fly? Was there any way it could?
            She decided to get her notebook out, read her notes and make a final decision about presenting her article.  She hadn’t even written it yet. Maybe she wouldn’t bother to.
            The notebook wasn’t in either of her jacket pockets, but the pen was. She checked her bag which had remained in the car, but it wasn’t there either. She got dressed then and went out to her car just in case it was on the seat or the floorboards. But it wasn’t there either. The notebook with her notes inside was nowhere in her possession.
            This was odd because she remembered Ralph handing it back with a puckish, amused expression on his big face.  She knew that he had handed it back.  Hadn’t he? Her memory of the whole episode seemed intangible, shifty. Thinking back, she could hardly believe the story he had told her. He must have been pulling her leg!
            Why did he have to be that way, she asked herself hopelessly.
            On her drive back in to the office, she continued to puzzle over the lost notebook. It superseded the question of whether she should write her article. Her boss, old Bill, had no imagination at all. Old Bill was actually the new boss. Her previous boss had tolerated her original interview with Ralph years ago, when she had learned his name and met Ramona also. Those seemed like simpler days to tell the truth. No hocus pocus, no funny business.  Just a straight interview.
            Now, Millicent was a pro.  She was used to dealing with difficult situations and impossible people. So, she was ready when she strolled into the newspaper offices when Bill said, “hey, Price, where were you all day yesterday?  I thought you had a morning appointment with some guy, then you were going to come back.”
            “Good morning Bill!” trilled Millicent in her most disarming manner. “Yeah, I did. I met some guy I’ve interviewed before, to talk about timber practices up north of here and it turned into a big, long ordeal and we went out for early dinner, so I just went home. It wasn’t a very exciting story. Nothing new. I might bag it Bill. Sometimes you’re the bird, sometimes you’re the windshield, or something like that.”
            With that, she slipped into her own little office. A safe escape. Bill, settled!
            This is where the story gets weird. Or maybe more correctly, remains weird.
            For there on her desk was her very own top bound, black Paperage brand notebook waiting for her.  It was placed squarely in the center of her desk. Tidy. A chill ran down Millicent’s spine. She was a pro, but this was a little much for even a pro. She went out to the hall and the coffee pot. Someone had done their duty and made coffee.  Good. She filled a cup and went back to her room.
            Millicent sat down at her desk. She put her cup down carefully to the right of the notebook. She realized that she was going to have to pick it up and look inside. Soon.
            The clock made that electronic clock sound. The sun shone in the windows. She picked it up and opened it. None of her notes were there. Not one scrap of her handwriting was in that notebook. She turned it over and looked at the back. Yes. Her name and phone number were written in her own hand on the back. So, the awkward facts remained awkward.
            She flipped through the pages. Wait, there was a bit of writing on the back page, the very last page. It was written in a large square masculine hand, with her own pen apparently. It said:

Hey Milly,

Every*Word*Is*True!

Love, Ralph

🤍

    She had to laugh. “You got me Ralph,” she thought. Then she thought, “he probably got that too!” “OK, buddy, you win this time.” She laughed a little too much maybe.
    The notebook went into a lower drawer in her desk.  Then, because Millicent was a pro, she got on with her workday.

Little Children

 

Just Bee !

1At that time the disciples came to Jesus, saying, “Who then is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?”
2Then Jesus called a little child to Him, set him in the midst of them, 3and said, “Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven. 4Therefore whoever humbles himself as this little child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. 5Whoever receives one little child like this in My name receives Me.
Matthew 18:1-4

 
I have some experience with small children. That’s a very dry little joke. So, I think I can speak from some experience.

First, I believe that children are living love receptors, they don’t have love receptors, they are love receptors. They absorb it unreservedly. They love to be loved. They are in Love. They come that way.

Second, they are utterly dependent.  They have no power in their flesh.

Little ones don’t sweat the small stuff. Messes don’t bug them. Noise is ok most of the time. Plain food, a warm bed, some clothing, time to play and relationship are their main requirements here.

They are also trusting in a wide open way. They look at life as a pleasure I think.

They are certainly not worried about time. They don't devise plans.

They forgive easily. Their focus is instant. In the now. .

Of course, Jesus was talking about our relationship to himself and the Father. I think it has to do with knocking down the idol of self. 

So, for self-check time, am I just believing what he says, not parsing it, looking for back doors, reserving my heart for later? Do I just believe what he says? Am I humble enough to just drop all of my sophisticated reservations and believe what he says? Will I humble myself and just accept love?

Sunday Greetings and Open Thread

 Dreaming of Heavenly Gardens.

This one is French.

Have A Beautiful Day

* 🤍*

Millicent and Ralph Finally Do That Interview

 

            Word came to Ralph, by way of Maeve, that Millicent Price still wanted an interview for the paper.  This time there would be no photographer, nor a secret mic or even a live mobile on her person. Just hand written notes to be taken and examined by Ralph, to make sure that ol’ Milly wasn’t a skilled portrait sketcher.

            “Tell Millicent that I agree to her terms.  However, I want her to appear here at the fire circle.  I’m not swimming that river again for a while,” Ralph told Maeve. “I need to stick close around here anyhow. Ramona needs me. Tell her to choose a day, and to show up at about 5PM. You’ll have to tell her how to get here.”

            So, Maeve soared high above the forest and the river and the farms until she came to Milltown. At last, she spotted Millicent’s open window in the Stumptown Clarion Review’s office building. That might not really be the name of the paper, but no matter. It was a newspaper office building with an open window and a reporter inside working on a story.
            Maeve is a largish corvid. When she hit the window frame it sounded like a good five pound thump. “He says he will agree to the interview, as you promised with no recording devices and if you meet up at his place.  He says you should pick a day, be there at 5:00 and I’m to explain to you how to find the place.”  
            Millicent agreed to all of that and picked the following Tuesday, because Tuesday is one of those days when nothing happens. Maeve helped her sketch a rough map. Of course, you will understand that it is not really that linear of a process. Some concessions to concealment had to be made.  More of that later.
            On the appointed Tuesday, Millicent drove her Passat out to the Baker National Forest by way of the highway, she made a left at the big rock, she drove around the grandfather cedar tree three times to the left as she had been asked. She drove down a hidden driveway and parked the sedan behind some ferns and alder saplings. She was prepared to hike. She had those hiking sticks, a sun hat, and left her phone in her car.  This hurt, but she did it.
            After a short hike up a path that she never was able to find again, she came into Ralph and Ramona’s home clearing and the nice fire circle with the logs pulled up to it all cozy. At first it seemed that no one was home. She didn’t see how anyone could live here.  Where would they live?  There was only the forest, the clearing, a blank stone wall of granite, and the fire circle. When she looked back at the ring of rocks she noticed that a compact camp fire was burning. She wasn’t sure that it had been burning when she first looked. She held her ground, for the sake of getting a good interview with Ralph. It would take more than slightly morphing reality to rattle Millicent Price. Milly was a pro.
            In the granite wall there was a clever wooden door made to fit a natural opening in the rock, the mouth of a cave, in fact. The door had been stained by having mud rubbed into it. Its construction was unclear to Millicent.
            At just about 5:00PM the door opened, and Ralph came out after having to bend over as the door was short for him. He appeared as if he were about nine feet tall. The fire lit his face from below.  He looked very imposing. A lesser reporter might have been frightened, but not Millicent.
            “Pull up a log, Milly,” quoth he. “What’s today’s topic of choice?”
            “Glad to finally see you again, Ralph,” said she, while finding a comfy spot on a log by the fire.
            “I have an idea.  I think it’s a good one!”
            “Tell me,” said Ralph, finding a comfy log himself and becoming much less imposing when he sat and smiled.
            “Okay.  I want you to tell me something that you know, but nobody else knows,” said Millicent, whipping out her pad and pen and crossing her right leg over her left knee.
            “Hmmm. You don’t want much do ya?  Just a total scoop! An absolute scoop! And you want me to hand it to you?” Ralph did some of that stuff men do when they’re thinking, like rubbing his chin and scratching his big old head.
            “Alrighty then.  I’ll bite. This is history, not a story.  It was given to me by my maternal grandmother, you could call her Mabel, if you wanted, in your article,” said Ralph from light of the flickering campfire.

            “Mabel was born and raised in the desert lands among the cliffs and canyons. Her family were co-inhabitants with the human tribes of the whole general area. All four corners, right? For hundreds of years, they lived in peace with these humans who built their homes up in the cliffs as if they were birds building stone nests up there.
            “Now, scientific type inquirers can just about understand how building materials might be brought up there, and how food grown elsewhere might be carried up to these cliff houses. But no one knows how they were able to have water up in those cliff apartments. You don’t know do you?” said Ralph rather pedantically.
            “Well, no, Ralph, as a matter of fact, I can’t imagine how they got water up there.  Doesn’t seem like catching rain would work because it almost never rains there,” agreed Millicent.
            “This story should work for you then, playing by your rules, but I am afraid no one will ever believe it,” he sighed.
            “Oh, I don’t even care about that,” said the lady reporter eagerly, “let’s have it.  Lay it on me!”
            “Alright, you remember that I said the local tribes and Mabel’s family, extended family, were pretty friendly and helpful to each other?
            “There were two things going on down there in the desert. No. 1, the humans needed water uphill and the first people, Sasquatch to you, loved worked stone items.  They collected them like works of art, keeping very special ones as objects of intense esthetic appreciation. So, a deal was struck between humans and first peoples.  Get ready for this Millicent. I’m not sure you’re going to like it….
            “My people, the first people, the forest people and rock people have some abilities that humans don’t possess.  We bend light, truncate time a little, we can even wrinkle space a little. Water is easy to re-direct. Water doesn’t care where it goes.  It goes where it is sent, even if that is uphill.”  Ralph nodded ruefully, for he knew how hard this was for her.
            “This is what happened there for around four hundred years. Mabel’s family sent a stream of water uphill, running against gravity, to the people in the cliff apartments, the people kept making them worked stone points and pretty beads. This went on until the culture of the people became degraded, they quit working stone for the first people family and the arrangement gradually fell apart. The water reversed and began running downhill through the canyon again. The humans moved out of their cliff houses then, becoming nomadic again.”
            “Are you teasing me Ralph?” demanded M. Price rather sharply. She slapped her notebook shut and stuffed her pen in a pocket. “How can I print that? How can anyone believe it if I am having trouble with it. How can it be true?”
            “Millicent, you’re looking at me right now.  How can I exist, and yet, here I am.” He smiled in an avuncular pleasant way. "Hey, let me see that notebook for a minute.  Thanks!  Anyhow, I told you something that nobody knew! Nobody knew that one!” He chuckled to himself.
            Millicent was getting kind of sleepy now. She yawned sitting there on her comfy log by the little fire in the ring of stones. When she opened her eyes, she was sitting there alone. There had not been a fire, maybe, or maybe there had been. The stone wall was a blank surface.
            Realizing that the interview must be over, she stood to leave, at which point Maeve arrived. She sat on Millicent’s shoulder and whispered in her ear, “come on, I’ll show you the way out of this conundrum, Milly. Just keep me in sight, and I will lead you as I take short flights and hops.”
            So that’s what they did.  Maeve would go forward by one means or another, and Millicent would catch up. Eventually they arrived at her car, which was still where she had left it, and she was very glad to see this. It started right up, just like in the normal world.  She drove around the grandfather cedar three times to the right, and then turned right at the big rock, onto the highway taking her back to Milltown.
            On her way back home, Millicent tried to imagine how she would present this article to her boss on Wednesday.  A very good question indeed. She thought she would need to sleep on it.

If You Could Go Anywhere For A Visit

Now there's a thought.

Where would it be?

I received this photo Thursday from my girl,

who is on a cruise to Alaska until Saturday. 

This is somewhere around Ketchikan.

 They did an excursion on a crab boat!? lol I think a lot of people would prefer a warm place maybe. But since we live in what my daughter refers to as "Alaska Light" anyhow, a cool gray place just seems normal. It's also relatively nearby.

A Woodsy Reality Check

 

 
    Ralph had been pretty quiet all during dinner time one day in the B. N. F. He ate his dinner, but he didn’t look like he was paying much attention to it.  This was not like himself at all. He was known for his discernment and enthusiasm in matters gustatory.
    “Ramona,” he said, “I always thought all along that we were living in the real world. Now I don’t know what to think.”
    “Ah, what’s the matter, baby?” asked Ramona, who had been aware of his distress all during dinner.
    “Something funny, but not really funny, happened today,” said Ralph. He tilted his head and looked at her, as if she might be able to explain it, if he could somehow describe it. His big brown eyes squinted up a little with the effort of thought.
    “Okay, I knew there was something. What is it?” she asked.
    “Well, you know how life is, out here in the trees?  It’s good.  It’s solid. Trees, forest floor, rivers, rocks, game animals and talking animals too.  All good.  I can put my hands out and feel it all.  No real mysteries.  I have you and Twigg and our very cozy cave. I have the sky and the stars, the sun, and the moon.  All good.
    “But today I was having a very pleasant smoke out on my log and the strangest thing happened,” he said to his wife.
    “Well, what?”
    “I saw a man, but I saw right through him too.  He was right there, but he was clear like slightly muddy water. He had a camera and some kind of sound equipment. I was sitting right there Ramona, but he looked right through me!
    “I tried to talk to him.  It seemed like maybe he was hearing some of what I said, but not understanding me at all. I wasn’t worried yet, so I decided to play with him a little bit. I started making some whoops, yelps, and whistles.  It did no good!  He didn’t react at all. Then he faded out. He was gone I thought.
    “But then, I started hearing him, even though I couldn’t see him. He was making a recording and some video of the area around my log there, and I was pretty sure he was heading over here and would find you or Twigg.  I didn’t want that. Especially since he was as invisible as a ghost,” continued Ralph.
    “He was saying that he could see signs of occupation, but no one lives here anymore. Well, I didn’t like the sound of that.  Are we ghosts?  I sure didn’t think so.”
    “It’s still all good, Ralph, just as good as always. Maybe it’s just a little more complicated than we thought,” said Ramona in a comforting way.
    “Thaga and I were just talking about some of this yesterday in fact,” said Ramona. “Sometimes I will lay a thing down, I know where I put it, but I can’t find it again. Where is it? Do things leave our world somehow? She says they can.
    “And then, even stranger, sometimes I will find something that can’t be there. Where did it come from? Or I will be working on something, and something catches my attention in the corner of my eye. Something was there, but if I try to focus on it, it’s not there. 
    “What she was saying is that there have to be other places that bump into this place sometimes.  Sometimes we get a look into that other place, and that there are probably many places like this, like rooms in a huge house. Sometimes we see through the walls and most of the time we don’t. It’s not a clear look.  Just a peek. Like through a dark glass.
    “It’s kind of funny to think of that guy hunting for you while you sat right in front of him,” she was laughing a little.
    “He might think we are mythical, huh?” said Ralph, cheering up a little.
    “I don’t mind being mythical for him, as long as he can’t change anything in our here, if you know what I mean,” said Ralph.
    “I do know what you mean!” said Ramona.
    “Another funny or wonderful and a little scary thing to think about is how many things are happening all at the same time, sort of,” she added. “If we could just see it.”
    “I think someday we will see it all, but right now, we just have to do a good job with Twigg and the new one, live in peace with our here and now, and look out for truth in all ways,” said Ramona with a wink.
    “Are you trying to tell me something Ramona?  What new one?” said Ralph with a goofy grin on his big old mug.
    “Yes! Yes, I am, dear old Ralph, yes I am,” said Ramona fondly.
    They stood together, arms around each other, looking into each other’s eyes and then up at the sky and around at their lovely here and now with thanksgiving in their hearts.

    In another B.N.F. a man with a camera and sound equipment decides that this was not the day for his hunt.  But he vows to himself to try again some other day, and perhaps he will be able to make contact on that day, or maybe not, things being as complicated as they are.

Nicely Done, Ramona

 

    It rained all night.  Then it rained all day.  The sky was low and grey in the forest, with clouds so descended that they caught the very tips of the mighty Douglas firs in their wispy embrace.

    Water dripped from those very trees. It was a drizzly day. The crows complained from time to time, adding to the air of mystery there. Such days in the Baker National Forest have a kind of closed off quality. The world says, “shhhh..” And “come back later, some other day!”
    Now, Twigg was born pretty much weather proof. That fur sheds water and has a nice downy undercoat which keeps our cryptid family members warm and dry next to the skin.
    But the mood of the day kept him in the cave. To tell the truth he was pestering Ramona.
    This was a sure sign to Ramona to start a lesson of some kind. A busy boy is a boy who does not climb up your back fur and jump off your shoulders while shouting.
    In addition to all of that one must say that one pities anyone learning English. Perhaps the spoken form isn’t as hard to manage as the written form? Pity poor Twigg! He’s brought this on himself.
    “Twigg, come here,” said Ramona to the scampering fellow.
    “What, mama,” said Twigg from behind the big bed.
    “Can you tell me something about what kind of day we are having,” asked his patient mother.
    “It’s a nice day! Nice! Nice! Nice!” chanted Twigg.
    Now, Ramona is nothing if not a bit pedantic. She thought this over.
    “Ah, yes indeed, son, but do you know what nice really means? It is a word that has changed a lot over the years. First it meant one thing, then another, then it changed, again and again,” she said.
    “It means good,” said her son, looking at her rather quizzically.
    “Well, long ago in another land, it meant simple, or foolish. Are we having a foolish day Twigg?”
    Twigg giggled.
    “Later, it meant timid. Timid means easily frightened Twigg. Not the kind of day we are having at all!” said Ramona, who had never had a timid moment in her life.
    Twigg thought this word stuff was not relevant to his life, but wisely attended to her words anyhow.
    “It changed several times more. For a long time, it meant careful, then precise, and at last it changed to meaning kind, son,” said Ramona.
    “Sometimes words change until they are just a friendly sound. Nice is like that.
    “So, when you say we are having a nice day, Twigg, what do you really mean? Think about it. What is there about this day that you would like to say?”
    “Mama, I would like to say that it is a good day. I like it. I would like to go outside now. I like rain. I like the sound of it dripping. I like how it looks all dark,” said Twigg.
    “Yes, that is a very good idea Twigg. You go play and have a nice time!” He looked back at her oddly but headed right out of the door.
    Ramona stood at the doorway of the cave, watching her son scramble off to find his father who was probably out at his famous log holding court with some animals who needed a decision made or some such.
    Ramona apparently has depths unknown until now!

nice (adj.)

late 13c., "foolish, ignorant, frivolous, senseless," from Old French nice (12c.) "careless, clumsy; weak; poor, needy; simple, stupid, silly, foolish," from Latin nescius "ignorant, unaware," literally "not-knowing," from ne- "not" (from PIE root *ne- "not") + stem of scire "to know" (see science). "The sense development has been extraordinary, even for an adj." [Weekley] — from "timid, faint-hearted" (pre-1300); to "fussy, fastidious" (late 14c.); to "dainty, delicate" (c. 1400); to "precise, careful" (1500s, preserved in such terms as a nice distinction and nice and early); to "agreeable, delightful" (1769); to "kind, thoughtful" (1830).

By 1926, it was said to be "too great a favorite with the ladies, who have charmed out of it all its individuality and converted it into a mere diffuser of vague and mild agreeableness." [Fowler]

Only The Best Of The Beasts

 

A Lovely Intrepid Friend

Long May He Run!

What a fine fellow he,

and all his kin are!

*🤍*

I began to wonder about the word tabby.

So, I checked.

tabby (n.)

1630s, "silken stuff; striped silk taffeta" (tabbies was a general name for watered silk), from French tabis "a rich, watered silk" (originally striped), earlier atabis (14c.), via Mediterranean languages from Arabic 'attabi, from 'Attabiyah, a neighborhood of Baghdad where such cloth was made. The place is said to be named for prince 'Attab of the Omayyad dynasty.

As an adjective from 1630s, "made of tabby;" by 1660s as "resembling tabby," hence tabby cat, one with a striped coat, attested from 1690s. The shortened form tabby for the cat is attested by 1774. "The wild original of the domestic cat is always of such coloration" [Century Dictionary].

In the shifted sense of "female cat" (1826) it was alliteratively paired with (and distinguished from) Tom (see tomcat). The use also might have been suggested by Tabby, a pet form of the fem. proper name Tabitha, which also was late 18c. slang for "spiteful spinster, difficult old woman" (as in Tabbyhood "condition of being an old maid," 1793).

Of course I have loved all of my cats, just about as much as it is possible to love a cat, but, there was one who was special. Of course, my imperious Henry. 

 Of course all cat stories are welcomed and in fact, desired!

Maeve and Myrtle Duke it Out

 

“Say, Maeve,” said Myrtle one day, “do you know what it means to make a leg?”
Maeve glanced dismissively at the lady Crow sitting on an alder branch nearby. She didn’t answer either.
            “It means,” said Myrtle, “to place your leg out prettily, to attract attention. I bet you didn’t know that!”
            “You are a ditz and a feather head, and the temptation to call you Moytle is almost overwhelming,” huffed Maeve. She felt as if her dignity as a Raven was being a little tarnished, conversing with a mere Crow being beneath a Raven. She hoped that no one had seen them talking together.
            “Well, Maeve, you are a proud old bird and not as smart as you may think you are,” returned Myrtle defensively.
            “That remains to be seen,” said Maeve softly out of the side of her beak, because she could not resist saying something to answer that. She considered intelligence to be her main attribute. She did not appreciate being quizzed by a Crow on obscure English language usages.
            “We could ask someone who is very smart whether it is a sign of intelligence to refuse to answer a civil question,” said Myrtle. “It makes it seem as if you don’t even know the answer.”
            “Alright, Myrtle, my girl,” knocked Maeve, very ominously, “let’s us find Ramona and ask her. She is a good friend to Ravens, and no doubt, to Crows also.”
            With that, both ladies flew to Ramona’s fire circle where she was building a fire for the evening cooking and telling Twigg stories about his father’s adventures in the forests and streams of the Baker National Forest. These stories comprised his elementary education. Uncle Bob, even reformed, and Maurice were not included in the curriculum.
            Be that as it may, when the two bird ladies got to the clearing, Maeve said, grandly, “we, this Myrtle Crow and I have had a disagreement between us on the matter of which is the smarter of the two. We have come to you, oh wise Ramona, to find out the answer.” Maeve walked back and forth importantly, with her tail feathers switching from side to side.
            Myrtle, at the same time, was picking up little bits of interesting detritus, pebbles, leaves, funny shaped sticks or whatever, and showing them to Twigg. She wasn’t paying much attention to Raven and Ramona.
            “I don’t know how to answer that, Maeve,” said Ramona, looking from bird to bird, in amazement. “You’re both clever birds.  Everyone knows that!
            “Perhaps we could have some sort of contest…”
            “Exactly,” cried Maeve, triumphantly. She was very sure of her superiority in all matters bird.
            “I know what,” Maeve continued, “let’s see which of us can fool Ralph. He believes everything I tell him. Of course, I’ve never lied to him before, so he should believe me. I wonder if I could get him to pose for a photograph after all, or at least agree to.  I wonder if I am smart enough to trick him? I could make up a real juicy whopper, in which he would come out looking like a hero if he cooperated!
            “As for Myrtle, she could try to convince him that I am lying! Oh, what fun! I love it,” croaked the naughty old thing.
            Ramona seemed to be having a hard time believing her ears.

      Twigg was gathering up a little pile of pebbles given to him by Myrtle.
            Myrtle had actually been listening for a while. She spoke up then, “to make a fool of the boy’s father in front of the boy seems to me to very unkind and unwise, Maeve. I yield the point to you, after all. You are the smartest of us two.  It would never occur to me to test Ralph in that way.”
            Maeve stopped her strutting.
            Ramona stood with her head tilted to the side a bit and her hands held together before her. She smiled at the bird girls.
            “Maeve, what do you think now,” asked Ramona, in a coaxing manner.
            “I think that Myrtle has shown wisdom, which is a finer thing than all of my self-important cleverness.  I am ashamed,” admitted Maeve. She emitted a couple of muted knocks.
            She walked over to Myrtle and made a proper Raven curtsy.  Myrtle did one back and they became better friends right then and there.
            Ramona shook her head and went back to fire making and telling Twigg stories and talking about counting and such things. Soon Ralph would appear wondering about dinner….

The Golden Frog

 

How Emmy Sees Frog

💚

            It didn’t really, really look like a frog, but once named, the name stuck.  Emmy’s Golden Frog.
            As it was a gift from her father’s hand into her own, she prized it above all others, at the same time having no idea of the worth of something like ten ounces of gold. Not that monetary value was anything that crossed her mind.
             Here’s a picture for you.  Imagine a black haired, four year old girl child playing with a nugget of gold as other girls play with Barbies or whatever faux creature they might possess. You know the things they do, right? They use their toys like experimental lab equipment. They literally dig in the dirt with Barbies.  I have seen this. Some little girls are impelled to improve their dolls also, but Emmy was a bit young for that urge.
            Frog must go wherever she goes at all times. Mostly he rode in her pockets, to be brought out when required.
            He met the hens mornings when Emmy went with Beth or Jessie to feed the girls. Sometimes he jumped right into the chicken feed and buried himself, just to reappear as the chickens ate the level down. Sometimes he dove into their water.
            He helped in the garden also.  When Emmy pulled a weed, Frog was in her hand helping. He got dirty, but he still shone in her little mitts. He was easy to find, shiny as he was.
            One day Emmy and Beth decided to go play at the side of the little stream running nearby.  It was a warm day.  Emmy wore only some shorts and a t shirt striped, green, black, and white. Frog rode in her shorts pocket as usual.  
            Beth stood smiling watching the child wade just ankle deep in the moving water.  Emmy bent to pick up various colored pebbles.  Then she would toss them into the water to see the splash. They must have played there for an hour or so. At last Emmy decided to show Frog the river. But Frog was gone. Where could he have gone? There were tears as mother and child searched up and down where they had been, but he remained hidden somewhere, presumably in the water.  At last, they had to return to the house.
            It was a solemn, tear stained walk. The father and the old one were informed. They tried to comfort her. Later they had dinner, and everyone went to bed. Emmy had her plush Puma to help her sleep.
            They say that into every life some rain must fall, also it must be said that into every life there are unaccountable mysteries, miracles, if you will it.
            You remember Honda, the pup found behind the mobile home one day? He had grown into a large, quite fuzzy, wise dog with great powers of observation and pointy ears.  Dogs have nothing much to do but keep an eye on things, after all.
            The next morning after the disaster, Jessie and Emmy went out to feed the hens their ration of chicken feed and to water them together. Honda came along as he usually did, even if he is not always mentioned. As the father and daughter were finishing up the pleasant little chore, Honda went tearing down the path to the river. In a couple of moments, he came running back, nearly laughing, as dogs do.  He had something shiny in his mouth.  Yes, it was Emmy’s Golden Frog!  We shall never know where it was or how he knew or whether he just sniffed it out, smelling of Emmy as it must.
            After the joyful reunion, and a little judicious cleanup of the Frog, Jessie told Emmy, “we must make him a little frog house, so that he can stay on your dresser top and never hide again!”
            So, that is exactly what he did.  He made a little frog house and painted it green and Frog lived there, unless Emmy was playing with him in the house, since he had become a house frog.

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