Month: March 2020

Sly

sundaydutroLeave a comment

The snow was unexpected, but welcome, and covered the trees, early blooming bulbs, and her tracks. She’d covered at least twenty-five miles the day before, possibly thirty, which was no small feat, especially with the weight of her pack. She’d gone as far as she could and then chosen a stand of oaks, possibly Engelmann though it was difficult to be sure in the dark, as her refuge for the night. She’d quickly erected her tent, thrown in her sleeping bag and pack, and disappeared inside, zipping everything up against the oncoming cold, the curious nocturnal animals, and anyone who might be following her.

Fumbling in the dark of the tent for her pack she found her headlamp in the side pocket where she always stored it when camping and put it on, clicking it until it turned blue and therefore less likely to be seen outside the tent. Thus newly able to see she found what she needed in order to sleep soundly: a protein bar, her bottle of water, and a 9mm Smith & Wesson. She double checked the clip, full, let out a sigh that was equal parts exhaustion and relief, then made sure the safety was on and scrambled into her sleeping bag.

She was asleep almost immediately and only woke a few times in the night, due to some critter, likely a possum, scratching around outside for grubs. When she woke the third time she checked her watch and saw that it was nearly five in the morning. Now was as good a time as any to get moving again. It wasn’t until she got out of the bag that she realized just how cold it was. With her breath steaming before her she hurriedly grabbed another protein bar from her pack, rolled up the sleeping bag and shoved it back in along with the headlamp, clipping the water bottle to the outside of the pack. The pistol she tucked in the back of her jeans after ensuring the safety was still on, and the protein bar she shoved in her front pocket, it would get smushed and crumbly there but she didn’t want to lose it and she needed it out of the way while she took down the tent.

When she opened the flap to go out she saw the snow. She’d only expected rain and the snow was a surprise, albeit a beautiful one. The snow would slow her pursuers but it would also slow her down, and while it may cover the tracks she’d left the day before it would highlight her route today. There was nothing for it though. She had to press on. There was always the possibility no one had noticed her disappearance yet. Slim. But possible. She clung to the possibility.

The tent was all weather and super easy to set up and take down, especially since she hadn’t bothered with the guy lines the night before. As she rolled it all back up she noticed the tracks around her: possum. She’d thought so. Raccoons would have tried to get in the tent and a skunk would have had a smell even without spraying. Tying the tent to her pack she re-shouldered it, aching at the straps, out of practice with this sort of hiking and camping, and wishing she was enjoying it more, wishing it wasn’t necessary and merely a vacation.

Unfortunately the pack dug the gun uncomfortably into her back and as much as she liked that it hid the pistol, it wasn’t going to work for a long day of hiking. She removed the pistol and checked again that the safety was in place before stuffing it into the front waistband of her jeans. Much better. Sadly it was obvious in it’s new location but it would also be easier to draw and it was no longer digging in painfully. It would have to do.

Taking her bearings she continued north, the most obvious path of escape but also the hardest to follow. She pulled the protein bar from her pocket, yup, smushed. She opened the top of the wrapper and tried to squeeze bits of it out into her open mouth without choking on the small bits. She tried to eat slowly but she was starving, the bars were great for a snack but didn’t work as a meal, especially not with all the exercise she was getting. Her stomach complained as the meager meal hit it, and she stopped for a moment to wash everything down with her water.

Water would be the next obstacle. She’d only brought what the bottle could carry, unable to support the weight required to bring more. She’d easily be able to filter any water she found but that would require getting to a water source or starting a fire and melting the snow. She’d rather find a creek than wait til she could start a fire, but her thirst would determine how far she could go that day and judging by her stomach she’d need to stop sooner than she’d expected anyway to give herself some calories.

Keeping her head on the trail she was blazing and her feet moving she stopped occasionally to ensure she was still heading north, adjusting her course by minute lefts or rights as necessary over the next several hours. Just when she thought she was going to have to melt some snow she heard the unmistakable sound of water falling over rocks. She followed the sound to a small but clear and rapid river. If there weren’t snow on the ground she’d risk soaking her aching feet in that flowing water, but with the snow it was too dangerous. She couldn’t risk getting stuck here, she needed to cover much more ground before nightfall.

She set her pack down and rummaged around for the water filter. She let the water flow through the system, filling a few pouches and her water bottle. Then she pulled out one of her instant meals, it was going to taste pretty terrible without boiling water, but then they tasted pretty terrible anyway. She added the water, stirred it all up, and forced herself to eat it, drinking more water whenever she gagged. Her stomach complained some more but this time it was from what it was being fed rather than what it was missing. She said a brief apology before finishing the “meal,” and packing everything back up.

Taking her bearings once again she realized she needed to get over this river to continue north which meant this river was the Thorn and she’d come a good forty-five miles and only had another sixty or so to go, assuming she could get across. She looked up and down the parts of the river she could see from her position and didn’t see any way across that wouldn’t have her soaking wet up to her waist. Not a problem in the summer, but definitely not practical right now. She’d have to pick a direction and walk hoping to find a better way across.

There was no easy way to decide which way to go and she was about to head left when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye to the right. She turned slowly and stared at what was left of the ferns growing along the trunks of the trees, paying close attention to the one brown frond bobbing and swaying a bit still from the passage of whatever it had been. She held still and watched. Soon enough a little black nose emerged, followed by two bright eyes, and two perfectly pointed ears. The silver coat rippled as the fox emerged, black forelegs skinny and petite, ending in perfect little paws the size of a quarter. She watched the fox as closely as it watched her, careful not to move a muscle.

The fox made it’s way down to the river slowly, then stood a moment, not quite sure it was safe to drink with her watching and finally lowering it’s head and lapping quickly, a glinting of teeth visible around the red darting tongue. Finished with it’s drink it looked once again at her before sitting down and lifting a paw to it’s face. A quick grooming session, all the while watching her, and then the fox blinked at her and she swore it smiled before turning and dashing off.

She realized she was smiling and for the first time her fear was replaced with the thought that perhaps she would make it. Perhaps she’d gotten started early enough. Perhaps the snow had protected her passage enough. Perhaps the distance she was putting between herself and that place would be enough.

She decided to walk to the right, the way the fox had gone, following the river that way for a chance at a crossing.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Sleep Tracking

sundaydutroLeave a comment

As a person who has suffered with insomnia my entire life, pregnancy was a godsend. Suddenly I could sleep with zero effort. At least for the first six months or so. Then I reverted back to my usual inability to sleep and *sigh* life returned to “normal.” Once the baby was born my sleep disappeared completely and while it was unbelievably tough, it was also easier on me than on my husband who had never had issues with sleep before.

Now with two kids I get even less sleep. If the youngest one isn’t waking me up for a boob every twenty to forty-five minutes (okay, okay, sometimes he can go two to four hours, but not lately), the older one is waking me up because he couldn’t sleep in his bed anymore or something woke him or he’s too cold or too hot or or or or or or…. The thing is, even though it feels like I’m getting less sleep than ever in my entire life, I’m for sure getting more sleep than I did the first four months with my first child.

Either way, it was positively delightful when my husband turned to me the other day and said, “I don’t know how you do it. I only got a few hours of sleep last night and I can barely keep my eyes open or my head straight.” That was such a rush. I wanted to jump his bones so badly in that moment. It was such an “I’m seen! I’m vindicated!” kind of moment. And the thing is that I know I only get two to four hours of sleep a night. How do I know, you ask? Fitbit.

Several months ago I went to the doctor for several reasons and one of the things I mentioned while I was there was how tired I am, how I know I’m doing really well eating right and even doing okay with the exercise part, but that I’m failing abysmally in the sleep department. The doctor proceeded to tell me that there was “no way” I was only getting three to four hours of sleep, and that I should get a Fitbit to track my sleep so I could see how much sleep I was actually getting. Great idea, doc! I went shopping for a Fitbit, got a great deal on one through a sale on their website, and strapped it on eager to see how much more sleep I was actually getting. Come on Fitbit! Show me the zzzzzz’s!

It turns out that I actually get two to three hours of sleep a night, not three to four. And now that I’m actually able to see it every day and verify how little it is I’m even more irritated than before. Which is ridiculous, but there it is. So now I’m getting less sleep than I thought and I can see that there is absolutely no pattern to it. Every night is completely different, so it’s not like I can say “ah, yes, see on nights when I do x I sleep y.” There also doesn’t appear to be any correlation between the amount of steps I take a day and the amount of sleep I get. Or the amount of water I drink. Or any other damn fool thing.

And still I wear it. Because there are days, glorious days where my husband will get up at six am when the youngest wakes up and whisk him away, closing the bedroom door behind him. And on those days, those fabulous days, I am able to get two to three hours of sleep all at once, and usually deep sleep, and I come out feeling like a million bucks, I come out feeling drunk on sleep. And then I sync my Fitbit to the app and I can see the sleep. I can see all that beautiful sleep and for once in that week I’ll get a Sleep Score in the 80’s instead of in the 50’s to 60’s, which is my usual.

Plus, it’s pretty cool that I can see my text messages on it. I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the feature. I love it because if I’m feeding the baby and trapped away from my phone in breastfeeding hell, I can still read the texts people send me. So I can still have something to alleviate the pain and/or boredom of the experience (pain because my youngest has taken to picking at my moles while feeding, to the point of making me bleed, it’s not pretty or fun). I only hate the feature when I get a metric shit ton of texts or someone sends me a ton of multiple texts, because then my wrist is just vibrate, vibrate, vibrate, vibrate and it can be a bit annoying.

So even though it is probably giving me wrist cancer, even though it is probably secretly a Big Brother tracker of some kind (as if my phone isn’t), and even though it’s a super silly trendy little fob that is sometimes annoying, I continue to wear my Fitbit. And I’m learning to appreciate other things about it, besides the fact that it verifies how little sleep I get. For example, I do these Workweek Challenges with my friends and family where we see who can get the most steps Monday through Friday, or Weekend Challenges for Saturday and Sunday. And it’s fun! It’s silly, and for whatever reason (a deep rooted and suppressed need to win, the competitiveness I never knew I had) I will find myself walking circles in my kitchen or up and down my hallway at the end of the day if I haven’t reached my goal or if I’m super close to my goal. I also enjoy the weekly email they send me that shows trends in my health like heart rate, step count, times in an hour I was active, etc.

Plus, I have to keep it so the next time I see my doctor I can say, “see! I TOLD you!”

Summary: probably killing me and certainly angering me with it’s proof of my insomnia but also silly fun with step challenges.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

And before you ask, no, I am not an affiliate for Fitbit. I do not receive any monetary reward if you read this article, nor if you purchase a Fitbit. Fitbit doesn’t know I exist aside from the fact that I bought one of their products. I wrote about it tonight because I had to charge it and it got me to thinking about it and the next thing I knew I was typing.

Bicycle

sundaydutroLeave a comment

Somewhere between the ages of six and nine I learned how to ride a two wheel bicycle. I don’t remember when it was exactly, but I can picture the bike like it was sitting in my garage right now, which I wish it was cause it would be worth a fortune in memories and a potential fortune in parts. The bike was purple with a white banana seat with a unicorn on it. I’ve tried to find some images online so I can post one here because just thinking about it brings me joy. Sadly the internet has failed me…or my lack of tech savvy has. Either way: no image. Le sigh. Le boo hoo.

At any rate, I remember my friend, Tamara, and I going up to the top of the parking garage with her older sister and our bikes. Her older sister explained to the both of us how to get on our bikes and how to pedal. She then proceeded to hold our seats, one at a time, as we each tried to ride. I have no idea how long we were up there. In my memory it was the entire day. In reality it was likely thirty minutes. Regardless, there was a point in time where my friend figured it out and was riding and was having so much fun. I was thrilled for her and couldn’t wait to join her. But I couldn’t get it. I tried and tried and I couldn’t get it. I finally made some excuse and said I was going home. I walked my bike over to where the parking garage started to go down to the next level, where I felt I was far enough away that no one could see me. And I cried.

I cried, and cried, and cried, as I walked the bike down through the parking garage. At one point, I realized it would be easier to coast down through the garage than to continue walking the bike, so I sat on the seat with my legs splayed out in a v on either side and coasted down through the garage. At some point as I was coasting I also put my feet on the pedals. At some point with my feet on the pedals I used the pedal breaks and then also pedaled forward. By the time I got to the bottom of the garage I was riding a bike.

I was so elated. So vindicated. So thrilled. Beyond thrilled. I felt like I was flying. I felt like I was free.

That was the beginning of freedom for me. Ever since freedom has felt like wind rushing through my hair and my pulse jackhammering. I felt free not when I first learned to drive, but when I first drove alone with the window down, my hair streaming back. I felt free when I went skydiving and we were freefalling, the wind forcing my hair back. When the freefall ended and the chute came out it was beautiful and still and eerily quiet; I no longer felt free but it was still a phenomenal experience. As an adult I got a mountain bike for Christmas (my first bike in roughly twenty years) and the first time I rode it fast enough to need the breaks, my now shorter hair streaming back, I laughed exalted by the freedom I felt.

My oldest son who has been riding some version of a wheeled transportation device since he was ten months old (since before he could walk!), learned how to ride a two wheel bike yesterday. The bike that had training wheels on it for a year longer than he’s needed them because he refused to let us take them off. It wasn’t until we were all going on bike rides together and he realized how much the training wheels slowed him down that he finally agreed they should be removed but wouldn’t actually let us remove them.

On Wednesday we were at the park with friends and he rode his friends bike that doesn’t have training wheels. He rode it no problem. He got his confidence in himself and his abilities back and as soon as we got home he begged his dad to take his training wheels off. Once they were gone, he got scared again, begging dad to put them back on. He was told he could ride his balance bike if he didn’t want to ride his pedal bike, but the training wheels were staying off.

Thursday he let me hold the bike seat while he jumped on and pedaled for about two seconds before jumping back off. Friday was a repeat of Thursday, with one crucial difference: when he said he was done and I put the bike down and walked away to go do something else, he picked the bike back up. He sat on the bike and cruised down the driveway on it, his legs in a v to either side. And then he put his feet on the pedals to use the breaks. And then he used the pedals to propel himself forward. And then he realized he could do it. He began laughing. He cried out, “mommy! Mommy! Look at me! I’m doing it! Woo hoo!”

His pleasure at being able to ride, his pleasure at being free, his pleasure at having the wind in his hair, absolutely made my day. I took a few videos of him riding. I asked him if he was proud of himself (yes!) and told him I was proud of him. I can’t stop watching the videos. The look on his face. The sparkle in his eyes. I am immediately transported to being somewhere between six and nine with a unicorn banana seat bicycle, all of my frustration and fear whipped away by the wind in my hair. The pure joy.

I can’t wait to ride my bike again. I can’t wait to ride bikes with my son. I can’t wait to be free together.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Devastated

sundaydutroLeave a comment

So here’s the thing, I didn’t #writeonehour last night because I was depressed. Not suicidal, not clinically depressed, not check my hormone levels and dose me with Zoloft, not even hand me a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and let me binge watch Netflix (but only because I can’t have dairy). But I was, I AM, depressed. I didn’t realize just how badly I’ve been wanting a female president since Hilary Clinton was nominated and then not elected.

I was never a Hillary fan, I’m still not. I was all systems Bernie in 2016, but when he didn’t get the nomination I immediately said, yes, fine, Hillary. In 2016 I was “any blue will do.” Now it’s 2020 and not only were there many fine women to choose from, there were also fine women of color, as well as an openly gay man. I was in freaking heaven because here’s the thing, not only were there so many choices but almost all of the choices were excellent ones.

I don’t just think the choices we had were excellent because they could put together a coherent sentence (helps), or because they were well read and learned (bonus), or because they weren’t Trump (hallelujah!). No, these were excellent choices because they have a proven track record, these are people who mean what they say and can prove it. Something desperately missing from the current administration.

What’s killing me is how badly I wanted a woman. We’re currently looking at another crusty old cis white man leading the nation no matter who the Democrats end up nominating, and it just makes me sick. How can we revert from Obama to Trump to Washington? Why can’t we go Obama to Trump to Harris? Or Obama to Trump to Warren? Cause the thing is, Warren was freaking KILLING IT in those debates y’all. And not just in the debates, in interviews outside of the debates, in rally speeches, and in her freaking social media feeds.

Warren is a badass. Warren is every girl’s inspiration and every woman’s saving grace. In Warren there was the promise of a sane, competent, intelligent, bitch of a President. I went to a talk by a publishing agent the other night and one of the amazing moments was when she said she’d overheard one of her clients telling someone, “she may be a bitch, but she’s MY bitch,” and my first thought was “Warren!” I want Warren to be my President Bitch!

There are so many moments in my life that I have managed to block out and forget because they don’t serve me. But learning that Warren had dropped out made everything flood back, all the times I’ve been embarrassed, ashamed, or made to feel incompetent:

  • Unsure of exact age, possibly six, playing “basketball” with my dad in the front courtyard. The baskets are empty planters. I’ve never played basketball in my life, don’t know the rules except that your job is to get the ball in the “basket.” Any time I actually make a basket I’m told it’s illegal because of X or Y reason. Even if I’ve done the exact same thing my father just did to get his basket
  • Unsure of exact age, probably nine, playing backgammon with my dad at the dining room table. He’s teaching me to play and also winning game after game. I finally win one. Finally. And he tells me he let me win
  • Twelve years old in my moms car. Look out the window and see a semi. So excited! They always wave and smile and sometimes they blow their air horn. Pull up along side said semi and proceed to smile and wave at the driver. Driver leers at me, and time begins to stand still as he puts his hand up to his mouth, spreads his index and middle fingers apart, and proceeds to waggle his tongue between splayed fingers. I had never seen this gesture before but I immediately felt ashamed and dirty
  • Fifteen years old, teacher accuses me of cheating (from who or how she could never say) because “I’ve been asking every class this for as long as I’ve been teaching and no one has ever gotten it”
  • Seventeen years old, straight A student, Key Club, Honor Roll, the whole nine yards. Ask to go to a cast party for the play we just wrapped where I was a stage manager. Told no. The explanation: “we trust you, we just don’t trust other people”
  • All my life: never go anywhere alone, never stop for gas at night, always carry your key between your index and middle finger so you can use it as a knife (a dangerous idea btw, please don’t do this), always meet a first date in a public place and make sure people know where and when you’re going and who with, if you’re ever accosted or raped scream “fire” because no one will help you if you scream “rape”, girls are too emotional and can’t just have sex (which I rebelled against hard, to my own detriment)

All of these horrible, demeaning, depressing things that wear you down. And I’m a very, very privileged white cis female. I’ve got nothing to complain about and I am all things entitled (though trying desperately not to be). So Warren steps down and I’m flooded with all these feelings of being weak, sad, put in my place, seen but not heard. And I just went on personal lockdown. I turned everything off so I wouldn’t be overwhelmed. I absolutely binge watched Netflix, but without the pint of ice cream, and without watching the things that would have allowed me to cry and cry and cry, because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to stop.

Last night in bed, after feeding the baby yet again, I rolled over and cuddled up against my husband. I just needed him to hold me. Again, I was trying so hard not to cry and cry and cry. I didn’t let a single tear out. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t tell him “I need you to hold me so I don’t shatter,” or “I need you to pet my head so I don’t pull my hair out.” I couldn’t speak, but he knew something was wrong cause I hadn’t written my one hour. He didn’t ask, he knows I need time and space before I can talk about things. He just felt me cuddle up next to him and began stroking my head and my back and my arm.

I’ve read this a few times. I can’t seem to stop reading it. Heather Havrilesky has a way of helping me get past some of the sadness and frustration, but keep the anger on a low simmer. And that’s probably good. We probably shouldn’t let our anger go quite yet. I’ve been holding on to hope that Kamala Harris and/or Elizabeth Warren will still be on the ticket somehow as VP’s. There’s always that. It would still be a first. It would still be a “win.” So there’s that. And in the meantime, there’s Netflix.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Projects

sundaydutroLeave a comment

Where once there was a garden there was now an empty plot of land. The garden beds had been removed one by one, the screws backed out, the wood stacked in a dump trailer, the bottom wood ripped and torn and disintegrated by years of water and carpenter ants from the gopher wire below, the water lines cut and thrown away. The huge mounds of dirt and compost and old roots pushed and pulled and flattened by an enormous tractor until the space looked like nothing more than a large plot of dirt awaiting a horse perhaps.

From the kitchen window she no longer looked out upon boxes of dashed hopes and frustrated dreams but upon a what could be a sea of wildflowers come spring or a dirt track for her kids mountain bikes or a field of sunflowers, bright faces turning towards her as the day progressed. It was a relief, a major project tackled and completed and emotionally freeing one at that. She couldn’t imagine the house painting to be nearly as rewarding, nor the expansion of the chicken coop and the remodeling of the kitchen was nothing more than an expensive nightmare looming over her shoulder.

She was oddly excited about painting though. She was surprised as she wasn’t particularly good at it, not the taping off of a room, not the brush strokes nor the roller strokes, not even the choosing of the paint color which came far before any of that. Still, the idea of painting filled her with joy. Something about bringing a space new life, maybe…or making the space more hers, even as she prepared it for someone else. She shrugged, whatever it was she was most excited to tackle that next, but it was too cold now. The paint would take days upon days to dry rather than a few hours and with children about that simply wouldn’t do.

She considered paying someone else to come in and do the painting, taking the kids camping for a week and coming home to a new interior. Not a bad idea, really, except that as much as she wanted to paint next, the kitchen really needed to be seen to. The appliances were thirty years old or more and no longer worked properly or at all and the old porcelain sink always looked yellow-white even after a good scrubbing, and the tile countertops really dated the place. But there was no such thing as a cheap kitchen remodel, and the amount of money she knew would need to go into it was depressing. The idea of spending money on a place that wasn’t going to be hers anymore…ugh.

What it really came down to, and what she’d been trying to avoid, were the emotions. She loved the house even as she hated it. She had made many memories here, her dog had died here and was buried on the property next to a goat that had also died there. She’d birthed both babies in the back bedroom, despite the midwife’s fears and her own that they’d be delivered in the bathroom because she absolutely refused to move from the toilet for so long, it provided the perfect position for transition. She’d fallen in love with her husband under the oak by the barn. She’d married her husband at the foot of the rock stairs in front of the house. She’d come face to face with a mountain lion in front of the massive oak at the turn of the driveway, and she’d seen many a bobcat sunning themselves out the backdoor.

She was ready to leave, ready to move on to the next adventure, but she also wanted to take these things with her and feared a different location would be the beginning of the memories’ fade. And so subconsciously she delayed the big projects until she realized what she was doing, until she realized she was holding up her future for her past. Once the realization hit her there was no holding her back. Five minutes before she had to leave? Plenty of time to take a few screws out of the garden. Twenty minutes before she had to start dinner? Plenty of time to haul a few pieces of wood out of the garden. The garden became the thing she worked on any time she had time to work. And then it was done. And it was amazing.

To keep the momentum going she felt she had to tackle the next project right away. Get moving on whatever it would be as quickly as possible. Only she didn’t know what the next project should be, there were too many to choose from, and many of them would require planning, planning she couldn’t necessarily do because she didn’t have the knowledge. She’d found that out the hard way in destroying the garden space. There were things she knew how to do: use a drill, remove screws, stack old lumber in a dump trailer, cut off plastic piping, fold up old chicken wire and gopher wire. But then she got to a point where she had to figure out more intricate things like: closing off the electrical and water, and flattening the dirt from the beds.

It’s one thing to start an outdoor project when you’re not sure how to finish it, it doesn’t affect your day-to-day life, but to start an indoor project when you’re not sure how to start it or finish it, that could be disastrous. And so she simply froze. She looked down at the space that was once a garden and felt buoyed, felt strong and happy and satisfied. And she decided to just enjoy that feeling for awhile. No need to take on more than she could chew with another project when the glow of achievement hadn’t even worn off the last project yet.

She chose to be lazy. She embraced it. Knowing the time would come soon enough when she would be enmired in the next big project, she simply appreciated the now.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

The Puppy

sundaydutro2 Comments

Living in a small town there were always puppies for sale cheap or even free. It was almost a joke how often there’d be a large cardboard box in front of Town Hall with adorable little whippy tailed puppies in it, tumbling all over one another, biting ears and whining for attention. How many times had she come out during her lunch break to play with the puppies and give the owner a break to run to the bathroom. How many times had she left only to find the bitten cardboard box empty and soiled sitting by the stairs.

She spent her days answering the same three questions over and over again as new tourists arrived in town and needed to know where the bathrooms were, which place was best to eat at, and if there was anything for kids to do. Same questions. Every day. With a lunch break to put a hold on the monotony, and the near weekly set of puppies to bring her joy.

She never went home with a puppy. In all her time working there and seeing dozens of litters, more like a hundred different litters, she never once chose a puppy for herself. It didn’t seem fair to her to have a dog, after all she spent five days a week at work for eight and a half hours plus drive time. What would a puppy do during all that time home alone. Likely destroy her home, and with good reason.

She was surprised then when one evening after turning out the lights, locking the doors, and double checking that the outside lights were still on, she walked down the stairs to find a cardboard box that wasn’t empty. A lump of blanket or towel, perhaps, she thought to herself as she knelt down to dispose of the box. Upon closer inspection the lump of cloth was actually a lump of fur. A lump of very cold fur.

She picked up the tiny puppy, and felt the faintest of heartbeats in her thumb. Could be her own heartbeat, she thought, and then she heard a little whimper and knew the pup was still alive. She shoved the little body down the front of her shirt, using her bra to support its little hind legs and rump, her breasts to warm it quickly. She thought back to who had been there that day and couldn’t picture anyone. She’d come out at lunch as she usually did and there’d been no puppies. There’d been no box.

It was still early for a city but late for her little town. The vet would be closed. She could drive the pup to the next town over, they surely had a vet that would be open for a couple more hours if not an emergency vet. She walked to her car and got inside. Turning the motor on and cranking the thermostat over she waited for the car to get warm while thinking through her options.

The little fuzzball was moving now, it’s sharp nails scratching her skin. She gently gathered the puppy up in her hands and pulled it out to take a look. Being a creature of habit she looked to see if she was dealing with a boy or a girl puppy, and discovered this was a boy. He wasn’t opening his eyes but she suspected it was because he was so exhausted, not because he was too young. He was small, sure, likely the runt of whatever litter he’d come from, but he was old enough to eat solid food and he was probably very hungry and dehydrated.

She decided to take him home and bring him to the local vet the next day. He probably needed immediate assistance more than trained assistance, and she’d been a vet tech for a couple years before moving to the middle of nowhere. She could get the puppy by for one night. She settled him in the passenger seat and moved the air vents so they’d blow on him. Then she headed home doing a mental inventory of her kitchen. She for sure had chicken and rice and she probably had some pumpkin. All of that would make for a fine meal for this little fluff.

Once home she returned the pup to his nest inside her shirt and went about the business of fixing him a meal. She cooked the both a bit of chicken and rice and found a can of pumpkin in the cupboard left over from Thanksgiving pie making but not yet expired. When the chicken and rice were done cooking she made herself a plate and then found a sturdy bowl for the puppy. She put some chicken, rice, and pumpkin in a power blender and let it whir for a minute, then poured everything out into the sturdy bowl. She found a second sturdy bowl and put some fresh water in it.

Sitting on the living room floor with everything spread around her she took a bite of her dinner and while chewing dipped her finger in the water and brought it up to the pups nose. Anyone who tells you water has no smell doesn’t know their you-know-what from a hole in the ground. That puppy started licking and she went back and forth from the water to his nose several times before she decided to take another bite of her own dinner and try giving him a bit of his.

When she brought a finger full of mush to his face the puppy nearly bit her finger clean off. The poor thing was ravenous. She was able to get roughly a half a cups worth in his gut before he passed out. She set the alarm on her phone to go off in two hours. He might sleep for four, but she’d try to get him to drink some more in two. Dehydration was a more likely killer for the puppy at this point than anything else.

She settled the pup in her lap and finished her dinner, scratching away at the pups silky ears and engorged belly. When she was done she grabbed an old towel and made a little bed for the puppy, did the dishes, and picked up a book. No sense going to bed yet when it would be time to give the pup water in an hour. She read until her alarm went off, occasionally stopping to look at the puppy as he snored or farted. He was ridiculously cute and unlike any of the dogs that were usually found in the box at Town Hall.

Black and white with a scruffy beard, he looked like some kind of terrier mix. She tried picturing all the town dogs and couldn’t think of any that looked quite like him. It was possible one of the tourists had brought him up from the city and dropped him off, not wanting to pay a relinquishing fee to the Humane Society. Everyone who knew about her little town also knew about the puppies forever available at Town Hall, so it was possible. It made her heart hurt to think that anyone would abandon this puppy like that though. None of the local people would have left a puppy alone like that. They would have stayed til the last tourist left and then brought the puppy back home to return the next day and try again.

When the alarm went off she offered the puppy water again. She hated to wake the sleepy little guy, but dehydration was serious, and the puppy would certainly be able to fall back asleep. Sure enough he lapped up several more fingers of water and even opened his eyes. He had the sweetest deep brown eyes. When she decided he’d had enough water she took him out to her yard and set him down on the ground. He sniffed around a bit and she was worried he was going to lay down again and sleep, but instead he squatted down and peed. He walked in a little circle around it afterward and then looked at her.

“Good dog,” she said and marveled when he wagged his tail. “Let’s go back inside,” she said, patting her thigh and walking towards the house. He stared at her, unmoving. She made a couple kissing noises and he leaped towards her, his whole body wiggling with joy. It was then she knew he would be just fine and also that he was her dog.

“What are we going to name you?” she asked as they walked in to the warmth of the house, closing the door on the night behind them.

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Therapy

sundaydutroLeave a comment

She realized she’d been jiggling her foot. She had no idea how long she’d been jiggling it. But there it was. Gyrating in front of her, a pogo stick at the end of her ankle sitting at an odd angle on her other knee. Despite seeing it, despite realizing she should stop, it continued. It took a forceable effort to slow it, then stop it, then shift her leg up and off her other knee, lowering the restless foot to the ground.

“Are you uncomfortable?” the therapist finally asked.

“No,” she answered, realizing it was a bit of a lie, but not entirely. She wasn’t uncomfortable in the office, or with the therapist, so no was a perfectly honest answer. She was, however, uncomfortable in her body, in her being, and so no was not entirely accurate.

“You aren’t usually silent,” the therapist observed, “is there something troubling you tat hasn’t been put into words yet?”

“That’s a good way to say it, I suppose,” she responded, tilting her head a bit to the right as she thought about the words to use. “I’m having a hard time,” she finally said.

There was another silence. She knew the therapist didn’t like to fill these silences, preferred that she speak or use the silence to work through whatever she needed to. She was a bit surprised the therapist had broken the last one, but then again, there weren’t usually silences for long and certainly not for nearly half the session, which is where they were at.

“I’m having a hard time being,” she clarified.

When it became clear she wasn’t going to say more than that the therapist asked for clarification, “being…?”

“Being. Just being. Existing has become difficult,” she said.

“What has changed to make it difficult?”

“Nothing. Nothing that I can think of anyway. I’m pretty sure everything is exactly the same as last week,” she looked down at her hands in her lap, they were fingers holding fingers, her fingers, hanging on to one another. She laid her hands flat and wiped them along her thighs. “It hasn’t just become difficult, it’s always been difficult,” she said, emphasizing ‘been’ by picking up her hands and pushing them together and outwards, like an offering.

“If it’s always been difficult why did you originally say it’s ‘become difficult’?”

She sighed, loudly, somewhat exasperated at the use of her own words being turned around and offered up as proof that she didn’t know what she was talking about. “Okay, fine. It has become more difficult,” she said, emphasizing the ‘more’ by drawing out the o and making it sound like a multi-syllabic word. She lapsed into silence again, this time crossing her arms over her chest, an unintentional protection of her heart.

“I see. Sometimes we choose words with our subconscious. Are you feeling threatened by me?” asked the therapist in the same flat tone.

“Threatened? No. Should I be?” she asked, somewhat surprised by a question that wasn’t a twist of what she’d said.

“Sometimes our body language communicates for our subconscious. I see that you’ve changed positions from one in which you were open and receptive to conversation to a closed-off and protective position. It made me wonder if you are feeling threatened by me,” explained the therapist.

Realizing her error, a second time in one sitting in which her body was giving her away, she quickly put her arms back down, hands in her lap.

“I get the sense that you have something you need to tell me but that you’re unable or unwilling to do so,” said the therapist.

She shrugged her left shoulder, “days like today I come here and I have no idea what I’m going to fill the hour with and I think maybe it’s time to stop coming,” she said, surprised at her own honesty, surprised that she’d been thinking that. Her foot came back up to her rest on her knee without her notice.

“People often get to a point where they don’t feel they need therapy any longer. That’s wonderful. It usually comes after they’ve gained some insight into why they decided to start therapy in the first place. Do you feel you’ve gained insight into why you started coming to see me?” asked the therapist calmly, no twitch in facial expression at the bomb being dropped, no change in tone.

“I honestly don’t remember why I started coming. And I feel like I leave every week not having gotten anywhere and wondering why I keep coming back. But today,” she took a deep breath, “today I just feel like we’re wasting each others time.” She noticed her foot was jiggling again, but didn’t try to stop it.

“Wasting each others time? You think I am wasting your time and you are wasting mine. You are paying me for my time, so there’s no waste to my time. Can you tell me how I am wasting your time?” asked the therapist, still calm, betraying nothing at the thought of losing a client.

“I came here for answers. It’s been, what? Six months? Six months and no answers. Nothing is different today than it was when I came in six months ago,” she realized she’d started crying and was surprised. She hadn’t cried in at least a year, not at a movie or a book, not at any of the horrible atrocities being committed everywhere on a daily basis. She touched a hand to her cheek and looked at the water on her fingers. Crying. Huh.

“Can you review for me the questions?” asked the therapist.

Like my very own fucking Yoda, she thought before saying, “why do I keep meeting the same horrible guys? Why do I keep dating the same horrible guys? Why do I keep falling in love with the same horrible guys? And why do the same horrible guys keep breaking my heart?”

“Yes, when you first came in you mentioned you had a habit of picking the wrong partners. I didn’t realize until right now that you felt that was the most pressing issue or the issue we’ve been working on all this time,” said the therapist. “We’ve discussed many issues, none of which have seemed to trouble you more than others. Can you tell me why this issue of partners is deemed the reason you started coming to therapy?”

“Nobody wants to be alone forever, doc. Nobody. I love having time to myself but that’s different than being completely alone. And it turns out I’m either dating the wrong guy or I’m alone. I don’t want to be alone forever, and I don’t want to keep dating the wrong guy. I can’t keep living like this,” she said, running her right hand through her hair and then slapping it down over her ankle.

“I agree. Why is the issue of your partner more important today than the issue we discussed last week of your self proclaimed ‘go nowhere job’?”

“Because I can always change jobs. If I really want to do something else, I can just apply and get a different job. But with guys, I can’t just apply for a new boyfriend after reading about him online.”

“Isn’t that exactly what online dating is?” asked the therapist.

“I mean, kind of, I guess….”

“So you can meet a new partner online and you can change your job online. Why is the partner issue more important this week than the issue we discussed a few weeks ago, your lack of motivation in the evenings and on weekends?”

“Because if I had a job I didn’t hate I’d have more energy after work and if I had a boyfriend I liked I’d be going out with him on the weekends,” she said.

“I see. So you came to therapy to find a better boyfriend and a better job?”

“Not exactly, I mean, yes, in the long run, yes,” she stammered, “I need to figure out why I keep committing to people and things that make me unhappy. But I’ve been coming in here for six months and I still don’t know why I do that,” she said, sitting forward, putting both feet on the floor, and opening her eyes wide as she realized she’d gotten closer to why she was there, why she was really there.

“I do believe that may be the core question,” said the therapist with a small smile, a very slight facial betrayal of what was an otherwise emotionless facade.

“That’s my ‘pattern,’ right?” she asked, “they always say you have to see your pattern to fix it, and this is mine, right?”

“I suppose you could call it that. I like to think of it more as the things and or the people we hide behind when we’re too afraid to know the truth.”

“So everything we’ve been talking about is connected? My job, the guys, the lethargy? It’s all the same thing? It’s all stuff I’m hiding behind so I don’t face the truth? The truth of what?” she asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“That’s what we need to discover,” said the therapist.

“You mean you don’t know?” she asked incredulously. “I thought that was your job? I thought I tell you all this stuff and you tell me what my problem is and I fix it?”

“My job is to help you discover what your problems are. My job is to help you discover what the fixes are. I can’t tell you these things, you wouldn’t believe me. My job is to help you see them for yourself. Your job is to see them and not run away from them.”

She sat quietly for a minute, thinking about this new revelation. She wasn’t making progress because she wasn’t willing to see the problems. She thought she was talking about the problems but really she was just babbling on and on about symptoms. What she needed to do was see the disease itself. Stop treating the symptoms like individual ailments that required medication. So what did all her symptoms boil down to?

“Why don’t I want to see, even though I am coming to therapy for exactly that reason?” she asked.

“If we can discover the answer to that question, you will have answers to all the rest.”

~~~That’s one hour~~~

Castration

sundaydutroLeave a comment

As the youngest son, Joe’d been out riding fence for ten years, four years on his own. He remembered the first time his dad had nodded at him, handing him his reigns, no horse of his own, “you’re old enough,” was all he said. That day had been the proudest of his life. Delegated the job of maintaining the fence all on his own, he was sure he was just a few short months away from even more important jobs.

He spent that first morning taking extra care, looking over every section of fence as though they’d hired someone to put it in, even though he knew dad and brother put in the fence themselves a couple years earlier. Still, he rode the line occasionally jumping down to kick a post or yank on a length of barbed wire. He got home later than usual due to his thoroughness and instead of finding dad at breakfast as he’d imagined, regaling him with the story of sections that might could need a tightening in the weeks to come his imaginary dad beaming at him and patting him on the back, he found him instead out in the barn critiquing the mucking of the stalls.

“You know you gotta get all the way to them corners at least once a week. I can tell from here they ain’t been done in more’n that and you got a foal comin’ soon. Call me when you think you’re done,” he was saying over his shoulder as he walked away clenching and unclenching his gloved hands.

He was mad as Joe’d ever seen him, but Joe was sure he could change that around with his news about the fence. “Pop?” he called. He saw his dad raise his head and catch sight of him.

“You get lost out there? Your chores been waitin’ and breakfast was an hour ago,” his dad said.

Joe hung is head, no longer thinking his story was such a good one, sure now that his best bet was to get moving, “no, Pop. You need me to muck the coup after I feed the pigs, it’s been a week?”

“Pigs’ve been fed, they cain’t wait til lunch for breakfast. Why ain’t your sister mucking the coup?”

“She’s at that Granny Ulrich’s learnin’ the baby business this week,” Joe answered, “I don’t mind doin’ the coup unless you need me somewheres else?”

“Damn that ol’,” his dad grumbled before shifting his weight to his left leg and pulling off his gloves to slap them across his right thigh, “alright, you do the coup and then I need you up chuckin’ hay with your brother.”

Joe nodded, “yessir,” he said as he turned to get to work.

“You ate your breakfast?” his dad asked his back.

“Nah, too late, I got work to do,” Joe said, hanging his head.

“Git in there an’ eat your food fore your mama chaps my ass, the coup’ll wait.”

“Yessir,” Joe repeated, walking quickly towards the house. He got to the porch, knocked his boots against the deck steps, sure to get every bit of muck off of them before going inside. The screen door slammed behind him even as he was reaching out to stop it.

“You clean your boots?” his mama called from another room.

“Yes ma’am,” he called.

“Joe? That you?”

“Yes ma’am,” Joe answered.

“Where you been?” she asked as she came into the kitchen, a load of clean laundry in her arms, “your daddy was worried sick. I was the one convinced him you were old enough to ride fence alone, he about laid into me when you didn’t turn up for sausage.” She set the laundry down on the edge of the large wooden table, immaculately clean that served as both dining room table, family meeting space, and Sunday prayer circle.

Joe picked up his head at this, “sausage? You made sausage, mama?” he couldn’t contain his excitement, nor his hope that anyone had left some for him.

“Awe baby, go on, set down. I made you up a plate early so you’ve got a little of everything. Even without your sister here this mornin’ we got no leftovers.”

“Thank you!” Joe said as she laid a dishcloth covered plate in front of him then removed the cloth to reveal a heap of scrambled eggs, a couple of pieces of thick cut toasted bread, the butter on them making them soggy, and four sausage patties. He grabbed up his fork and started shoveling the eggs onto the bread, then stuffing the bread in his mouth.

“You eat like you didn’t get steak for dinner and I know you did cause I made it my own self. What’s got you in such a state?”

“Gotta get to the coup and the hay,” Joe said, his mouth full, the words sounding nearly like gibberish, but he knew she’d understand. Everyone talked like daddy ran the ranch, but Joe knew it was mama. Nothing happened on that place she didn’t know about.

“Joe Braithe, don’t talk with your mouth full, I know for a fact you weren’t raised in a barn,” she folded the dishcloth that’d kept his food from getting too stale as she continued, “I don’t want you in the coup today. Your brother cain’t recollect how to much a stall he oughta be the one cleaning the coup, a little reminder about how things work around here. You get to the hay after you eat but tell your daddy I need to see him before you get started.”

“Yes ma’am,” Joe said showing the last forkful of food into his mouth, chewing and rising from the table at the same time. He picked up his plate to take to the sink.

“Leave it, baby,” mama said, “tell your daddy to come in here and get to work.”

He swallowed, loudly and with a grimace, that bite had been too big, “yes, mama.” He kissed her cheek and flew out the door, grabbing it before it banged this time, for which he knew his mama would be pleased, and went in search of his dad.

The best way to find his dad was not to walk around the ranch, he’d figured that out long ago. You could walk round that ranch a hundred times and never find his daddy cause he’d always be a few steps ahead of you. Nope, fastest way to find daddy was to stand still, be quiet, open your mouth a bit and close your eyes to improve your hearing, and then just stand there awhile. It took less time and energy than walking the ranch and it worked every time.

Daddy was not a quiet man unless he was working a horse. Then he had all the calm and quiet you could want. Working a horse his daddy could stand immobile for hours at a time if necessary. Working a horse his daddy could knicker with a voice that made you wanna weep with it’s sweet love.

But daddy wouldn’t be working a horse today. Nope, he’d be doing something that required muscle, something that required sweat, and something that more than likely required swearing. In fact, Joe was pretty sure he knew exactly where his daddy was, but the stop, listen, and wait trick was worth a couple minutes to be sure.

“You don’t get that band on them balls in two more seconds and I’mma let you do all these calves on your own.”

Yup. Castration time. Daddy was down with the calves, and based on daddy’s tone and word choice it was Earl down there with him. Earl had been with the ranch for as long as Joe could remember. He wasn’t old although he was older than daddy, and he wasn’t young although he was a lick younger than Granny Ulrich. Earl was hard to figure out. He had all the patience of a broody hen when it came to helping Joe learn the ranch, and all the impatience of an unbroke horse getting a taste for it’s first saddle when it came to damn near anything else. He could castrate those calves all on his own in about the same time as he could do it with help, but for whatever reason he asked daddy to help him every year.

Joe was pretty sure Earl asked for help because he knew it made his daddy queasy. Joe wasn’t sure why, he understood that the basic anatomy of a calf and a human were the same, and he could understand how the thought of having your own scrotum rubber banded could cause you to feel a bit pained, but it wasn’t any different than any other chore on the farm, really. Killing the chickens wasn’t any fun. Debudding the kids was no picnic, especially with the mama goats wailing at them from the other side of the fence. Killing the pigs was just about the worst cause of the smell and the heat and the squealing.

If it were up to Joe, daddy could go move the hay and he’d stay and help Earl with the calves. But he knew Earl would never suggest it, and would probably fight him on it a little bit. He’d give in though, Earl would, he knew Joe was better suited to help, but he’d probably make a show of it, enjoying watching daddy squirm at the idea of having to stay when he was so eager to go.

“Daddy?” Joe asked, approaching the two men and the little calf that had just been banded and was jumping up and walking off with a bit of a buck in his step, unsure about this new addition to his body. His dad looked up at him, hopeful that he was about to get a reprieve. “Mama needs you up at the house.”

“Well hell, Earl,” daddy said, unable to contain the glee in his voice, “I guess I gotta go for a bit. I’ll be back though, if you’re not too fast, I might still be able to help you here.”

“I can help Earl, daddy,” Joe said.

“Well sure you can, son,” daddy said, proud of his boy for stepping in but even more grateful that he could step out. “I’ll be back soon’s I can,” he said, dusting off his jeans and walking off the way Joe’d come.

~~~That’s one hour~~~