I don’t pay attention to the news anymore unless I click on something by accident. Even then, I ninja-swipe like a wasp hovering near my face, because—much like the mail—nothing good ever comes from it. It’s either a bill, bad news, or a letter from a Jehovah’s Witness begging me to please reconsider my eternal salvation.
But every once in a while, a word or phrase hooks me.
I clicked on something random in my “for you” page—the place where my phone thinks it has me figured out. The headline said: “Museum Going Out of Business. Life-Sized Dinosaurs for Sale.”
Now, I’m not a dinosaur person. I don’t remember ever Googling anything close to that. And yet suddenly this felt personal. Why would this be recommended to me? How much does a life-sized dinosaur even cost? Are we talking movie quality or a sad six-foot foam thing?
The descriptions had me wheezing. One said the dinos offered “movement for realistic entertainment and child petting.” The listings were on Facebook Marketplace, right next to someone selling a stained sofa described as “pet-free” and their particle-board bookshelf labeled “probably real wood.”
And once I started reading, I couldn’t stop. Then a photo of a massive T-rex appeared. Not six feet. Thirty-nine feet of pure ridiculousness. Price: under three grand. Fine print: buyer responsible for shipping.
That sent me down a whole trail of questions: How does someone move a 39-foot T-rex under bridges? Where do you park it? Who makes a collar that size so I can put a giant dog tag on him labeled “Burt Reynolds”?
Naturally, after processing the idea for a solid thirty seconds, I called my best friend.
“How big is your husband’s flatbed,” I asked, “and how willing would you be to talk him into a drive to New Jersey?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Why? Do you need to bury somebody?”
“Not exactly. I need to convince Rob that buying a 39-foot T-rex is a great idea.”
She snorted. “Why would you want one?”
“How badly do you want to help me make the neighbors and the Amazon delivery driver lose their minds?”
“That is hilarious.”
“Think about it,” I said. “We could put a fence around him, give him a giant tennis ball, and add one of those church signs that says, ‘I identify as a German Shepherd.’ For Halloween, we could add fake blood and drape ourselves over his tiny arms. Christmas? Giant Santa hat. Easter? Big dinosaur eggs. The possibilities are endless.”
“Did Rob say yes?”
“I haven’t called him yet.”
“I’m in,” she said immediately.
A few minutes later my son wandered in to find me on my bed, giggling like I’d lost it, scrolling Etsy for vintage Christmas lights and over-sized pastel-dyed eggs.
“What are you laughing at?” he asked.
“How would you like a T-rex for a brother?”
“WHAT!?”
So I explained the entire saga, and he was instantly on board.
“We have to convince Dad,” he said. “This is epic.”
So the two of us approached Rob together.
“WHY would you want that?” he asked. “And what would you even do with it during the day?”
“I’d raise my teacup and say, ‘Good morning, Burt.’”
“And how would we even get it home?”
“Obviously, Tasha would help.”
“We are not getting a 39-foot T-rex.”
Our joy died right there.
Then—one month later—the same listing popped up on his feed. He called me sounding thrilled.
“Hey! You’ll probably say no, but I want a life-sized dinosaur.”
My son and I stared at the phone with rage in our souls.
“Burt already sold,” I said.
“Mom literally asked you for that a month ago,” my son added. “She wanted the 39-footer.”
“I don’t remember that,” Rob said. “Anyway, I want the flying one.”
“You’re right,” I told him. “We’re not buying it.”
Rob’s outside swearing at his motorcycle, throwing wrenches like thunderbolts, while I’m trapped inside, forced to leave the window open for his extension cord.
The bugs? Oh, they’re loving it. It’s a 70’s disco party in my bedroom. They’ve got lights, they’ve got a dance floor, and I’m just trying to survive.
Then it happens— this beast of a creature comes flying at my face.
I swear, it’s like a kissing bug and a cockroach had a baby, with extra-long antennas, navigating with sonar and radio frequencies to nail me better the second time.
It flies to the wall— and I dare to get a better look.
Mistake. Because now the sonar’s pinging, and it’s coming back for round two. This thing’s on a home run mission.
I ninja-arm that sucker into the drywall, grab the nearest weapon—a bottle of chewable vitamins— and slam it down like I’m banishing it to the underworld.
I’m currently praying he’s dead.
There’s no rest in peace for bugs in my house. It’s more like a tombstone, and it reads:
“Here lies the devil’s mount, smashed by a 30 count. A bet was lost, so he went home, his ride was left to die alone.”
That’s right. In this house, bugs don’t just die— they get sentenced. In the South, we believe in Jesus— and if you’re uninvited, you’re fixin’ to meet Him.
Watching sunbeams skip across dew drops on the windshield while our rickety car dipped over uneven roadways was beautiful, but as familiar as Grandma’s kitchen. Midnight drives across the United States and waking up to crevices, deserts, and gullies unseen were part of my childhood. Rolled in between blankets pulled off my bed, with snacks and stacks of clothing toppling into my lap, for a girl who belonged to a family of travelers, it was a walk through customs.
I would rub the blurred vision away, attempting to make sense of where I had landed, piecing together the taste in the air for clues and small details. Sometimes it was my mom behind the wheel; other times it was my grandfather, and I’d say, “Papa? Where are we now?” My sense of direction was nowhere close to understanding whether the dashboard was pointed north toward Maine or south toward the coasts of Florida this time.
Always a grin across their lips and a comment resembling, “Oh good! You’re up! Guess where we’re going?” They were identical, my mother and her father—heads tossed back in laughter at my twisted confusion. I was never in on the joke they’d hatched only hours before. A bug creeping across the mattress, a bite waking them to gather maps without much planning, and suddenly we were on a road trip to some unknown place with an unsuspecting surprise.
A good portion of this is why I have been to almost all fifty states (minus two), lived in other countries, and wandered across much of Europe before I reached my thirties. For so long, I wanted to sit still without being pulled away repeatedly. Not a gift I received until adulthood. Yet it was all so exciting, and even now—facing the North Georgia sunshine, I know leaving home makes the taste of magnolia and iced tea swirl across my tongue even sweeter.
Not knowing where I’d land was enchanting. My childhood of spelunking, wading through waves of rippling tide grass, and watching bison tear across the earth hard enough to leave me gasping has carried forward into holding my son’s hand, taking him to places some children never get to experience.
At ten years old, he’s already seen more states than most adults manage in their lifetime. Sometimes the miraculous discoveries land right in our backyard. When I first laid eyes on the advertisement, I knew Nikolai had to see it. At two hundred and twenty-five miles, it was deemed one of the best long-distance balloon races in America.
While browsing the news, an article about Helen, Georgia’s race to the Atlantic held me captive. On a Wednesday night in May, I booked a hotel, packed our vehicle, and buckled my son into the booster seat. His face was the mirror of a younger me. I slid behind the wheel and grinned at the beautiful confusion etched across his features—stormy blue eyes asking all the questions his lips hadn’t readied themselves to speak.
“Guess where we’re going?” I teased, my voice tangled with laughter.
He didn’t have any guesses. I reached a hand toward the back seat, squeezing his fingers. Just my boy and me, setting off on wild balloon adventures. Snacks spilling into his lap, luggage stacked for a two-day trip—the boy never saw it coming.
That night, when I tucked him into a queen-sized bed with a different view of the mountains we had come to love, I kissed his forehead with a promise: spectacular things come in the morning. No glowing television, only shadows on the walls. Excitement so sharp we barely slept.
Our wake-up alarm sounded, but neither of us moved. Still, before the sun, we managed to greet the day, slipping on our shoes in the dim hush. Nikolai’s legs danced their way to the breakfast buffet, the boy nearly eating asphalt in his hurry to reach the car. Switchback roads curled ahead, fog blushing pink and gold as it cascaded into the valley below. I passed the time by asking what he might take on a long adventure.
“Water, snacks! I would need snacks. My binoculars Daddy bought me, and a picture of Daddy since he’s working. Mommy, I would have to take you.”
His words reached into my chest and clasped my heart. My camera, nestled in the passenger seat, slid against the upholstery, nearly tumbling to the floorboard. I caught it, the weight steady in my hand, and my creative mind bloomed with an image of my son—inside a hot air balloon, racing toward the Atlantic. He couldn’t fly with them, but I have a knack for breathing life into his ambitions. I dog-eared the thought and prepared to catch the ember.
Crowds of visitors followed a nature path into the woods where birds fluttered their morning greetings, until the turf gave way to tipped balloons and fire-breathing contraptions nestled in a woodland hollow. Awe and delight lit my son’s face in colors beyond anything he had seen before. Picnic blankets lined the hill for a front-row view, children clutching hands, bug-bitten limbs marked by the soil in the name of anticipation for liftoff. Families sat cross-legged, speaking reverently over hot cups of coffee and pre-made food—every nationality, every shade of skin—gathering for a tradition passed down simply for the joy of being a witness.
When the first balloon lifted, the crowd erupted in clapping, laughter, and well-wishes that echoed against bark and branches. My hands trembled, damp against the camera, as faces peered down from above. Their beautiful vantage became my living nightmare, making me feel effortlessly small. Yet the substance of dreams is believing impossible things. Success comes not only from attempting something massive, but from daring it, even with the risk of falling. Everything I wanted my son to remember was here, drawn out of the wonder of exploring the world.
I learned as much from this perspective as I hoped to teach him. Seeing through my son’s eyes revealed my mother’s and grandfather’s parenting in a new light. Teaching my boy teaches me in return. At four years old, his memory will be hazy, but mine holds it clear. Exploring wasn’t only about me as a child—it was tasting the old, dressed in new seasonings.
Contentment settled as I folded the blanket over my arm after the last balloon drifted toward a cloud shaped uncannily like a T-Rex. The balloons hung suspended in the air as we walked back to the car. Cobblestone streets, a bobbing river, and a hot cup of tea warmed both our hands. Nikolai stooped to collect stones for his pockets—some of which still turn up in random places around our farm today.
When we pulled into the driveway at home, he bolted to his room and dug through the toy box for his flight jacket, goggles, and pilot’s hat. Crayon maps spread across the floor. The dog was conscripted into service as co-pilot, and together they flew past the chickens, who clucked their disapproval.
By day’s end, long lashes rested on peach skin, bowed lips parted slightly, a pilot’s hat tugged low across his face, and an arm draped over the dog’s belly. This autumn, we’re going to Ireland, where history leaves castles scattered across the countryside. My boy will remember every taste, detail, and scent, carving his name from the United States into the world beyond it. I can’t imagine what he will teach me next.
In the early hours before dawn, I stumbled to the sofa in my pink bathrobe—my eyes squinting under fluorescent lights as I yawned and stretched in my pajamas and green fuzzy socks. I listened for the microwave to ping, signaling that my water had boiled—just in time to drop in a fresh bag of tea to wake up my brain.
I snatched my phone to scroll the news—a habit of selecting uplifting articles I might enjoy.
That’s when I came across a botanical mystery I’d never heard of—unusual and completely enchanting.
I gasped—just as Nikolai walked in with his backpack slung over one shoulder and a missing shoe on the loose. His forever-curious mind couldn’t help but plop down beside me, a hand strangling a dangling sock, to see what I was staring at. There on my screen was a picture of a rare thing more lovely than many of the flowers we had grown over the years.
While planning this year’s growing season, I couldn’t help imagining what next year might hold. After three years of waiting, the Everglass House would be finished. I’d finally be able to garden through the winter.
Being a lover of the unusual, I pictured a garden gate tangled with poisonous blooms—demanding respect and distance from the garden while increasing my knowledge of the strange. A farm full of furry faces and a boy to protect put that idea on a shelf.
So instead, I dreamed up a moon garden—just for me. With flowers that only opened at night when the frustrations of insomnia would strike. As a night owl at heart anyway, I enjoy the sounds of the widows and whippoorwills. It’s often hard to sleep in new places (like vacation hotel rooms) that don’t have an opera of tree frogs or the throaty rhythm and twang of Southern leopard frogs adding to the ambiance. When I’m not home, I’m thinking up ways to bottle them up.
The music of the night and the magic of unusual flora embracing the glow of moonlight kissing petals, in my mind, was a recipe of things imagined coming to life—because why not?
What’s more romantic than tiptoeing through starlit grass, hoping you don’t step on a copperhead, just to admire blooms no one else would even notice—much less adore?
So when that strange apparition appeared on my screen, desire bloomed right alongside it—wild, irrational, and entirely out of reach.
As Nikolai and I went down the rabbit hole of facts, it quickly became clear—finding one without falling for a scam was like digging for gold in a silver mine.
I tucked my disappointment into my pocket, saved the screenshot like a secret, and walked out into the drizzle with Nikolai, dodging mud puddles in the thick morning air. We dashed through a downpour over to Natasha’s house to wait for the bus. Niki—the walking encyclopedia—started spilling facts about the phantom we encountered from the moment we shook the water clinging to our clothing.
“They have to see it, Mom!” I smiled at his need to share—and sure enough, their eyes were wide with disbelief, just as mine had been.
“You need that plant, LaShelle,” said my habit-enabling bestie—the same woman who loads up her car with mystery greens and tells my husband she has no idea how those plants ended up at my house. Thank goodness for her and my other bestie, who basically deals in perennials like it’s contraband and I’m the willing addict. I’d be nowhere close to the garden of my dreams without them.
“I mean… it’s a cactus. I don’t do cacti. Or succulents (moss rose excluded). They’re like the introverts of the plant world, and I’m not a fan of the desert.”
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “LaShelle. It. Has. All the things you love. You literally collect them like trophies. Don’t even pretend.”
“Yeah, I know… but it’s not like I can make a centerpiece out of it.” I gave a helpless shrug. She rolled her eyes, and we moved on. I mentally tucked the specter away where it belonged.
A few months later found us in Arizona, juggling a family visit while Rob was off on his annual motorcycle trip. Nikolai and I were fitting it all in—sun, relatives, and a whirlwind schedule while shaking off jet lag—when I stumbled into the vibrant chaos of a desert farmers market, wild vivid color, dust, and distraction.
A birthday extravaganza for my mom, my brother, his fiancée, and my wonderful husband—all in the same month—left me snagging homemade non-GMO bagels for everyone and balancing motherhood.
I bobbed and weaved past vendors peddling chaos, handing out the universal phrase for “no thanks”: “Maybe later!” I zeroed in on the coffee and tea stand like it was a safe house—matcha never questions my choices, and lavender never asks about family reunions.
Rob was most likely still tearing down some canyon road like a cowboy in a helmet. He was supposed to meet up, but I was sure he wouldn’t make it.
I wasn’t there for the trinkets—but I had every intention of adopting a few. Not because I needed them, but because retail therapy speaks fluent serotonin. And unlike actual therapy, it doesn’t ask hard questions or bring up my childhood.
Then I saw it—a quaint little plant stand filled with things I hadn’t seen before. And one stopped me in my tracks.
A bizarre cactus—the very kind I said I didn’t want—with a white flower blooming at the top. As far as trinkets go, the living ones trump the rest.
“Umm, excuse me, sir? How much is this?” I attempted to ask the guy behind the counter.
A tall brunette was doing her best to melt the pavement—long legs, dramatic flat-ironed hair tosses, chic sunglasses perched across her nose. The kind of laugh that comes rehearsed—while the plant seller’s wife looked like she was counting to ten in three languages.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I rolled my eyes so hard someone probably heard them hit the back of my skull. Still, I wasn’t giving up—because like a kid holding their pee too long, I had to go… to the car with the thing I told my best friend I didn’t want.
The plant seller’s wife stepped in to tell me she had no idea what it was, but she mentioned the cost. I told her I’d think about it—not because it was unreasonable, but because I was tired of waiting for answers to questions I wasn’t going to get. As I turned to leave—bam—that vision hit me. The one I saw on that rainy morning before Nikolai left for school…
“Do you happen to have this bizarre plant I’m looking for? You probably have no idea what I’m talking about, but if I leave without asking and find out you did… I’ll never forgive myself.”
She looked caught off guard, and I figured I was correct. She had no clue.
Clutching my wallet, juggling bags, and hanging onto matcha for dear life, I turned again to walk away—until the keeper of the plant tables finally spoke to stop me.
“What did you ask for?” His eyes lit up, voice suddenly curious—as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. “That’s my favorite plant of all time. It constantly gets overlooked because people have no idea what it can become.”
I could relate.
“I actually do have one. I rarely bring them to market because nobody buys them, but… I brought one with me today. Just in case.”
I nearly gasped. Swooned. Needed a defibrillator. I called Rob right away—he had miraculously pulled over and answered. I didn’t cry, but I may have proposed all over again right there in the middle of a dusty parking lot with cactus fever in my voice. “If you love me,” I said, “you’ll buy me this weird and wonderful plant, and I’ll never ask for anything else ever again—until next week.”
Meanwhile, my brother and his fiancée were staring at me like I’d lost my mind. His sweet fiancée nodded enthusiastically—probably trying to understand my sanity.
Hands trembling, I whipped out my debit card, swiped—and in the blink of a flirty brunette, the floral drug deal was done. No need to call the DEA—I was high on chlorophyll.
We finished shopping while I rode a cloud—floating over oceans of giddy elation.
I wrapped my arms around her to skate through the market aisles, surrounded by floods of colorful items I no longer gave a crap about. The bite of spicy peppers and fresh-cut onions lingering from street-side taco trucks wafted behind as I neared the car. I shielded her sacred limbs with my umbrella fingers—terrified someone might bump me and snap her limb. Those nubs were the precious jewels in the Queen’s crown.
And then my mother spotted me and laughed. “That’s what you bought? Fifty dollars?”
I refused to let her rain on my excitement. “Absolutely,” I said proudly. “And she’ll need her own seat in the car.”
I nodded like I was punctuating a sentence. Thankfully, Niki was once again spewing facts about this incredible marvel people underestimate and look at with concern. I tucked her into a throne of my possessions, and we set off from one destination to the next—until we finally made our way to meet my wonderful husband.
I was beaming endlessly, like the sun does in the Mojave Desert—still trying to call Rob to prepare him for her arrival. Our car pulled into the parking lot of a run-down fast food joint—its neon sign half-lit, half-dead, and falling off-kilter. Rob’s motorcycle looked well-weathered, with a rogue tumbleweed clinging beneath the wheel well. Parked side-by-side with the bike his best friend John rides, battered with raindrops.
I held my breath, squared my shoulders, and walked with purpose.
Smiling as I entered and slid into a broken plastic orange seat next to my husband, I bit my cheek nervously as I began to explain myself.
“Hey babe! I missed you! Listen… about that plant you let me buy—yep, the fifty-dollar one. Um… I need to warn you before you actually meet her, okay? A little pre-introduction, if you will.”
His eyes were already suspicious. His hair a mess from the helmet and exhaustion clearly etched.
“What did you do?”
“I bought it like you said I could! Rob approved, I even asked first, so you can’t be mad at me,” I said with a tilt in my voice.
Now he’s really concerned.
“I don’t think I want to see it,” he said.
I could tell he was nervous—and I laughed hesitantly. That plant was traveling first-class—from the Arizona desert to the humid jungles of North Georgia—and he had no idea what he was in for.
“Look… she’s different, okay? It’s not about what she looks like—it’s about what she’ll become.”
Just… come meet her, but understand I warned you first. Smiling, I led the three of us—plus my mom—toward the vehicle, doing my best to keep the giggles at bay. I led them to where I’d put her. Holding her out in my hands, as an offering of my delight, I said, “Rob, meet the Queen.” And then I saw it—the horror. The color draining from his face.
“You spent fifty dollars on a stick?!” he cried, exasperated.
And honestly… I get it. Kinda.
“She’s not a stick!” I fired back protectively. “She’s the Queen of ALL Sticks!”
John was dying—full wheeze-laughing, side-clutching.
I scrambled to set her down gently—Queen of the Sticks—and pulled up a photo on my phone to show him the wonder she would one day become.
“It’s a stick! Planted in sand! You can’t be serious. Are you sure you didn’t get scammed?” he retorted.
“No, I know what I’m talking about here. It’s not a scam. She’s magnificent… you just don’t know her yet.”
He sighed—the sound of a defeated man shaking his head because he loved me, and the drug deal had been done.
On the way home, she sat front and center with a full view of the open road—Rob held her steady, shielding her from launching through the windshield or being smacked by Niki’s sleep-flailing feet in the back. Not because he liked her, but because he adores me. A true knight… reluctantly sworn into the Order of Botanical Nonsense. Like a reluctant midwife to a cactus baby.
I couldn’t resist. I snapped a few pictures and sent them to Natasha—and before I could even blink, my phone lit up with judgment.
“What is that?” “It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen! That can’t be the same thing.”
I leaned in close to the stick and whispered, “Shhh. You’re beautiful on the inside.”
When we made it back to Georgia, she didn’t just come home—she arrived.
First plant in the Everglass House, obviously. She’s already claimed a shelf like it’s a throne and demands filtered light like it’s a spotlight.
Rob still walks by now and then, muttering, “It’s a stick.”
And I just smile, sipping my tea like I’m not about to win an award for Best Supporting Plant Parent.
Because one day, she’ll bloom. And on that glorious, fragrant day— I will demand an apology in writing. Notarized. Possibly framed.
Every farm-related crisis happens at the most inconvenient moments. Thunder rattles the house and storm clouds gather in the distance, a fence is down, flower boxes hang by a single nail. In the middle of preparing the farm for heavy winds and downpours, few things catch me off guard. I keep bale string in my back pocket, a stick or stump nearby to wedge a gate shut or push some chicken wire upright temporarily. I’m the rock star of rig-it-until-it’s-functional. A VIP in farm management.
Blue lotion on the fly to ward off infection for our farm baby-boo-boos, and “never a dull moment” is a religious motto I utter under my breath like a prayer to ward off psychotic incidents. The hay is always gone when you need it most, having slipped your mind to replenish it. Cat food in hand. Of course, the dog food’s missing when it’s too stormy to whisk off to the grocery store. Every once in a while, the crazy kicks up a notch, and I’ll be left in a field blinking, wondering what happened to the peace and quiet the morning began with.
Such was the case in one of the more head-scratching moments of farm-life insanity.
Georgia had been raining for weeks. One of the most unusual summers we’ve ever had—nonstop downpours during a time when our creek usually dries out. The flowers were stunted, my mood just as dark and sullen as the skies, and every walk in the big field continued to knock my spirits down. Plenty of identifiable floral stalks, but not a single bud. Hundreds of dollars in planted seeds—seeds I feared had drowned beneath the endless rain. I wanted to sob.
Yet there’s never any time to do such things. Another storm was coming, and Niki needed help with chores to get safely inside. Damaging wind, hail, and possible tornadoes on the horizon.
The weather doesn’t care how much we hate what it’s doing to our farm—it will rage onward. We’re just along for the ride. We keep those spare ties to hold everything together. Nikolai, disappointed by the lack of warm lake swims and golden sunshine, was equally moody but trying to make the best of it. Scrambling to feed everyone, searching the house for a morsel of canine buffet before the flood, I glanced out the window and saw Niki scowling at a patch of ground.
Shirtless, belly sticking out, hands on his hips like a pint-sized farmer and eyes full of concern. My brain was already annoyed because time was of the essence, and it was being wasted. A convenience we don’t have. I sighed, slipped on my shoes since he’d stolen my boots—again—and stepped out the door.
He was already marching up the hill, briskly making his way across the gravel driveway, a scowl etched into his face.
“What are you doing? We have to hurry, kid. Where’s your shirt?”
“I forgot it—Mom, I have to tell you something.”
“How do you forget a shirt? Caspian’s hay is going to make you itch forever. Maybe even rash. Hidden spiders. Might even run into Frank. That’s a big no-no. Shirt. Now.”
“But Mom—”
“Now.”
With a huff, he stomped up the steps to do as I asked while I sorted through our list of responsibilities. Next thing I knew, he was running back out of the house—wearing half of a respectable outfit and the other half pajamas.
“Mom, you have to listen to me. I think Moose ate half a person.”
I laughed. Moose is old, gray, the lover of the farm. A friend to all things feline. The neighborhood kids’ favorite—a child nanny on four legs with a big grin.
“There’s no way that’s possible. What do you mean by half a person?”
“I found… legs,” he whispered.
“What kind of legs? A lot of animals have legs, bud—you know this. Chicken legs? We’ve seen those a million times.”
“I know what chicken legs look like, Mom. And it’s too big to be a possum. Definitely not an armadillo. Seriously. They’re huge, very long, and… there’s two of them.” His eyes—terrified.
Meanwhile, I was mentally preparing for a crime scene. Thinking back to the days prior, when a hint of death had caught on the wind—but I wasn’t sure where it had come from. Brushing it off, I had gone about my business. Running errands, managing the to-do list.
Now I couldn’t stop wondering—what exactly do you do if you find a pair of legs? I should call the police, right? Does that mean they’ll bring reinforcements? Finish off my seedlings by trampling my garden? Put a pause on the greenhouse build?
I gulped. How had Moose dragged home man legs?
Looking up at the sky, I ran through every technique people use to preserve remains without contaminating anything. I thought back to every crime novel and podcast I’d ever consumed. My brain came up empty. Only a mental image of horror—blood everywhere. I swallowed the fluid rising in my gut.
“Oh, and Mom? They’re… hairy and… attached.”
Attached?
Farm life has prepared me for many things, but this wasn’t one of them. I was already in a mood that morning after walking past one carcass—my summer snapdragons, torn apart by Ripley, our German Shepherd. I was still heartbroken, but this was a new level. Two legs. Not roots. LEGS. Hairy legs! I wanted to throw up.
“Where are they?”
“You can’t miss them, Mom. Just keep walking straight.”
Should I grab a bottle of water? Vomit messes up crime scenes, right? My DNA on attached hairy man legs—or woman? Women can have hairy legs too. God, please don’t let someone kill me before I’ve shaved all my girl parts.
I crept forward—slowly, cautiously, bracing for horror. Moose sat beside them, proud—like, I totally brought home this delicious prize, Mom.
Then I burst out laughing.
He wasn’t wrong. They were ridiculously hairy legs. Man legs? Debatable, since the rest was missing. Human? No—thank God. The deer they belonged to was probably part of a crime scene somewhere else though. Poaching this time of year is a no-no—especially on my land.
Nothing like a side of botulism for brunch.
Did I clean them up?
HA! No. I left them for my wonderful husband. Bless his heart. I’ve cleaned up more carcasses on our farm than I care to count. When Rob’s home—I save the dirty work for him. Moose only kills things that threaten our flock or things she believes don’t belong around us. She works hard for her scrambled eggs with cheese. She earns every sprinkle of cheddar.
The storm inched closer. The chores got done just before the downpour. And I ended up on the sofa smiling. A reheated cup of tea in hand. I skipped the podcasts, because the best crime scenes… are the kind I live through.
Only on a farm do you go looking for a corpse, find a pair of hairy deer legs, and still have to finish feeding the dogs before the tornado hits.
How I ran on the day I was lost—and the reason I never truly was.
I put my hand over my heart and begged it to stop rattling against my rib cage. Rain hammered my bare skin. The trees were suffocating me, and I was locked within them. If I stopped now, they would become my tomb. Strands of wet red hair clung to my face where salty tears mingled with the sky’s runoff. I was going to die.
Thorns and branches clawed at every inch of me, tearing tiny trenches that bled in beads. Wobbly legs carried me toward a break in the trees where I spotted an empty shoreline. Thunder rolled in the distance. Waves collided with the sand, frothing and swirling with rage. The last time I’d been here, sunlight kissed my cherry cheeks and a pink popsicle melted over my fingertips. My cousins laughed. My mom handed me napkins with a smile. This time, I was alone.
I gagged on sobs and sand, my breath clawing to escape. My mom was probably being told no one could locate me. I pictured her voice breaking as she screamed my name—fists clenched around the silence, unanswered. I imagined her describing the dress I wore. It had been beautiful this morning, delicate cornflower blossoms on white cotton. Now, it wouldn’t be recognizable. I’d used it to wipe away streaks of mud that painted my legs. I raked my hands across the hem, trying to scrape the grime from beneath my nails.
Earlier, I had twirled my way to the campground showers like a princess. But the longer I waited for my cousins to get ready, the more impatient I became. I ventured off toward camp alone—one trail led to another. Had I turned left? Right? Or gone straight? If I could just get higher… maybe I’d see a landmark, something to guide me.
I climbed a dune near the tide-worn slope, knowing full well my mom would be furious. It was against the rules to be out here by myself. But I made an exception—for life or death, rules bend. Even as the sand burned blisters into the soles of my feet, I refused to step into the waves. The climb was brutal. My legs finally gave out, surrendering to the pull of gravity and grit.
A jagged piece of driftwood sliced through my arch, staining the bark crimson. I screamed in frustration, my foot throbbing. I collapsed into the sand, letting the tears fall hot and fierce. Maybe some hiker would find my missing shoe, the one that got sucked into a mud pit. Or the other—the one I threw after failing to retrieve it. Maybe they’d find my body sometime after that.
Somewhere between the tears and the tide, I came unstitched from myself. The tiny speck of cotton and floral print among rolling dunes gave herself permission to cry—but not to quit. When the sun cracked through the clouds, she shaded her eyes with her fingers like a visor. There it was: a boardwalk stretching toward the woods. Relief escaped, wild and breathless. She still didn’t know how to get home, but she might find help.
She sprinted. The muddy dress flared behind her, torn and tangled. When she reached the planks, her stomach knotted tighter. She’d barely eaten breakfast. It was nearing lunchtime. The boardwalk snaked through an eerie marsh of stumps and skeletal limbs, but she forced her mind to stay focused. She laughed when a frog’s tongue shot out to catch a fly—and stuck to his own eyeball instead. He blinked, confused. She cackled harder.
Overhead, a seagull tucked its wings and dove through a seam in the clouds. It danced with the breeze and pierced the sky like a dart.
I bet he could see the way home… I wish I had wings like his.
I turned a corner—and froze. I wasn’t alone anymore. A man appeared on the path. Relief bloomed, then wilted. Something in his posture unnerved me. He tried to smile, but his pale eyes looked sharp.
“Where’s your mom?” he asked.
“I’m not sure yet,” I replied. Scrambling for words I could hurl like stones.
His body crept over mine, a position making my hair prickle.
“Catching up,” I said, pointing behind me.
My gut told me to run. So I did.
I ran until my chest felt full of splinters. I remembered how his eyes had lit up when he thought I was alone—and how they darkened when I hinted I wasn’t. That image gave me a second wind. I ran harder.
The boardwalk ended at a three-way dirt fork in the road, and no forestry signs to guide my next move. My stomach howled. Breakfast had been missed. The sky had dulled again, the path even more challenging to follow. I was out of energy. Hope was cracking under the weight of exhaustion.
Then I heard it. The roar of an engine.
A park ranger skidded to a stop on a four-wheeler. Relief poured over his face as he grabbed his walkie-talkie.
“I found her! I found her! Tell her mom I’m bringing her back!”
The static buzzed like a lifeline.
Through tears, I explained about the lost shoes, the beach, the mud. He patched up my feet while I talked. As he placed a sunshine-yellow sticker over the cut, he was the one who winced.
“The beach was cleared,” he said gently. “A boy your age drowned. Pulled under by the current. We tried to find him, but it was too late.”
He paused.
“When your mom heard the rumor that a child had washed ashore, she thought it might’ve been you. She was praying it wasn’t… even as she ran through camp trying to find you. We didn’t stop looking.“
He scooted forward and I climbed on behind him, arms wrapped around his waist. My legs dangled off the side, my fingers clenched tight. I rested my head on his back as we roared through the trees. My hair waved goodbye to the marsh. The dunes. And the girl who wasn’t left behind with the ghosts of the sea.
*You may remember this one, you may not. As I improve my skills, I go over my work to see if my voice is stronger *
Because cooking is hard, Pinterest is a liar, and my microwave just died of natural causes.
I have a confession.
A sad, broken microwave has been sitting on my kitchen floor for at least a month now. I’ve seriously considered making funeral arrangements. There may already be a eulogy typed up and tucked away on my desktop in a folder labeled Upload to Facebook. Every morning, I pass it like a fallen comrade on my way to make tea in its replacement—an equally doomed soul I’ll probably kill in six months. I’m hard on microwaves. It’s a known issue.
I’d like to be one of those crunchy moms—you know, the ones who only feed their kids organic food, make their own baby purées and granola, and wear “earth mama” linen with pride. Truth is, someone once added me to a Facebook group like that just because I’m vegetarian. I had no idea what a crunchy mama even was. The moment I figured it out, it was unsubscribe, unsubscribe, unsubscribe! Not a shred of guilt was shed.
I’m sure there’s a kombucha-brewing, free-range-egg-loving, apron-wearing whole-foods chef reading this right now, silently judging me through his sprouted almond milk latte. If OpenAI ever creates an in-house chef who’ll look inside my fridge and magically transform forgotten veggies into gourmet meals, I will personally Venmo them my entire grocery budget. No shame. Just send that baby next-day delivery. I’ll be the one at the door, cash in hand, yelling, “TAKE MY MONEY!”
Back before the internet was a fast-twitch muscle and we all had to dial up with a chorus of beeps and static, I once asked my mom if I could microwave a potato—poke holes in it like we did for baking, only quicker. She told me no, because she said it wasn’t possible. Not because it was the truth, but because she didn’t like them that way. She wanted the full 45-minute oven bake. So I believed her. For years. Never questioned it.
Then, in my twenties, I was watching my grandmother’s twelve-year-old adopted daughter for the summer. We were chatting about dinner and I mentioned wanting a fully loaded baked potato—but complained about how long those took to make. She stared at me like I had six heads.
“You know you can just… put it in the microwave, right?”
She blew my entire mind.
I immediately called my mom, outraged. My culinary innocence had been manipulated. She just laughed. Laughed. “Why didn’t you Google it?” she said, completely unbothered.
And that, my friends, is where the story begins.
One day, Pinterest blessed me with a glorious photo of freshly baked bread—golden, buttery, heaven incarnate. I called my best friend. “We have to make this.” We gathered the ingredients, filled a cart, and headed to her kitchen. I was extremely helpful. I floured my hands occasionally and patted the dough like I used to pat my son’s back when I burped him as a baby.
We needed a DIY broiler. The internet said a pan inside another pan with a lid could work. She had a glass one and assured me we’d be fine—if we were very careful. We set the timer, slid the precious loaf inside, and checked on it regularly like doting new parents.
Then came the smell.
When the scent of burning reached tear-inducing intensity, she grabbed the oven mitts and barked something about boiling water. I missed the full instruction. The Pyrex shattered. Loudly. It exploded with such drama, it sprayed glass from her oven all the way into the living room around the corner. It sounded like a crime scene gunshot victim.
My husband loves to tease me about “hiring her as backup” so he gets decent food. She now waves from her porch with a muffin tin in hand whenever we pass—God bless her. She’s been adopted as family now.
The other day, my son looked at me, serious as ever, and asked, “Do all moms cook for their husbands when the husbands are perfectly capable of doing it themselves?”
I laughed. “I’m not all moms. Don’t hold them to my standards.”
Which is exactly why, when the microwave died, I just stood there. Defeated. Nikolai looked up at me and whispered, “Are we going to die of starvation if Daddy doesn’t replace it?”
On our wedding night—yes, we slept inside the church—Rob and I woke up ravenous. We padded barefoot into the church kitchen and peeked inside the fridge.
Milk. Eggs. Bread.
“That’s it. We’re doomed,” I said, already grieving.
Rob laughed and made French toast. I was floored. French toast was something I believed only IHOP was licensed to make. He thought I was kidding—until the nervous laughter gave me away. He married a woman who could not cook. Not even toast. And I’ve defiantly burned water more than once.
But I learned. Eventually.
I still hate cooking, and Rob still asks if I’m making dinner every time he hears the smoke detector. But my kid will brag that I make better food than his dad. I’ve got a mean vinaigrette game, killer soups, heavenly desserts, and I can build a sandwich like an artist. As long as it takes under thirty minutes? I’m golden.
So no, I’m not the crunchy mom. I’m the tofu-nugget, splash-pad, microwave-eulogizing mama. I love salads because they’re refreshingly easy and taste delicious—not because someone told me they’re holy. And when I bring home a new microwave, I bless it with more hope than Pope Francis at Easter Mass.
Lord, give me the strength to endure when Nikolai comes running into the room to tell me he accidentally started a small fire inside it.
May this one outlive its ancestor regardless. May its spirit be strong. And may it heat my tea until kingdom come.
“You’re a healthy thirty-five year old woman with an anxiety problem.” I replayed that phrase from one of the doctors I saw as if it were a record. The comment was the catalyst in my desire to never step foot in an emergency room again. Especially after it was followed by, “I have actual sick patients to see.”
Despite my blood pressure being exceptionally high, I was told it was my own fault. The numbers were high because I checked them too often. Yet the primary reason why I checked my blood pressure… was because my chest felt as if it was in a vice.
The doctor smirked at me on my way out the door having almost forgotten to give me the potassium I needed. After pushing blood pressure medication through my IV moments earlier to help regulate my numbers… she was oblivious to the damage she had inflicted with her words.
Meanwhile, I could feel my body ramping up to an unknown event so I continued to seek help elsewhere. I sat down with my primary care physician to go over my list of bizarre symptoms… yet the more I talked, the more she looked like Bambi right before getting hit by a semi. Mouth agape, doe eyed, and pure terror.
She wrote up referrals to autoimmune specialists, neurologists, an ENT, and a cardiologist she swore was talented. I went to every appointment. I talked about my strange medical history. I discussed moments of confusion, tremors in my hands, vision loss, high blood pressure, chronic low-grade fevers that would come and go, flushing, chest pain, and a few other oddities like losing consciousness.
A short while later I started having severe vertigo. I spent three months being unable to drive because I kept passing out. I didn’t even bother going to the emergency room this time.
“You’re fine.”
“You’re healthy.”
“Try this medication.” The specialists said.
In the middle of grocery shopping on a gorgeous sunny day, I went from feeling content to unwell within moments. I was browsing the shampoo isle looking forward to a relaxing afternoon when my heart started hammering against my ribs. A feeling of unease washed over me. I lost part of my vision to flashing lights and huge black spots. I couldn’t see but even worse… as I attempted to find a safe space to wait it out, I couldn’t remember what kind of car I drove.
What color is it? What make is it? How do I get home? Where is home?
I spent two hours searching the parking lot… yet I couldn’t remember the vehicle I had been driving for over 6 years. I sat on the curb, buried my face in my hands and sobbed. The battery on my unlock key ring had died. The panic button didn’t work.
I knew it wasn’t normal, but I tried to rationalize it anyway.
I’m inching closer to forty. It’s probably stress. I’m fine. I’m safe. It’s probably anxiety. Deep breath. Get creative.
I typed “home” into my GPS as soon as I could see better and that’s what I used to find my way back. I told my husband about the vision loss, I told him I couldn’t find the car, but I also told him it was probably just an ocular migraine. I left out the feeling of confusion because I didn’t want him to worry.
I saw an eye doctor. I got a new pair of glasses. I continued moving towards my goals in life. Flower farming, being a mom, managing a household.
I passed out while sitting on my bed. It felt as if someone disconnected my brain. My vision went black, my ears were ringing and I flopped onto my back as quickly as possible. My wonderful husband was home for that one. The look on his face when I came-to had me agreeing to see specialists again even though I didn’t think they would be able to help me. I had my hearing checked for the second time. Everything came back clear again.
I narrowly avoided hitting my head when I passed out in our horse pasture. My face lifted towards the sun I couldn’t see, but I could feel the warmth on my body. The soft grass supporting my spine. When I came-to, I took a moment before getting up on wobbly legs.I finished watering the equine, tidied up the farm chores, and went back to the house to sleep it off.
Little episodes happened a couple times a week. I would feel a flood of unease and anxiety, my heart would race, my hands shook uncontrollably, blood pressure would skyrocket, then I would suddenly feel confused. Forgetful. I would stutter, loose my grasp on words. My brain felt foggy.
Strangers asked me if I was okay. I wasn’t. Random people said I didn’t look so good. I didn’t feel so good.
When discussing my reality, I told my husband whatever was happening would either kill me or become so serious it would be impossible to ignore. I was half joking when I said those words but they turned out to be dangerously true. I just didn’t realize it at the time.
“What’s your name?” The woman at registration asked gently.
“I don’t know.”
“Where do you live?”
“I can’t remember.”
I tried to search my mind. Who am I? I could visualize my farm in my head but I couldn’t remember my own name or where my farm was located. So I stood there until I started to cry.
“Do you know your social security number?”
“… No.”
When I finally recalled my name, I couldn’t remember how to spell it, so I pulled out my ID and I handed it to the hospital staff with my insurance information.
This time was so much worse. At around two or three in the morning I had an uneasy feeling slam me like a freight train. I watched videos on YouTube about overcoming anxiety.
“Remind yourself this feeling is temporary. You are in a safe place. Accept the feelings as they come but know they will pass.” The woman on the screen coaxed me. She was right. I wasn’t going to panic.
The feeling grew stronger, a sense of doom descended like a black cloud. I rolled out of bed to get a bottle of water. I hardly made it into the kitchen when my heart felt as if I was running a marathon. I began to sweat, I started panting and hit my knees to the floor.
Standing would be impossible so I crawled to the bathroom. I thought maybe if I threw up I’d feel better, or if I just used the restroom I’d be back to normal in time. Sitting on the throne with my pants around my ankles I remembered the video I had watched earlier.
I am in a safe place. Breathe. Stay calm. It will pass.
I hardly finished the thought when darkness encompassed me. The sound of my heart thumping in my ears. My vision was gone, like a light bulb burning out. My hearing vanished and I couldn’t move my limbs but I felt my face hit the floor.
My first conscious thought was that I either died or I was going to die. My second thought was the horror of someone finding me on the floor with my peach shaped rump in the air. I bet they would leave that out of the obituary… or maybe not.
LaShelle was found deceased, half naked next to the toilet. No one knows what happened to her but she is survived by her loving husband and the son who found her in such a precarious state of humiliation. Cue the sounds of wailing.
When I could see again, I assessed the damage. I softly touched my throbbing head, and discovered the fact that I lost all control over my bowels. Full on humiliation mode was short lived because bile began burning my esophagus. I yanked the towel off the rack behind the door just before projectile vomiting all over the floor.
I deserved a sweatshirt after this ordeal. A slogan along the lines of “Not even forty and already crapping herself.” I imagined it stained with horse slobber and covered in hay.
This time the episode was violent. Worse than it had ever been and I tried to decide if I should call someone or just clean myself up and go back to bed without telling a soul. What if I had been driving? What if Nikolai walked in? What if I didn’t wake up?
I dialed my husband’s number. I called Izzy to come get me once I had been coerced into going to the emergency room, and then I called my mom. The confusion set in pretty quickly.
“Hi LaShelle, I’m the neurologist on call for tonight. Can you tell me where you are?”
“The hospital?”
“Very good. Do you know what day it is?”
“… I don’t remember.”
“Do you know who the president is?”
The box of information in my brain was empty. I gave the doctor a blank stare.
I was in and out of sleep as they ran a series of tests. They put sticky tabs all over my head which connected to wires and ran to some kind of a computer. I didn’t have hope. All tests would be normal like it always was. I would probably be sent home within the hour. I was so confident, I told Nikolai not to worry. I said I’d be home in time to pick him up after school.
“Hello again LaShelle. I wanted to stop by your room to talk to you. I’m going to be your neurologist for the rest of your stay. All of your tests came back normal.”
“I knew it.” I thought bitterly. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“… Except one. Your brain scan showed abnormal brain waves. That means you’ve had a seizure. Has this happened before?”
“I’ve passed out before and I’ve been confused before.”
“I see. Well, we need to keep you here for observation okay? We’re starting you on some seizure medicine today and you need to know that you’re no longer allowed to drive for the next six months. Every time you have another one, it’s another six months of no driving. Alright? It’s the state law, we don’t want you to hurt yourself or anyone else.”
“I have seizures?” I sobbed. “You figured out what’s wrong with me? Thank you so much for giving me answers.”
I walked into the emergency room that morning not knowing who I was. Having been turned away by doctors multiple times (more than what was summed up here). The relief of knowing who I really am, was the most precious gift I have ever gotten.
It’s terrifying to face each day with uncertainty. To be unsure of how to manage symptoms alone and left wondering if things will get worse. Pushing myself to be a mom, a small business owner, and to work around the obstacles because not one medical professional was on my side.
It shouldn’t have taken so long to figure things out. We need to live in a world where doctors are held accountable for writing people off and mistreating them. Instead, they get paid regardless of service.
If I take my car to see a mechanic and they are unable to identify the problem, the mechanic doesn’t get paid. Yet so many of my doctor visit’s have ended with a five minute conversation, no tests, and a pat on the back to wish me luck. I still receive an outrageous bill afterwards that goes on my credit if it goes unpaid.
I am not a healthy (now almost thirty-seven year old) woman. I am a woman who was written off and belittled multiple times. Even though I have a kidney disease, a stomach disease, and have now been diagnosed with seizures. I could have died or worse yet… I could have hurt someone.
I don’t deserve to waste precious time questioning who I am, or my sanity. I shouldn’t have to defend myself to my physicians or beg them to listen to me when I’m paying them to fight for me. The next time I go through this, I’m walking out… and I hope you will too.
“Four generations, reduced to three.” The phrase kept replaying. Tears skipped down my face while I attempted to quiet trembling hands. I lugged the carry on bags over my shoulder and encouraged Nikolai to keep up.
Grief is a funny thing, it likes to bring back memories to intensify pain. “Do you remember when Niki asked you to book a flight so he could ride in an airplane?” Grief asked with a snicker. A scene of my son standing in the kitchen less than a week prior popped into my brain to twist the blade that was already impaling my heart. He wanted to go on vacation.
“This isn’t what either of us had in mind” I mumble to no one in particular.
I had tucked my laptop between bare essentials in my backpack but I couldn’t find strength to pull it out. Once we reached our terminal and finally settled in after boarding, I leaned back into my assigned seat on the airplane feeling hopeful sleep might come to me this time. It didn’t. Instead, an outline of the blog post I wasn’t ready to write was being narrated by an unknown force from within.
Four generations, reduced to three. What is it about holiday’s and tragedies? The day after I found out about my grandmother’s cancer… I scrounged up some change to buy my favorite tea to sip while I sat in the parking lot looking for flights. I ran into a wonderful friend of mine before I even made it to the counter. The look on her face told me something was wrong and I knew she needed to talk.
“The doctor found cancer in my uterus.”
Grief was laughing at me again. She could hardly get the words to leave her lips. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell her own children but somehow… she she chose to tell me. One of my best friends died of cancer on Christmas day last year. My grandfather also passed away around Christmas time. There I was connecting my cell phone to the coffee shop WiFi to book flights when an overwhelming sense of deja-vu slammed into me. All because another friend was sick and one of my favorite people seemed to be next.
I wanted to hug her close before leaving to soothe us both but she wouldn’t let me. The fear of breaking down in front of her employees weighed heavily. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I could keep it together myself. When I made my way back to my car I slipped into the drivers seat to sob where no one would see me. Life is unfair. As the minuets ticked by, I reminded myself that I would have to man up soon in order to relay the information about my grandmother to my son for the first time.
How do you explain the gravity of sickness and finality of death to a seven year old? Farm life taught me well but I still wasn’t prepared for this. I held my boy in my arms and listened to him gasp for air while his shoulders rattled against my rib cage as he wept. Who would I call when I couldn’t remember the list of ingredients to a recipe? Who would I talk to after having an argument with my mom? Who was going to be able to tell me stories about our family history?
She helped raise me when my mom was too young to be a mom. She kissed my skinned knees, taught me how to compost, instilled my love of roses and all things floral. I’ve watched her since I was a baby in the early morning hours just before sunlight graced the earth as she gingerly turned the pages of a well-worn leather Bible. She was the one who taught me the most about faith and forgiveness.
In my darkest hour when I had a brush with death, my grandma called me around two in the morning to tell me that I was in her thoughts and on her heart. She gave me sermons over the years not with words, but by the way she’s lived her life. Whenever she knew I needed comfort… I was given a front row seat to her private conversations with Jesus. My flight to see her was made so I could hold her hand before surgery in case I had to say goodbye.
I wanted to see her smile and hear her laugh more than I wanted to fly out for a funeral. Unfortunately, nothing brings out the worst in family quite like a crisis. A group chat between cousins, aunts, and uncles wouldn’t stop chiming with notifications from my cell. Petty arguments ensued about who knew her best, who was the closest to her, and how to handle her medical care. The saga overshadowed the gravity of the situation.
I woke up early to prepare the farm for my absence. I soaked feed buckets for Harlow (my horse), I threw extra hay to our donkey and I tossed plenty of scratch to fill the bellies of our flock. Rob (my husband) was making the drive home from another state to take over for me while I was gone. He had been fixing a life-flight helicopter when I told him I needed his help.
In the red beams of my vehicle’s tail lights, I tackled chores and tried to remind myself to breathe. Yet after loading luggage into the trunk, when I went to shut the gate… I heard a crunching sound. It didn’t take long to realize my cell phone had slipped into the pathway of the latch. All of my itinerary information, my contacts for traveling, and my banking apps vanished moments before I had a flight to catch. Pure panic set in.
Thankfully Nikolai had an emergency cell phone on hand which I was able to use in a pinch. The family bickering came to a halt and I like to think God knew I needed a break. Instead of reading messages that made my stomach churn, my focus was exactly where it needed to be… on seeing her.
Half asleep and standing on the curb outside the phoenix airport, my brother pulled us into a much needed bear hug. After a five hour layover and a full day of travel, Nikolai couldn’t keep his head from nodding off. We crashed on my big, little brother’s sofa. The next morning Austin (my brother) took us out for breakfast and replaced my cell phone with a shiny new one.
180 miles and one left turn until I finally set foot on the ranch my grandparent’s had built together. With nothing more than love and a dream it was encompassed by an eerie dense cloud of fog. I couldn’t help hearing echos of hoof beats from horses I once loved. I could almost smell the ripe tomatoes I use to pull off the vine inside my Papa’s greenhouse and feel the acidic juice as it dripped off my chin. I thought about the Rough Collies we raised and summers spent dodging monsoons. Four generations and the desert would probably reclaim the land we borrowed.
The small town hospital hardly looked like a hospital at all. We almost passed it up before turning into the parking lot. “She has three types of cancer.” The doctor said when I finally had a moment to speak with him. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat and process everything he was attempting to tell me.
A tumor in her abdomen, colon cancer, and a tumor near the main artery next to her heart. I stood outside her room trying to catch my breath. I hate the smell of sterile environments. Three kinds of cancer, three generations. My eye lids were puffy from sobs I couldn’t contain, my soul felt defeated, and all I wanted more than anything else was another ten years with her.
Being faithful requires the ability to put your fears away so God can carry them for you. While I was terrified, my grandma was filled with peace. She opened her Bible before surgery the same way she did every morning. She looked weak and frail but her spirit was full of strength. She wanted to live. She always told me that one of her big goals in life was to make it to her one hundredth birthday.
As a family we sat in the hospital cafeteria nervously playing board games while we waited for an update. Someone won, someone lost, and I couldn’t concentrate. I wanted to hide in my little house tucked away between mountains among the forest.
Sometimes the hopelessness in life gives you tunnel vision. When it’s too painful to hope for something better, you stop trying. You lean into what you think is inevitable and you miss the miraculous events unfolding before your eyes.
I was the second person to see her after surgery. I kissed her hands and bossed the nurses around to keep my beautiful grandmother comfortable. I made sure she had the best nausea medicine. I fluffed her pillows, filled a Styrofoam cup with ice chips, and wrote our phone numbers on the white board in case anything changed.
She was lively, her eyes were mischievous, and she laughed! The charge nurse slipped in to check on us. He was a balding man who called her “young lady” which made her scoff.
“I’m going to climb ALL the stairs in Bisbee.” She stated with a matter of fact.
The nurse looked to me with amusement. “Don’t you think you should try to heal first?”
“I will heal and then I’m going to live. I’m going to travel to see my kids and I’m going to hike the stairs in Bisbee. You don’t have to believe me, but I’m going to do it.”
“She’s not joking. She’s the toughest woman I know and she means what she says. She’ll do it.” I said with a smile.
Miracles happen all the time, even when it feels as if there is no way out. The surgeon who told us to expect the worst… removed all of the cancer in her body with the exception of the one near her heart. Not only is my grandmother recovering, she’s thriving and we get as much time with her as God will allow.
My friend at the coffee shop had a complete hysterectomy. Her tumor ended up being benign. Her wonderful children get to keep their mother and she didn’t end up in need of chemo or radiation treatments. She’s back to working part time while she recovers.
Miracles happen, sometimes you just need faith.
Notes from the Author:
A lot of things have happened in my life the past two months that forced me to put my blog on the back burner for a little bit. I had to prioritize my family, my friends, and my farm but I never gave up on writing. I had to give myself grace for not being able to do it all and handle one crisis at a time. I hope you’ll forgive me for being away so long! I’m still sorting out how to juggle things better and the more I write, the more you’ll understand why those things happen sometimes. I love my fellow bloggers so much. I can’t wait to get caught up with the friendships I’ve made here so I can nourish them again. All my love,
I’ll never forget the day Nikolai came home and asked me if I thought he was stupid. Tears were trickling down his cheeks, his mouth was twisted in emotional agony, and his sunshine blue eyes had turned into wells of pain. The mother bear within was ready to rip someone apart.
“Kids can be brutal.” I soothed as I gathered him into my arms and tried to hide bitter tears of my own.
The ride home had been filled with silence. I kept asking about his day but the set of his jaw spoke volumes. The moment we walked through our front door his words came tumbling out. I sat with him in my lap, little fingers curled around mine and listened for him to tell me the entire sordid tale.
Nikolai (Doodles as we call him) had been sitting at his desk, pencil in hand when the teacher asked him to write his name at the top of the page. His mind went blank. He began to fidget and get nervous.
“Don’t you know how to write your own name? What are you stupid or something?” His young classmate sneered as all eyes turned to look at him.
Nikolai froze. He didn’t know how to react. He just sat there gripping his pencil until his knuckles turned white.
“You ARE stupid! Who doesn’t know how to write their own name? Stupid people, that’s who!” The girl taunted.
Thankfully his best friend whispered into his ear “It’s okay Nikolai. I’ll do it for you.”
Unfortunately the damage had been done and the little girl began to make every day a nightmare from that moment on. She called him names, singled him out, humiliated him, and alienated Nikolai from his classmates. Meanwhile, I wrote his teacher on a regular basis in an attempt to resolve it. His seat was moved somewhere else in the classroom… but nothing helped. My happy bubbly boy was being pulled into depression.
I spent most mornings begging him to go to school. I gave him pep talks and let him take a stuffed animal with him so he wouldn’t feel alone. He carried a stuffed fox lovingly called Foxy everywhere he went. Yet the boy who normally never meet a stranger began to have trouble making friends. Eventually he stopped trying and I grew increasingly concerned. He was sad constantly.
“Please mom, please don’t make me go. I hate school. I really don’t want to go. I don’t feel safe. Kids hate me.”
I would sit in the car, put my face in my hands and cry about forcing him to be there. I had meetings with the principal, I took him to do as many fun things as possible but nothing made an impact. More than being bullied, Nikolai had been struggling to learn. I knew in the depth of my soul that my son had a learning disability. No matter how many times his teacher and I went over words and letter sounds, the boy wasn’t grasping them.
Second grade came and brought new beginnings… but the battle ground was much of the same. More bullies and the struggle to learn was forever present as it hung like darkness over his head. Outside our favorite park one afternoon, my husband had a conversation with our son about our farm animals and their mutual desire to get another dog. Our beautiful Moose has been living in her golden years. She’s gray around the muzzle and we give her pain medicine for arthritis. She is forever the light of our lives since we rescued her from the Humane Society in Atlanta (long before we moved to our little farm in the woods).
Tallulah is my service dog. She loves to play with Nikolai but she gets overly excited and her size sometimes knocks him over. While they’re two peas in a pod… Niki isn’t allowed to feed her or walk her. Tulla’s job lies in helping me monitor my health and she takes it seriously.
Nikolai wanted a dog. The more I thought about it and the struggles my son had been enduring… the more I got on board. Plus, I was outnumbered two to one! I spent a good amount of time researching because it’s not easy for a dog to fit into the established crew on our farm. The right dog needed to be outgoing but friendly. They would need to be able to get along with Moose and Tallulah, while learning to live around chickens and livestock.
Most of all… the right kind of dog needed to be small enough for an (almost) eight year old boy to handle but have a big enough personality to be a best friend for life. All of which is a rather tall order for a dog. It took a lot of internet browsing on my computer at the local coffee shop to find somewhere to take Nikolai to look for a dog while checking off our primary requirements.
When my husband and I picked Nikolai up from school, we didn’t tell him where we were going. The winding mountain drive to Blue Ridge forced us to squash his questions about our plans for the afternoon under the premise that we needed to run some errands (which wasn’t a lie). Since we had already agreed to get him a dog, Nikolai sat in the back seat excitedly discussing how he had told his entire class.
It wasn’t until a little pal named Einstein came across my Facebook feed which put the Humane Society of Blue Ridge Georgia on my radar. The almost all white dog looked similar to a baby Yoda with his cocky little ears. He was too cute to pass up an introduction. The bonus being H.S.B.R had a couple of other dogs for us to see as well (just in case).
“Are we at a doctor’s office?” He asked when we pulled up outside a red brick building. His small face etched in confusion.
“Lets go inside and find out. Tell the lady at the desk that you would like to meet Einstein.” I smiled feeling a little tearful.
The beauty of looking for a forever friend is keeping an open mind. Sometimes the dog you have your heart set on or imagine yourself with… isn’t the one that’s right for you. Einstein wasn’t a good fit for Nikolai. He was fearful, and nervous after having been abused by kids. Although Niki loved him right away… it was clear to me that Nikolai wasn’t what the sweet guy needed. It took some convincing on my part but Doodles agreed to meet the second contender… a scrappy six month old pup the Humane Society lovingly named, Dunn.
From the moment this large eared, funny faced little dog walked into Nikolai’s life… it was as if the two of them were made for one another. He bounced his way into Niki’s arms, licked his jaw and Nikolai erupted into a fit of giggles.
“This is my dog!” Nikolai proclaimed proudly, and as if he always had been Nikolai’s dog… the two of them walked to our car together.
On the playground after school, Nikolai was surrounded by children. His puppy (who never meets a tiny human he doesn’t like) had his stubby tail going wild. Kids were laughing, wiping slobber off their palms and cheeks, while Nikolai’s wing-man helped him make more friends than he knew what to do with. The tough days he had at school were meet with kind eyes and a playful gesture when he came home.
The nightmares about the man who broke into our house, were soothed by having this little dog rest beside him. Nikolai isn’t afraid to be alone in his bedroom anymore which is exactly what I was hoping for. He isn’t afraid of the dark anymore either because if something is amiss… his partner will let him know.
The learning disability may always be there. I myself have struggled with dyslexia since I was young. Yet the burdens people face in life aren’t quite as heavy when they have a friend to share it with. There’s something spectacular about dogs… they are capable of loving unconditionally. It doesn’t matter what you look like or what you struggle with, they only care about who you are as a person.
As I sat scribbling down notes for a blog post… Nikolai asked me to brainstorm names for his (at that moment) future dog. I thoughtfully suggested that we call his new friend-to-be Scribbles. He pondered for a moment, and with a huge grin… exclaimed that Scribbles was perfect (and he was).
Notes from the author:
* Scribble’s introduction to Tallulah & Moose, and the rest of the farm couldn’t have gone any better. All three dogs are the best of friends.
* Apologies for not being on time with my post this week, I skipped last week because it was my birthday, and I was late this week because Niki gave me a cold virus from school. I’ll be back to posting regularly on Tuesday’s at 10:00 AM this next week. Thanks for being patient with me!
* If you haven’t seen the post my friend Jen from BosssyBabe did about me and my little farm blog… you’re missing out! I answer a ton of questions about how I got to where I am, why I write the way I do, and what drives me. Take a moment to stop by and check her out plus… her blog is down right incredible so read some of her other posts as well. She’s one of my favorites!
Nikolai, Moose, and two of our six cats Tetley the calico, and Mousey the tuxedo Moose & Scribbles on our morning walksTallulah & Scribbles passed out after an hour long play session The day Scribbles & Nikolai became partnersA bright future & an autumn walk Watching me scribble blog notes while waiting for his kid to get home from school.
I couldn’t sleep. When I did sleep I found myself dreaming about strange things and when I woke… it was before my six thirty AM alarm. I heard a sound I couldn’t place and discovered not everything in my dream had been locked inside my mind. Was it coming from the roof?
I blinked several times to try and wake myself up. It had been raining for days so perhaps the sound was radiating from the trees. Sometimes water collects on leaves until it’s too heavy to hold. Branches bow and fat droplets make crazy noises when hitting shingles. It didn’t really didn’t sound like that though. More like banging… or gnawing. A shiver shook me from head to toe.
Barn cats playing above my head? Sometimes they get a mischievous glint in their eyes during witching hour. They tear across the pasture, sink claws into bark and shimmy their way up to chase one another on top of my house. If I were to guess… I would say something was trying to eat it’s way- in. I was wide awake now.
I ran outside wearing only an over sized sweater, tiny pink shorts, and my muck boots. Wild red hair piled and knotted atop my head. Thankfully I have hardly any neighbors because even astronauts would have been blinded by my white chicken drumsticks for legs. I grabbed a handful of rocks and launched them (rather poorly) at my own house. I missed and nearly hit a window instead.
When I came back inside everything was silent again. Nothing but a rush of cold air blowing from my vents. So I breathed a sigh of relief, kicked off my boots, and tip-toed back to bed. I was asleep for less than half an hour and the devil was back. This time the gnawing was so loud, it seemed to shake my bedroom wall. I shot into a sitting position, ice blue eyes flaming with anger and rimmed in red.
I thought about the squirrel who lives inside a massive crimson maple. He once lectured me in his accusatory squeaky tone for stepping into his domain. Right before the little jerk chucked a half eaten acorn. I had been trying to refill water buckets for animals on my farm and that stupid acorn nailed me in noggin. He had much better aim than I did.
“Hey! I have to live here too you know!” I yelled as I rubbed the lump forming on my head.
“That seriously hurt!” He didn’t care.
I wondered if squirrels could eat through the roof of a house. I grabbed my cellphone and propped it up in the window where (If I was lucky) I could get one bar of service. The page loaded and I almost woke Nikolai up when I squealed in delight. After clicking on the most relevant link to my question, I learned squirrels can indeed eat through the roof on a house. This was not great news for someone who lives on eleven plus acres- in the woods- surrounded by squirrels.
The gnawing continued but it didn’t sound like it was coming from the roof anymore. It sounded like it was in the wall… or in my bathroom. I shoved my feet into my slippers, slid down the hallway, and paused at the threshold. What if I find it? What will I do then? My 22 caliber firearm was out of rat-shot. I didn’t have a bat or a golf club handy (Rob doesn’t even play golf) and the nearest shovel was laying somewhere in the garden. I am so screwed.
I decided against opening the bathroom door until I could get some advice. So, I located my cellphone and called my husband for backup. The call went to voicemail but I tried again. His sleepy voice was finally coming through the speaker on my phone and it gave me an instantaneous feeling of relief. Surely he would have some insight into my dilemma.
“It’s probably just a mouse.” He lectured.
“It’s definitely not that.” I stated firmly.
“Well, why don’t you just grab a frying pan or something?”
“A frying pan? Seriously?”
“Well, that’s what I would do. Hit it over the head.” I could hear him shrugging his shoulders.
“I think it’s coming from underneath the bathtub” I whispered frantically.
“Just pry up the sealer around the tub, stick your hand in there and figure out what it is.”
“What kind of advice is that?”
“Use your bad hand. You can lure it out with your broken finger. It doesn’t function well anyway.”
“Are you crazy? Stick my hand in there… you’re as useless as tits on a bull.” He roared with laughter but I was livid.
“Trust me. It’ll work.”
“Trusting you is how my middle finger became permanently screwed up in the first place. I don’t need a side of rabies to go with it.”
“Hey, you called me remember? This is the advice you get when you wake me up at three in the morning.”
I hung up the phone and walked back to bed. Nothing was going to get resolved tonight. I pushed a pillow over my ears to muffle sounds of my house disintegrating in the devil’s jaws.
When my alarm finally sang to wake me up again, I had a sharp pain radiating within my skull. The house was silent… but it didn’t last long. I got Nikolai ready for school while I scooped up his backpack. Yet right before dogging thunderstorms to get to the car, we nervously held hands near the mouth of hell so I could take a video recording.
Thankfully my husband isn’t the only person I call for advice. My friend Heather almost always has a creative solution for farm situations. I sent both her and my husband the video recording and waited for a response.
A ping sounded off after I had pulled back into my driveway alone. I fished through the contents of my handbag to locate the source. Two notifications flashed across the screen, a text from Rob, and a missed call from Heather.
Rob: “You’re right. That’s definitely not a mouse. That thing sounds like a bear.”
Me: “I told you!”
As I returned Heather’s call, I was pacing the length of the farm. Kicking rocks and dreading another sleepless night. I had days left before Rob could make it home. This had to be resolved now.
“It could be an armadillo, or a gopher rat.” She suggested.
“Awesome! I love armadillos and rats the size of cats.” I quipped sarcastically.
“Mmm leprosy, the health crisis I always wanted!”
Heather’s advice involved a large quantity of rat poison. I grabbed a screwdriver and scraped along the edge of the tub to remove the caulk. My fingers trembled but I managed to make a small hole. Using the tip of the tool I carefully pushed the delicious treat into position. Some dangerous contents broke apart and sent powder peppering my leggings and arms while I worked. Praying I stuffed enough in there to entice the beast, I stripped myself of clothing.
After cleaning up and washing my hands six or seven times (the packaging said to handle the product with gloves I didn’t have and to avoid getting it on my skin… whoops), I sat on the sofa in my living room to wait. I listened intently, typed on my laptop, and stared at my opening paragraph. My eyes nearly crossing out of exhaustion, I gave up and closed the screen. I decided a nap was in order and had stretched out to get comfortable.
Until I heard it… enjoying a morsel. I picked up my cup of tea feeling warmth radiate from within. A smirk played at the corner of my lips as I sent the creature to another kind of hell. The kind that lasts eternal. Eat up little devil, don’t you miss a crumb now.
As I held Nikolai in my arms later that night, I listened to his rhythmic breathing. The crickets serenading the two of us to sleep. The bull frogs croaking in the creek, as I slept poetically deep. As for The Devil… lets just say he didn’t make a peep.
I belong to a family of travelers. Midnight drives across the United States, watching sunbeams dance over a dew logged windshield as morning light graces the horizon. Waking up sometimes at two AM because our rickety car was bouncing across uneven roadways… it was a big part of my childhood.
My mom or my grandfather would turn to look at me as I rubbed sleep from my eyes. Attempting to make sense of where I had laid my head previously and trying to comprehend my new reality. Surrounding scenery engulfed in darkness at times.
My mom would say something like “Oh good! You’re up! Guess where we’re going?”
She would toss her head back to laugh over my confusion. Yet it was all so enchanting, not knowing what was to come. My childhood of travel is why Nikolai has crossed so many states off his list. It makes coming home sweeter instead of being taken for granted. In his (now) young seven years of life, he has been to at least 25 States.
While browsing news articles one evening, I read about a magical balloon race starting in Helen Georgia and reaching all the way to the Atlantic. At two hundred and twenty five miles it was deemed as being one of the best long distance balloon races in America. When I laid eyes on the advertisement I knew Nikolai needed to experience it for himself.
Late one Wednesday evening in May, I booked a hotel, packed our vehicle, and buckled four-year-old Nikolai into his seat. I slid my body behind the wheel and smiled back at him. His sweet little face was full of confusion. His eyes asking questions his lips hadn’t caught up to.
“Guess where we’re going?” I asked with a giggle
He hadn’t a clue. Just my boy and I set off to see spectacular things. We lugged belongings into our assigned hotel room with bags of snacks spilling out onto the red carpeted floor. I tucked him into bed, kissed his forehead with a promise of adventures to come in the morning. We skipped winding down over a glowing television screen for going to bed early and yet we barely slept a wink. Our exhaustion was evident when we missed our first wake-up alarm. Yet before the sun, we rose to greet the day. Slipped our shoes on and grabbed breakfast to take on the road. Nikolai’s little legs did a jig all the way to his surprise encounter.
Our car weaved around mountains. Patches of gold and pink fog billowing into the valley as I asked him which items he would take if he were setting out on a hot air balloon trek rather than watching it. Water, Snacks, binoculars, a picture of daddy (since he was working), and mommy would come with of course! My camera nestled into the passenger seat nearly slid to the floor as an idea for a photograph blossomed in my head.
We walked a winding blacktop following crowds of visitors. Birds fluttering about, having been disrupted of their routine. A nature path through woodlands opened to a grassy field full of baskets. Tipped balloons were graced with fire breathing contraptions. Nikolai’s eyes were wide in anticipation of lift off. Children held hands and ran through the meadow careful to stay out of the way. Pick-nick blankets covered fresh earth where families sat cross legged together. The scene similar to something I saw in film somewhere.
Tiny pests were waved away from morning meals in frustration and people of all nationalities held their breath. When the first balloon lifted, cheers erupted. Loud clapping and well wishes echoed through the forest. As I am terrified of heights, my fingers laced into sweaty fists. I couldn’t imagine seeing beautiful things from their advantage but I also couldn’t grasp how to avoid falling out of such a flimsy restraint.
I pictured myself dropping out of the blue sky and landing on someone’s house while mentally adding a parachute to my own personal list. If I was setting out on such an epic adventure, I would take my camera, my journal, chocolate (to calm a panic attack), several parachutes, my husband (someone has to help make flight repairs), and of course… my son. I’d also low-key kidnap (but later return) a therapist and pocket a large bottle of Xanax to swallow with my bottled water.
I doubt all of those things would even fit. Where would we go pee? While I love adventures, I am happiest watching ones that involve great heights from somewhere on the ground while cheering for those who are braver than myself. I couldn’t imagine getting caught at the mercy of a storm. Thunder and lightening wouldn’t make very good neighbors. I prefer to enjoy them from a location of safety.
We stayed until the last balloon lifted to the heavens. I sighed in contentment and folded our throw blanket over my arm. Nikolai put his tiny hand in mine, and I traced his fingers as we walked to our car. We got to see the balloons suspended over German architecture. We enjoyed cobble stone streets, listened to a rushing river, and grabbed lunch at a nearby cafe.
I ordered a hot cup of tea while Nikolai pocketed rocks he found along the way. When my husband and I visit Helen by ourselves, we sit along the river and look for heart shaped rocks to bring home to our boy. Nikolai likes to set them in odd places around our farm and throughout his bedroom. It’s a little tradition we do almost anywhere we go (but especially when visiting Helen).
When I asked my husband what he would bring if he came with us, he conveniently left out bringing any kind of tools what-so-ever. We had an amazing conversation about plunging to our deaths, hoping for the best, and panicking afterwards. He’s forever the rock when everything is on fire but quickly falls apart when life is back to some sense of normalcy again. I think it has a lot to do with his time spent as a soldier. That therapist on board would sure come in handy.
When we pulled into our driveway at home, Nikolai ran to his room to dig through his toy box. He grabbed his flight jacket, his flight goggles, and his pilot’s hat. Maps were drawn out of crayons, Moose (our farm dog) was forced into being a copilot, and together they flew past chickens who clucked their intense disapproval.
A long pink tongue rolled out of Moose’s mouth, but there was joy found in her eyes. Doodles (short for Doodle Bug, also known as Nikolai) was so worn out from the day’s activities he fell asleep early. Long lashes against soft peach skin and cupid bowed lips were slightly agape as he rested in a heap of blankets. A pilot’s hat still pulled down over his face and one arm draped over Moose’s belly.
Name 5 must-have essentials you might take on a long hot air balloon race! Are you adventurous? Do heights freak you out too? Could you guess what your spouse might bring? Let me know your thoughts in the comment section below.
This image was shot in sections and blended together. The background was shot with a GoPro at sunset, the balloons were shot on race day individually, and Nikolai was photographed at home on our farm. Nikolai & MooseTwo best friends ❤️
He had a cocky smirk on his face when our eyes meet, almost like a child who got caught stealing from a cookie jar. Crowds of kids swirled on and off between us. Instinct declaring upon a single glance I would be burned alive, yet oxygen was fueling the flames inside my veins. Ignore it my head sang but it was too late, I couldn’t tear myself away.
How does a chance encounter end up laying the foundation to something extraordinary? What are the odds of meeting the one person who could derail all of the plans I had so carefully crafted? At an event I wasn’t supposed to addend no less.
Yet there he was, with a grin permanently plastered across his face. As if he had already won the war even though my stubborn nature was still trying- failing to rebel. My cheeks flushed poppy pink. I could barely make out the shape of my own hand let-alone guess the trajectory which this night would take us. Glow sticks were waved into the air as school advisors cranked fog machines to max capacity.
When the cloud cleared, he was in the middle of awkwardly peeling another girl’s hands off his body. Wait a minute… how dare she? Yet he was still looking at me. I lifted my chin to meet his gaze while heat crept up my spine. The girl was persistent. Her hands balled into fists which gripped his T-shirt as they danced even though he was becoming exacerbated with her. So, I squared my shoulders, waltzed over, and I cut between them to take what was mine…just as the beat was getting good.
“You looked like you needed rescuing” I mused into his ear.
“I’m so glad you stepped in to save me.” His voice sounded husky.
He was exactly a foot taller than me. Lean, with brown eyes which turned to gold in the flash of a strobe light. His dark hair curled a little on the ends and he had to hunch over to meet my small frame. Something between us felt perfectly clear as we danced our way towards curfew.
“What’s your name?” He asked but I could hardly hear.
“You can call me Lish.”
“Trish?”
“No. L-I-S-H.” Confusion furrowed his brow.
“My name’s Rob.” He said, and I was left feeling spellbound encompassed by his arms.
Outside glossy gymnasium doors, the teachers had hauled tables from the cafeteria. We grabbed water bottles out of ice chests which were provided and re-hydrated before heading home for the night. If I had been less naive, I might have noticed he was rather inebriated. Instead, I handed him a slip of paper containing the phone number he had asked for, and hoped he would call. To this day we’re convinced he accidentally used it to smoke a joint.
Freshmen year of high school Rob had been an honor roll student who spent the summer playing football. He was in band, taught himself how to read music, and played several different instruments. He tried out and made it onto the swim team. He won second place in the state for a math competition, even though his calculator broke less than halfway through it. While everyone else had the advantage, Rob tackled equations in his head. He was smart, driven, and accomplished.
By sophomore year none of his achievements measured up to the allure of spending time with the wrong people doing the kind of things which got him into trouble. Rob and his friends ran from the cops after being clocked going far above the posted speed limit. Rather than face jail, his brilliant idea was to lose the tail by sneaking into a subdivision and parking in a stranger’s driveway. He forgot to take his foot off the brake and was caught over the glowing lights that bounced off the pavement.
It should come as no surprise after searching his jean pockets the following day, the phone number I gave him at the dance was nowhere to be found. It also shouldn’t come as a shock when I was told by a mutual friend about Rob’s more wild behavior, I decided I wasn’t interested anymore. The spark of electricity between us was quickly snuffed out by my stubborn nature and refusal to settle.
The following Monday Rob looked for my face throughout the hallways at school. Yet when I was finally located, I turned on my heel… to head in the opposite direction. There was no way I was getting sucked into making the same mistake twice. He assumed I was angry because he never called.
When the new class schedules were handed out the following semester, I showed up to P.E prepared to do whatever it took to avoid exercising. I waltzed into the weight room and ran right into Rob. His body towered over mine and his mouth was wearing that smile again.
On the track, we were manipulated by our teacher into running for a passing grade. I pulled my hair into a ponytail and stretched out my hamstrings even though I planned to jog at a walking pace. I linked arms with one of my girlfriends out of solidarity and when the whistle blew… we practically crawled towards the finish line.
“Hey Trish!” Rob shouted.
“If you can’t bother to remember my name… you and I are not on speaking terms.” I quipped.
Using his long legs and height to his advantage, he embarrassingly sprinted from one classmate to another.
“Do you know what the redheaded girl’s name is? I need to know so I can get her to talk to me.”
By the time he had it figured out, he had already lapped me and was running backwards with his hair blowing in the breeze. There was a glimmer in his eyes and a wicked smile crept across his lips as he faced my direction.
“I’m going to convince you to go out with me Lish.”
“Over my dead body.” I laughed with conviction.
Seventeen years of marriage, eighteen years together, and over twenty years of friendship. I still can’t believe that he talked me into it. Waking to find his fingers tangled in my hair and his lips covering mine, taking walks together on rainy days, and kissing underneath streetlamps. There is nothing more enchanting than strolling through this messy life with his hand in mine.
Happy anniversary week to us!
Taken by my amazing friend Chris Hansen of Rob and I on our horsesA picture of us when we were living in Germany visiting my favorite castle (Burg Eltz)The two of us dancing at a friend’s wedding Is it just me or is it getting a little steamy?! Our first wedding ceremony when we were just babies. I was 18 and Rob was 19.My Soldier and I Rob headed back to a war torn Afghanistan
I put my hand over my heart, and I begged it to stop rattling against my rib cage. Rain was hammering my bare flesh. The trees were suffocating me, and I was locked within them. If I stopped now, they would be my tomb. Strands of wet red hair clung to my face where salty tears mixed with freshwater raindrops. I was going to die.
Thorns and branches tugged at my limbs. They scraped my skin until pebbles of blood pooled along the surface. Wobbly legs led to a break in the forest where I could see an empty beach. Dark thunderclaps rolled in the distance. Waves broke along the shore, swirling and frothing with rage. The last time I was here the sun was kissing my cheeks. A cold pink popsicle melted over my fingertips and ran down the length of my arm. My cousins laughed and my mom handed over napkins with smile. This time, I was alone.
I gagged on the sobs I tried to contain as vomit threatened to burn my throat. My mom was probably being told that no one could find me. I imagined her pouring her heart into her hands as she screamed my name. I’ll bet she was giving people a description of the dress I was wearing. It had been so pretty this morning, with delicate blue flowers printed on white cotton. It wouldn’t be recognizable now. I used it to wipe away mud that was smeared up my legs. I raked my hands across the hem to unpack the grime from underneath my fingernails.
I had twirled my way to the campground showers like a princess. Yet the longer I waited for my cousins to finish getting ready, the more impatient I became. I decided to venture off towards the direction of the campsite on my own when one path turned into another. Had I gone to the left or to the right? Or maybe straight? If I could just get up higher… to see where I was, then perhaps I could find my way back.
I climbed a dune near the beach knowing that my mom would be furious. It was against the rules to be out here alone. Although I wasn’t normally a rule breaker, an exception was made in my mind for life and death situations. Yet the water would remain off limits even as the hot sand burned blisters into the bottom of my feet. The task to reach a higher perspective was daunting, and my leg finally gave out from underneath me.
A twisted piece of driftwood sliced through my arch and blood stained its bark crimson red. I screamed in frustration, my wound, throbbing. I sat back on my bottom with a hard thump so I could have a good cry. A random hiker might find the shoe that got sucked into the mud pit. Or maybe they would find the one I threw out of anger when I couldn’t get mud-pit-shoe out of the hole it sank into. I wondered if they would locate my body sometime after that.
Using the back of my hand, I dried my tears. I was a tiny speck of blue and white among miles of rolling sand mounds. I would allow myself to cry but I wasn’t allowed to give up. When the sun broke through the clouds, I shaded my eyes by using my fingers like a visor. A boardwalk path leading back into the woods could been seen in the distance and I whooped for joy! I still didn’t know how to get home, but I might be able to find help. I sprinted and the mud smeared dress swirled torn and tangled behind me.
When I reached the path, the knots in my stomach cinched tighter. I had barely touched breakfast and it was nearly lunch time now. The walkway wound through an eerie marsh lined with stumps and dead limbs, but I tried to keep my mind focused. I giggled when a long tongue darted out from the muck to catch a fly but stuck to the frog’s green eyeball instead. The creature looked confused and wiggled his mouth a little which made me laugh even harder.
A seagull, suspended in flight tucked its wings against its body. It danced with the breeze at a dizzying speed. Through moody storm clouds and patches of sunlight it dived headfirst into the wind.
I bet he could see my way home… I wish I had wings like his.
I rounded a corner to find myself no longer alone with the frog, the seagull, and my thoughts. A stranger materialized and for a moment I was relieved that I might be saved. I wanted desperately to tell someone that I was lost. Yet the voice in my head told me that he was untrustworthy. He tried to appear friendly, but his blue eyes struck me as menacing as he squared his shoulders with mine.
“Where’s your mom?” He asked and I groped for words to wield like a weapon.
“Catching up to me.” I stammer and point in the direction I had come from.
I have the sudden urge to run, so I do. I carry myself as far away from the stranger as I can. When I am out of breath, I think about how his eyes brightened when he thought he caught me out here alone and how they darkened when I pointed to where I wished my mom would have been. It gives me a second wind to pace myself so that my legs can pump even harder in case the man tries to catch up to me.
The boardwalk ended at a dirt road and a three-way junction. I didn’t know where else to go from here. My stomach roared with hunger. The sun tucked itself behind the clouds again so I could barely stay on the path. I was exhausted. My resolve to hold onto hope was weakening with every step. Then I heard something. The rumble of an engine. A man wearing a park ranger vest on the back of a four-wheeler was coming for me. His vehicle skid to stop and relief floods his expression as he shouted into a walkie-talkie that he yanked off his belt.
“I found her! I found her! Tell her mom that I’m bringing her back to camp now!” The static was electrifying.
Through tears of relief, I explained how I lost my shoes. As he doctored up my blisters, I talked about making my way to the beach to look for help only to find it empty. The ranger winced as he applied a sunshine yellow sticker to the cut on my foot. His kind face was contorted into a grimace as he told me that the beach was empty because a boy my age had drowned.
He had been ripped away from his family by an undercurrent. Search and Rescue had been on the water trying to locate him and they cleared the beach, but it was too late. When my mom heard a rumor circulating camp that a missing child had washed up dead on the beach, she thought that the kid might be me. She spent the hours I was missing praying that it was someone else’s child as she searched the campground trying to find me.
The ranger scooted forward and tucked me safely behind him. My legs suspended around the seat; my fingers griping so tightly that my knuckles turned white. I rested my head on the strangers back as we flew through the forest. Myhair waving goodbye to the marsh, the dunes, and the boy I could have been.
Every year three to four people drown in Lake Michigan at or near the Indiana Dunes State Park. Men, women, and children have disappeared. One boy fell through a sand dune never to been seen again, and police in the area are still looking for three women who went missing on a beach full of out-of-state visitors.
While there have been other times throughout my life when I have gotten lost, I’ll never forget how lucky I was to be found that day. In moments when my health has tried to drown me, or in instances where I’ve felt like I couldn’t find my way, I remind myself to keep moving forward. As my grandfather use to say, “If you don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t know where you are…put one foot in front of the other.”
Earth chunks soared over my shoulder. Some fell short only to land onto my itchy scalp. My shirt was soaked all the way through, my jeans… pressed so tightly against my skin that in order to remove them, they had to be peeled below my hips. Once I tossed the last of the carnage into the compost pile, I am rewarded by sinking into a hot lavender bath. I can almost taste the icy bottle of water that I left in the freezer before it’s pressed against my sun kissed lips. It only takes about an hour for me to get the job done because I am determined to get it over with.
The war on weeds is my biggest gardening frustration to date, yet I feel so empowered and satisfied when I’ve finished the task. I wait until the sun begins to set after a small rainstorm has loosened the soil and then… I attack! I rip unwanted stems out by the head and dig for their roots with my hands until the muscles in my legs feel too wobbly to keep me in a squat position. Sweat pours from my brow and my hair lacks luster when I’m done, but tiny red curls form at the nape of my neck.
The long-term reward of weeding around all the beautiful things in my garden is spying brand-new buds on my camellias the next morning. Eagerly waiting for my dahlias to make their appearance and having the room I needed to tuck new blooms into the paradise I have created with my own two hands. I use the hose to fill up my mud smeared watering can, and then I take a little walk clutching a pair of nippers against my chest.
Stormy and Waddles, (our ducks) are usually taking a stroll as well. I typically need to wave them away from my vegetables or they will use them as an all-you-can-eat buffet. Sometimes I’m forced to chase them off because they like to crush my flowers as they walk and nibble leaves and petals off my blooms. During our big family trip this summer, I received a call from one of my best friend’s informing me that Waddles wasn’t a drake (a male duck) like I had originally suspected.
Waddles had laid a clutch of eggs near Stormy and the two ducks were terrorizing my farm sitters. The girls were determined to have babies, but I didn’t have a drake old enough to provide them with fertilized eggs. This problem also caused havoc for Harlow (our big black and white paint) and Caspian (our miniature donkey). While trying to eat their feed, Stormy and Waddles would launch themselves at the equine and horrify them by nipping at their hooves. It was hysterical to watch the boys retreat to a corner of the pasture and eye the ducks suspiciously out of fear for their lives. Two large animals at the mercy of two angry females.
Izzy (my daughter of sorts) made a wonderful suggestion. She recommended buying some baby ducks and in the cover of darkness, to swap the duck eggs in exchange for ducklings. This way the girls get the babies their hearts desired, and the little ducklings get the mothers they never had. So, I went to Tractor Supply, and I carefully selected and bought four tiny, orphaned puffballs. I had never witnessed an adoption like this before and I couldn’t wait to see the outcome.
I sat on a log nearby and watched the shadows in the forest grow longer. I listened to the chuck-will’s-widow and heard an owl shake off the cobwebs of slumber. A daddy-long legs with two missing limbs crept over the dirt but when blackness encompassed me, I made my move. Moose (our farm dog) had stolen Waddle’s eggs earlier in the day, but thankfully I was able to snatch some from Stormy. Izzy had told me that the two ducks would share and raise the babies together if the imprinting was fruitful.
Stormy tucked those babies underneath her wings as if they had been hers all along. The relief in her body language was evident. Her purpose in life, fulfilled. The next day my neighbor drove by with her granddaughter and watched the ducklings play in a puddle with their two mothers. I myself stopped mid-snip of a flower stem to witness the binding love between adopted ducklings and their protective mothers. Rather than chasing two ducks out of my garden beds, I was now having to watch my step and encourage six to find another place to feast.
I adopted a love for gardening in the same way my grandfather adopted me. I didn’t have a father who was present in my life when I was young until my mom meet my stepfather. My childhood after their marriage became even more complicated but that’s a story for another day. My papa was the one (besides my mom and grandmother) who was always there for me no matter what. One of my most favorite memories was of holding his finger in my fist as he let me pick an armful of flowers.
He had sewn the seeds inside a drainage area that was fenced off and locked up when he worked as a ground’s keeper for a local hospital near Chicago. The skill seemed to come naturally to him while it took a long time for me to learn how to have a “green thumb”. It’s funny that I say that because the secret to growing beautiful things is simply… sunshine, food, and water. I reached a point in my adult life where I had a moment of clarity and suddenly an achievable passion blossomed. My papa however… he could grow things in the middle of the desert.
Long before I was good at growing things, my husband knew that simply pulling over on the side of the road to pick a bouquet of wildflowers was the way to my heart. I can’t imagine what people driving by must have been thinking. I wonder if they sat and watched as a tall man with broad shoulders, in full military uniform stood alone in a field of flowers as he carefully selected which blooms to add to the handful. They probably assumed he was in marital trouble. As a friend pointed out to me not long ago, my husband understands my love language and he knew what would make me happy. He still does.
Before that green thumb kicked in, I used to dream about having a secret garden full of beautiful flowers. It helped me cope with events in my life that were out of my control when I was young. Underneath my bedroom window a large cluster of daffodils bloomed and there was (to this day) the biggest lilac bush I had ever seen near the edge of our property. I would pick clusters and stash vases on every available surface. It was my way of bringing light into the darkness. Storm clouds brewed within the walls of that house. It was beautiful on the outside, but what lied within was destruction.
As an adult, I have surrounded myself with people who bring peace into my life. One of my most precious friends is a woman named Heather. When I was feeling especially lost with yet another health crisis, she invited me to see the farm where she worked and encouraged me to bring along a bucket for cut flower clippings. Her hard work and encouragement inspired me. She had created an oasis of living things with a few seeds, some bulbs, and a lot of hard work. The beauty of it breathed new life into my soul again.
“Do you think that I could have a garden like this one?” I asked her.
“Girl, I believe that you can do anything!”
My first year growing cut flowers was so successful that I made floral arrangements and gave them away weekly. Seeing how much joy it brought into the lives of other people had me researching ideas to improve my output. One of the first steps I needed to take was to expand our farm. We succeeded in doing that in March and rebranded our farm with the name Everpine Forest & Farm. This year we’ve cleared trees and worked to create a new pasture space that would allow us to move the equine around.
Harlow’s original pasture has served as my new gardening space. This spring I bought out four stores of their cut flower seeds. I planted hundreds of dollars in seeds and bulbs. Most of the time it was a matter of experimenting to see what worked and what didn’t, but each day taught me something new. I now know that next year I need to stagger my blooms by their growing season to help me have flowers to cut year around. I also learned that it’s best to keep each type of flower together with its own kind, so they don’t have to compete for sunlight.
I have discovered that like any crop… spacing is EVERYTHING. Rather than planting thick rows like I did this year, I need to plant smaller rows with a narrow space in between so that I can walk in and gather blooms without trampling, tripping, or dancing my way around them. I’ve learned that it’s better (and cheaper) to buy seeds and bulbs in bulk than it is to buy from your local Walmart, nursery, or dollar general. Best of all… I learned that in order to keep my output flowing efficiently, a greenhouse is a must have essential.
While all these changes are in the works to help me improve next year’s garden, I am thankful for the joy that this year’s garden has brought with it. I look forward to planning and building our greenhouse, and I can hardly contain my excitement regarding my future cut flower stand. I have high hopes of donating arrangements to people in hospitals and nursing homes who need a little extra love to lift their spirits.
A couple weeks ago Heather called to tell me how proud she was of my hard work. To my delight she told me that she was envious of my flower garden this year! This woman is the most selfless and hardest working human (besides my husband) I’ve ever meet. Her house is covered in plants, and she basically helps grow lovely things for other people even though she works three jobs and has no spare time. I’ll never forget her kindness in sharing seeds and bulbs with me to help get me started.
I can’t adequately put into words how much sunshine floods my veins when I’m standing in the middle of something tangible that I thought I could only dream of accomplishing. As a summer storm unleashes above me, I’m laughing as I chase six ducks out of my haven. I have rose petals plastered to my cheek. Rain is dripping off the tip of my nose, and my butterfly top is drenched as I attempt to carry a watering can stuffed with blooms up to the house. My favorite pair of nippers are clutched close to my heartand I’m overflowing with fulfillment.
One of my most recent arrangements from my garden 🪴 My magnolia that I planted a couple years ago.These beauties took my breath away this spring An arrangement that I made for my neighbor I had rows of seedlings lining every countertop in my house and covering my porch.Created with roses that I grew myself A special delivery Another bouquet that I was delivering I hand deliver to our local coffee shop as well Roses from my garden and some rather beautiful weeds that I was trying to identify They’re everywhere!It’s hard to see everything that’s in here but there’s rudbeckia, poppies, zinnias, marsh pink, cosmos, sunflowers, cornflowers, sweet asylum, marigolds, Asian forget-me-nots, cowcockle and so much more! Not to mention I planted a bunch of various bulbs, roots, about a hundred dahlias (no joke), and peonies in another area closer to my house. Stormy and her ducklings Stormy, Waddles & the youngsters (plus one chicken) playing in a mud puddle near the creek My favorite butterfly top!New business logo! Nikolai & Moosey (our farm dog)
It’s funny how farm life follows me no matter where I am. Like the bits of hay that I find tucked inside my bra and pushed into the creases of my pockets. Or in this case… a couple of fireflies that hitched a ride and found themselves trapped inside our SUV in a state where they wouldn’t otherwise survive. The tiny yellow lights flashed and caught my attention as they clung to the windshield near my visor. My husband and I pulled off the highway to switch places and as we did so, I released them… knowing full well that they were doomed.
At home, the woods light up after dusk and if I’m not wearing my glasses… they look like hot embers dancing towards the treetops in the darkness. On an especially warm night, their numbers increase and if you catch them from the corner of your eye, you’ll be convinced of a raging forest fire taking place among the pines. These are the things I miss when I’m away, even if I’m surrounded by some of the most impressive scenes. Thankfully, it makes the homecoming even sweeter.
I woke up early because the chill in the air was nibbling on my numb toes and the birds were especially cheerful. Their shrill voices felt the same as stepping on Nikolai’s Legos with bare feet… except it was happening inside my throbbing head. I yawned and stretched my cramped legs as far as the floorboard of the car allowed them to go. When the promise of adventure glimmers underneath exhaustion and homesickness, you override your senses to radiate a joyful demeanor that’s infectious.
My sleeping bag had been pulled tight around my ears and I found it ridiculously complicated to wiggle my way out. I tried to look outside to see where we were but there was too much condensation. Droplets turned into rivers that ate up larger droplets until the glass meet rubber. I had to take the sleeve of my sweater and use it to buff out a peephole. Grey rock formations enveloped a rest stop where like us, rows of cars had parked to get off the highway sometime throughout the night.
The cold wetness on my sleeve mixed with the insane temperature drop raised the small fibers on my arm. My skin puckered like a freshly plucked chicken and sent a shiver that shook my bones. I leaned over to turn the key in the ignition and the dash lit up to inform me that it was a frosty twenty-six degrees outside. From the heatwaves we had in Georgia to a winter wonderland, my equilibrium felt distorted, but I was glad to be here in this magnificent place.
A place where green grass stretched out like an ocean, bending and rippling like waves against the shore. Only rather than hot sandy beaches, we were meet instead by cold and jagged mountains and water plummeting thousands of feet to the ground from melting glaciers. We arrived holding our faith in our hand like cowboys hold their hats. We couldn’t get the website for the national park to work. Reservations typically made 180 days in advance except… the sight would crash.
I would refresh the page and get on at eight in the morning per recommendation from Glacier’s Facebook page. Yet so would thousands of other visitors and only two hundred tickets were passed out daily. I kept trying anyway.
Page refresh… sight down.
Page refresh… tickets sold out.
We came with the hope of getting in but there was no certainty about it. Having driven thirty-one hours one way on prayer alone that I would be able to show my son and husband places from my youth that I visited again only in my dreams. I’ve taken more complicated leaps of faith before. I clicked on the campsite list, but I had pretty much given up. A lump of doubt formed in my belly and nibbled on my expectations like a rat. My husband was feeling moody. The thought of coming all this way to… be forced to sit outside the gate? It was heartbreaking.
Then there was this voice in my head about an hour and a half past eight… it said refresh it again. So, I listened. There it was… an available campsite listed for one night. My fingers shook with anticipation as I put in our credit card information and begged my phone to not loose cell reception. I hit the button to finalize the payment and forgot to breathe. Success at last! Time and time again, God proves to me that leaps of faith are the only way to live.
I couldn’t stop photographing one scene after the next. I felt a lot like Julia Andrews during that famous scene in TheSoundof Music. Arms spread wide, wind catching my cardigan instead of the hem of a dress. Nikolai and my husband would pull off to the side of the road to pick handfuls of wildflowers for me that I had never seen before. I had to photograph some of them just so I could look them up later and decide if it was possible to grow them at home. I think I would need an icebox for these blooms to survive on my farm.
The greenery of the Rocky Mountains is so different to that of North Georgia. In comparison, Glacier National Park looked like a desert. Not because it was without lush beauty… but because Georgia’s lush greenery is on steroids. We own a mosaic of trees while Glacier’s trees need to be able to survive drastic climate changes and avalanches. Furthermore, there’s a line where things stop being able to grow altogether due to the altitude. They don’t measure things by sea level but instead, by above or below tree line.
The campsite was… everything I had hoped for and yet beyond what I had expected. We were snuggled into a valley surrounded by silver cliffs with gleaming tinsel of white. Glee bubbled inside the way it used to on Christmas eve when I was young. A good portion of Highway to the Sun was shutdown due to flooding but we spent so much time soaking in what we had access to that it didn’t feel like we were missing out.
Upon parking to photograph thunderous falls, we took our picnic lunch and our pack of essentials on a hike with us. I put about three hundred more photos into my phone’s memory bank and had Tallulah help guide me down a path with a no-pets-allowed sign. Thank goodness she’s as well trained of a service dog as she is because she had to listen to commands carefully when it came to crossing narrow bridges. One bridge had water that leapt out to kiss our ankles. She almost attempted to turn around, but I told her to stop and move forward instead.
A lesser companion would have knocked themselves off the bridge and down into the frothing rapids out of fear. Not my girl! My heart swelled with pride even though my nerves jittered behind my confidence. A steep and tricky hike brought us to yet another waterfall that rewarded us by spraying a fine mist and cooling us down. Despite the weather at night, during the day it was rather balmy. There were lakes so clear that they reflected the blue sky like a mirror, and it made me wonder if that was how everything use to look before our world was polluted by humanity.
We decided to tuck in for the night a bit early (or so we thought) and that’s when I noticed something unusual. I felt exhausted but the sun was still up. Hours went by and twilight lingered. I couldn’t tell if I was that sleep deprived or if maybe we had gone to bed earlier than we had expected. My phone battery was low, but I had enough charge to see that the sun didn’t fully set here until around eleven at night. I didn’t remember it being that way when I was young, but it made nightly trips to the restroom easier to tackle and less likely to run into grizzlies. The Black bears in North Georgia are typically less confrontational.
Rob (my husband) had a difficult and bitter night when the freezing weather crept in again, whereas Nikolai and I possibly stole his blankets by accident and stayed rather toasty. The next morning, we packed up camp so that we could make the trip around the outskirts of Glacier. We were on a family mission to see my favorite place of all, McDonald Lake.
The odd timing of things working out beautifully continued to carry us throughout our journey. With road closures around the lake made of glass, Rob suggested we stop by a large log cabin hotel. We had driven past it at first, but it looked to be the easiest access point to arriving at the bank of colorful stones. There at the edge of the lake, sat a kiosk advertising guided ferry and motorboat rides. While the ferry was overpriced (and fully booked) … three motorboats sat tied to the pier like an open invitation.
I wasn’t sure how Tallulah would handle this kind of adventure, but I intended on finding out. I tied lifejackets around our midsections and slathered so much sunscreen onto our skin that we looked rather ghostly. Despite being noticeably uncomfortable, Tulla got into the boat and once she settled down… the exploring was underway. The heat was made tolerable by the breeze we created while flying across the water. I took pictures with my cellphone, yet the scenery was so breathtaking that friends of mine thought it wasn’t real.
I was able to photograph everything in a way that was impossible to do when I was younger. To my knowledge, boats weren’t allowed back then in order to avoid pollution. There were also spectacular ice caves to explore when I was last in this magnificent place and in its current state, 80% of the glaciers are long gone now. Even though the water wasn’t as crystal clear as I remembered it being… the views and images that I got from the boat will forever be something I cherish.
I’ll admit that it was hard to pull myself away from the beauty and serenity that we found here. The only thing that made leaving easier was knowing that Yellowstone (and the list I had created in my head of all the animal encounters I hoped we would have), was our second to last stop before going home again. Nikolai was most excided about witnessing living volcanos. I had been forced into creating multiple science experiments with him at home over the years. As we drove onward through the night… I spent time listing facts about what awaited around the bend.
Our view from the motorboat 🚤 Adventures with these 3 are always the highlight of my life. Cellphone pictures only!This flower is called a bear tooth. It’s a spectacular bloom!Nikolai is king of the Rockies!The sun like a spotlight over the lake ❤️The stunning waterfall we hiked toRob & Nikolai on our way back to the car Tallulah with her service dog vest stuffed with wildflowers that Rob and Niki picked for me 🥰Aren’t those silver rocks amazing?I couldn’t believe I caught this video of them. Absolutely hysterical!
Most people are shocked when I tell them that we don’t have access to internet out here. I must be honest; it was a learning curve for me as well when we first moved to our little farm. It’s not because we don’t want to pay for it, but rather because no working internet provider will bring it this far out of the way. Our town Facebook page is littered with posts about how the only satellite that provides internet is down time and time again.
The town grocery store puts up a sign asking people to pay in cash and Nikolai’s school has internet access issues too. When you live deep in the woods like we do, there’s no point in paying for something that rarely works. Large pines, poplars, and oak tree’s spread their limbs and reach to the heavens causing the signal to be disrupted. It’s almost as if nature is blocking the path for a reason.
The more I read the news and catch up with old friends on Facebook, the more thankful I become for the interruption. My ability to get into stupid debates when something rubs me the wrong way is limited to moments when out of nowhere my phone suddenly receives two bars of LTE. As soon as I’m invested in riveting conversation… the moment has passed and I’m unable to respond again. Instead, I use my phone as a paperweight. I listen to Audible, pull up pre-downloaded books on Kindle, or just leave it to charge while I spend the afternoon in my garden.
We don’t live “off grid” but I’ve come to enjoy my life being this way. When I want to upload a blog post and catch up with other writers, I must drive to the coffee shop to connect or wait until I need to go get something from one of the bigger towns nearby. I often pull up Facebook while I’m picking up feed for my animals. In other words, I schedule time to use the internet and my time is limited.
About six months ago a man came and knocked on my door to ask me if I wouldn’t mind putting my dogs up so he could access the powerlines. His bald head was a glossy glow in the morning light, and he had the kind of nose that was thick through the bridge but flat around the nostrils. He was doing research for an internet company who was determined to “bring knowledge and connection” to rural towns that are hard to reach. Apparently, there is a government contract for this kind of thing.
“Knowledge and connection.” I think towns like mine have more to teach the world about knowledge and connection than the millions of people who live in large cities and never look up from their phones. I’ve read articles that detail the problems that social media has caused on the mental health of billions of people. So much so, that humanity likes to boast about taking social media breaks (which I have done myself).
One of my biggest accomplishments was the time I deleted all my social media apps from my phone for six months. I didn’t miss a single thing. I did, however, enjoy more phone calls from loved ones. They made my day burn brighter. Friends reached out with cellphone numbers so we could chat and there was far less confusion about the tone in which something was taken because it was a lot easier to clarify misunderstandings.
The gentlemen from the internet company asked me if I was excited at the possibility of getting internet. His brown eyes lit up with the prospect of gifting something of such great importance to most people. I attempted to smile.
“Not really!” I replied. His bushy salt and pepper eyebrows furrow at my response, so I elaborated.
“Why bother with that when I have all of this?” I reached my arms wide to gesture to our 11.2 acres.
He didn’t get it. My niece and nephew who live near Chicago didn’t get it either when they first came to visit. It took time for them to see the value in how we do things out here. I took them hiking on our farm, drove them to see an amazing waterfall, and took them to an empty field where they could learn to drive for the first time. The learning curve hit them harder than it did for me. Yet by the time they had to go home… they were wishing they had what we have here.
It all comes back to connection and real connection doesn’t come from a screen. It comes from immersing yourself into your environment. The feeling of your bare feet touching solid earth, seeing a creek turn into a waterfall, holding hands with the ones you love, and listening to the soothing voice of a friend. Salivating over an amazing meal and mentally stimulating your brain with conversation that bubbles over into laughter.
The internet can’t provide substance for you and knowing a lot about the world is meaningless without experience. People were social distancing long before Covid ever came into play, we all just got better at it. It’s a lot harder to handle the news when you’ve lost sight of things that have real value, and we can’t expect to change people’s points of view without first being able to connect with them.
Upon returning home from our amazing family vacation and having the alone time to sit and reflect on everything I have learned… I continue to come back to the topic of connection. It doesn’t take living in the middle of nowhere to find it (though I truly believe that it helps prevent us from slipping into old habits). You can limit your time social distancing exactly where you are.
My hope in writing this is that these thoughts of mine will touch someone who is as exhausted as I am. That perhaps they will read what was on my heart and have a desire to take a leap into connection with me. Challenge yourself to put your phone down, to limit your internet access and use the extra quality time this week to read a book that shakes you. Grab a loved one and hike to somewhere you’ve never been. You don’t have to be in shape for it… Lord knows I’m not!
If you’ve decided to commit to doing this with me… I want to read about it! Write me a comment to tell me what worked for you and what didn’t. You don’t have to make it an everyday thing, just circle one day a week on your calendar. If you can’t do a full day, try an hour or two. Contact some friends or family and see if they can’t meet up with you or give gardening a go. Most importantly of all… share how this challenge made you feel, not just with me but with others.
Nikolai standing in the rain on an empty mountain road. WiFi free, making connections My usual work spot is in a quaint little place down the road from my farm but since Izzy is working today… I popped by to brighten her day and say hello.
Side note: I had originally planned on posting more about my incredible vacation today but in light of what happened with Canada loosing internet service… I felt this was a better fit for this week. I’ll post amazing images, videos, and stories next week instead. Hopefully I didn’t disappoint anyone!
Other than the white noise of Rob and Nikolai snoring, it was rather quiet inside our vehicle. Tallulah had her wet nose pushed against the glass so she could keep an eye on untrustworthy strangers. I could see the reflection of the flashing crimson sign from the “Come and Go” gas station lighting up her peripheral. We had laid all the seats down and blown up the air mattress in the back of the SUV with the hopes of re-balancing our sleep schedule.
Despite the exhaustion, it was the smell of equine sweat clinging to the breeze that woke me. It felt out of place within the truck stop’s parking lot until I realized that there was a farm nearby. We popped the trunk open for better airflow and let our tangled feet dangle out the back. The temperature was near perfection but It’s hard to sleep when there is an undertow of excitement crashing over your psyche. A crack of thunder strangled the peace. Darkness danced with lightening, and the anticipation of damp earth hung like a curtain in the atmosphere.
My stomach lurched with electricity, not from the storm but from the adventure of it all. The ability to witness firsts with my family, to see things that I saw as a child with the eyes and humility of an adult. I wanted to etch every detail to memory. Thirty-one hours of driving just to get to our first destination and that didn’t include the trip back or the stops we planned to take along the way. My friends thought we were crazy but, in my opinion, the best way to enjoy the mountains… is to get lost in them.
With only a couple hours of sleep in our pocket and first morning light on the horizon, we visited the restrooms and refueled with caffeine. The first fifteen hours of driving had been uneventful but from this moment forward there would be an endless supply of amazement. You can’t (rather you shouldn’t) visit Glacier National Park without stopping by to see things along the way, like the Badlands and Mount Rushmore. There’s even an amazing town from the 1800’s where you can visit the past as beautifully preserved as if it were the present, and you wouldn’t want to miss a little town called Walldrug where you can buy a cup of coffee for a nickel.
My beautiful boy had a history book opened across his lap one day. He was sitting on his bed flipping through the pages when I heard him gasp. His blue eyes wide in wonder as his fingertips graced a picture of some faces that had been carved into stone. His mouth left agape, and his expression full of questions that had me pausing in the threshold to wait for his thoughts to materialize.
“Hey mom? What is this?”
“That would be Mount Rushmore.”
“Is it a real place?”
“It’s very much a real place. In fact, I’ve been there… more than once.”
“YOU’VE BEEN THERE?! CAN I GO TOO?! I want to see it!”
“Not today sweet boy, but I promise that someday, I’ll take you.”
I laughed a little as I walked back to the kitchen. I knew how far away Mount Rushmore was, and I had been making plans with my husband to take Nikolai to see it for a long time. He had been so disappointed that afternoon. You would think the little conversation we had back then would have prepared me for how overwhelmed with emotion he would became when he saw it for himself… but it didn’t. After bounding up the steps towards the mountain cliffs, he threw his arms into the sky and leapt as he whooped for joy.
“MOM! I’VE WANTED TO SEE THIS FOR MY WHOLE LIFE!”
“I CAN’T BE-WEVE THAT YOU TOOK ME HERE!”
“LOOK AT IT MOM! It’s so be-woo-di-ful!”
People all around us found his excitement just as intoxicating as my husband and I did. Nikolai’s slight lisp made everything he said that much more enduring. It was demanded of me that I take his picture immediately and explain how and why the president’s faces were carved into stone. I did what was asked of me with gusto. I have a passion for history and lovely places.
Earlier that morning, hours before reaching Rushmore, I could feel my palms turn icy cold with a cool sweat. The sun was skipping off the copper highlights in Nikolai’s hair. He held daddy’s hand tightly as he gazed into the steep canyon of the Badlands. Wind so strong it tugged at the curls in my ponytail and threatened to push me over the embankment.
Every inch my family took towards the edge had Tallulah and I feeling anxious for their safety. She cried out for them, and I was forced to tighten my grip on the black lead that kept her at my side. I’m terrified of heights, and I knew she was picking up on my concern as she had been trained to do. I considered what early Native American’s and settlers must have thought when they saw the Badlands for the first time.
Void of walkways and trails to navigate through it and the extra miles it must have added to their trip in order to go around. Did it feel daunting? An impossible task with the wicked heat of the sun beating on the crown of their heads as blustery hot winds spooked their horses. Did they find a way to work with the land or did they lose loved ones? It was within that moment of staring into the emptiness that I felt myself being restored from my busy life.
I get wrapped up in to-do lists, maintaining my health, and being a partner to my husband as we attempt to make ends meet. I lose my ability to sit quietly, to allow the strong winds of life to soften my rough edges but not to break me. I am horrible at trying to maintain control over events in my life but as I get older, I’m finding a newfound freedom in weathering the storm. In allowing myself to let go of things I cannot control; I have discovered a depth of peace that is unmatched.
We slid back into the car, and I realized that sometimes we all need to slip away in order to see the bigger picture. Two days into a ten-day trip and I was feeling more like myself already. The tension released from my shoulders when I allowed spontaneity to take the lead rather than trying to micromanage our plans. With an audiobook keeping us on our toes, a cup of hot chocolate in my hand, and an empty road kissing day two goodbye… I could hardly wait to see what would come next.
Taken with my cellphone if you can believe that!My two favorite people in the entire world Mount Rushmore… look at Nikolai’s face!Our feet hanging out the trunk at the truck stop Can you imagine trying to cross this?!These two sleeping in the back seatJust us and an empty road at the end of day two.
“Do you know what you need? You need a service dog.”
That was how my husband proposed the idea after I began battling with severe vertigo and had passed out a few times. I had seen several doctors but we still didn’t have an explanation for the new bizarre symptoms that were honestly ruining my life. That wasn’t even my only health issue. I also had been spiking chronic low-grade fevers. I had issues with a butterfly rash across my face, joint pain, exhaustion, a stomach disorder, a kidney disease, blood pressure problems that I had never dealt with before, and ocular migraines where I would suddenly lose my vision.
I couldn’t figure out how to handle everything or where to go next. My quality of life was greatly diminished and the issues with my body would easily wreck the kind of havoc that made every-day tasks nearly impossible… especially when things hit me at once. I could go a couple of weeks feeling amazing when out of left field I would be knocked on my behind for a month or two… or longer. I once lost my vision while I was in the middle of driving. I never saw the semi that was barreling down the highway towards my car. It happened so fast that Nikolai and I were almost taken out of this life for good. Something had to change. Anything! I was desperate.
Still… a service dog? Dogs like that are expensive right? Was I “sick enough” to have one? What did “sick enough” even mean? Was there a person behind the scenes who would qualify sick people for service dogs? What would people think of me for having to rely on a dog to make me a more functional person? The questions swirled around in my brain until it made me feel that much worse. I decided to do the only thing that make sense to me… I sat at a booth hunched over my keyboard inside our local coffee shop and I googled the heck out of it.
I learned that the only one who could approve my service dog request was my physician. I also came to the realization that people used service dogs to do all kinds of things, from helping with PTSD, to managing anxiety, and other health problems as well. Yet the biggest thing I discovered was that I was over qualified.
Incapable of preforming daily tasks due to a disability or illness?
Check.
Hospital visits that are frequent?
Check.
Official diagnoses on my medical records?
Check. Check. Check. Check. Check!
I read that owning and training your own dog with the help of a professional trainer was the fastest way to obtain such an animal. Otherwise, you might be sitting on a wait list for a couple of years or more. It takes a minimum of two years to train a service dog and you need to be committed to the endeavor or you both will fail. It’s one of the hardest (and most rewarding) things that you’ll ever do. Finding the right kind of dog would be a whole other mountain to hike. Temperament testing the dog’s personality for service dog traits and willingness to learn was just the beginning. Even that wouldn’t guarantee success. Dogs have a high rate of flunking out of service work.
Most people don’t have family who raise purebreds at their disposal. Most don’t have an army of people in their corner who have physically seen them suffer over the years either. I was blessed enough to have both. My grandparents had been raising Rough Coat Collies for well over fifty years. They came from a long line of calm, quiet, and gentle dogs. On top of that, my grandmother’s adopted daughter Isabell had worked for a neighbor who raised search and rescue German Shepherds, police dogs, and yes… even service dogs!
My mind was made up. I needed a service dog and with my doctor’s approval in hand… I knew exactly where to get one. I picked up my cellphone and called my grandmother. From that moment on, my life was forever changed by the most amazing dog my family and I have ever known. The events of her birth and that of her siblings are of such epic proportions that you almost had to be there to believe it.
“I’m not positive, but in my gut, I think that Bambi is pregnant!”
“How do you know Grandma?!”
“Well, I don’t know for sure… but I feel it.”
A week before easter my grandmother had felt that Bambi (Isabell’s German Shepherd) had been filling out her naturally lean frame. Bambi had connected multiple times with my grandfather’s dog Sampson, which was within itself rather miraculous. You see, Sampson was an old man for a purebred Collie. Even though my grandfather had passed away years earlier… Sampson (who was the last generations of purebred collies on my grandparent’s farm), was still very much alive.
We had wanted and loved these puppies before they were born. It was the end of an era for my grandparents but the beginning of an era for me because one of the babies was going to be my service dog. I spent many nights lying awake and praying for a pregnancy to take place. Begging God to provide the kind of dog who would help me become a more functional person for my family. It wasn’t a cure, but I needed to be more confident in my abilities to manage my household and health on my own while my husband was away for work.
The day before easter I was sprawled out in bed with my husband by my side and my 6-year-old son’s foot in my face. Nikolai had crawled into bed with us and spent the night kicking me in the head. It was a beautiful Saturday, there was a periwinkle hue over the mountain peaks and the fireball in the sky was just beginning to show off. It was going to be a lovely, relaxing weekend… until my phone rang.
“You’re aren’t going to believe this! You just aren’t going to believe it!” My grandmother’s voice was lively and animated.
I yawned, stretched my legs out before me and mumbled sleepily “What time is it? Why are you up so early?”
“SHE DID IT! WE HAVE PUPPIES!”
I flew to a fully awake sitting position among piles of blankets and maneuvered the limbs of my family away from me. “What do you mean? How?! Last week you weren’t even sure if she was pregnant and now, we have puppies? WE HAVE PUPPIES!”
I squealed and my body shook with excitement “I HAVE A SERVICE DOG IN TRAINING!!”
Had I stuck to the typical service dog rules… it may have made my life easier. Rules such as, “not choosing a puppy until you have them professionally evaluated first” are important to a higher success rate. My wonderful trainer lived in Georgia with me and these puppies were located in Arizona with my family. I decided to trust God and do my best to evaluate them myself through facetime. I don’t recommend doing what I did, but if I had done things any differently… than this would be a different story. Tallulah wasn’t the right dog but she was right for me.
Bambi had her babies in a field, choosing to hide them rather than be cozy and warm inside the house. My mom and my grandmother saw blood and found a hole that she dug to hide them in. The first two (and the oldest) puppies never made it into the foxhole. Their bodies were discovered lifeless several feet away. My mom ran her hands over them, rubbing the puppies with all her might. She breathed life into their mouths and gave them CPR to revive them.
One of the two puppies yelped and began rooting but struggled to latch or eat. The other laid limply underneath my mother’s hands. She called me with tears pouring down her face and I listened to her voice quiver as she whispered a prayer over the tiny animal’s body. Hours went by and she continued begging the fellow to live until his body became cold to the touch, stiff, and ridged. There were no more soft sounds from a beating heart. No shallow breaths being taken. He was gently set aside in the dumpster behind the house so that the other dogs couldn’t take him away before she had a chance to bury him. She devoted the rest of her time to encouraging the puppy who didn’t want to eat, to nurse.
Tallulah was found with one of her brothers in the hole her mom dug out of the earth to save them. The moment I saw her picture on my cellphone… I knew that she was mine. It was as if God took the extra time to write my name on her. She was the only puppy born with a large black letter “L” marking on her back… a characteristic trait that she eventually grew out of. Yet she had been written into existence especially for me. Her marking was a beacon of light within the whirlwind of darkness that my health had plunged me into once again.
After a long day, my exhausted mother had to dispose of the dirty towels and blankets from Bambi’s birthing room and move them into the dumpster. She had helped Bambi’s babies to nurse and even delivered a few more puppies along the way. The sky was fading from blue to silver and the stars were making a dashing appearance of their own. It was almost time to bury the body of the first born. The closer she got to the trash can the louder a scuffle from within became. Twelve or more hours had passed and there had been no sign of life or a will to live. Yet she lifted the lid and there he was! A living, breathing, wiggling miracle searching for his mother. That’s how “Lazarus” changed my mom’s life. A puppy that was completely dead came back to life with nothing more than faith and a prayer… the day before Easter.
My own prayed for puppy, has rescued my life countless times. She has warned me when it wasn’t safe for me to be driving. She has told me when my blood pressure became dangerously high. She helped chase an intruder out of my house and away from my son. She’s watched over my baby as if he were her own. I’ve seen her soothe Nikolai on sick days, and giggled to myself over the joy of her bubblegum pink tongue kissing away his sadness until laughter was all he had left. She has put herself between me and those she didn’t trust on multiple occasions and I’ve learned that she’s the best judge of character that I have ever meet.
There were moments within this amazing first year together when I thought that she wouldn’t make it as a service dog. We have been through trials that I never saw coming. Yet between my wonderful trainer’s advice (thank you Sharon!) and Tallulah’s desire to learn, my relationship with this incredible dog has only strengthened. She has saved me again and again. I owe her my life.
If you enjoyed this post about Tallulah, I have written other posts about her as well that you may want to check out! You can find those posts here, here, and here!
Nature hasn’t always been kind to me. There have been a number of instances where my love for animals has gotten me into trouble. Nothing reminded me of this more than the meme that came across my Facebook page a few weeks ago. The bold writing prompt stated to “Name an animal you’ve been chased by other than a dog.” The more I sat and thought about it… the more interesting my list became.
I decided to re-post the meme to Facebook along with the catalog of events that I had created without any further explanation. Several friends came across what I had written and had questions about how I got into such unusual circumstances to begin with. I had some of them laughing hysterically while others were horrified. I’m not entirely sure how to justify everything other than to say that I am and always will be, a lover of four legged and feathered creatures. I prefer their company over human beings and I just can’t seem to help myself.
A picnic basket slung over my arm, I laced up my salmon and slate colored tennis shoes to aid in the search for the perfect location. My family and I had been hiking through the mountains of North Georgia to find a lake that we had never seen before. The temperatures were sweltering into the upper eighties so it was imperative to find the perfect shady location to prevent my skin from turning the same shade of pink as a rosy maple moth. After a lip-smacking meal, we decided to discard our trash before heading out on our next adventure.
Within seconds of pushing the lid back to drop the contents inside, a squirrel launched itself at my horrified face. I barely had a moment to react but somehow dodged seconds before its outstretched claws grabbed at my gaping jaw. I screamed and ran but the tiny terror chased me around the parking lot. I used the car tire to lift myself up onto the hood of our vehicle yet the little jerk was persistent. My husband, who attempted to aid in my rescue (while uncontrollably cracking up) unfortunately became the next victim.
There we were, two grown adults being chased around our car by an animal who didn’t weigh more than a couple pounds. The evil little thing stole the uneaten crust that I dropped off of my son’s sandwich. He chirped angerly at us before finally racing back to the bin with his treasure and diving underneath the can’s swinging lid. That’s the last time I’ve ever tossed anything away without double checking for squirrels. I later came into contact with a woman who had been bitten and attacked by a squirrel herself, she was forced to get a series of rabies shots and even required surgery! Never underestimate the size of a creature or the damage they are capable of inflicting.
Before the sun had graced the day, my girlfriend and I tacked up our horses so we could enjoy a foggy trail ride through the woods. Moody mornings have always been among my most favorite kind of mornings. There was a clearing where the tall grass swayed in the breeze and tickled the bellies of our horses. It was the best spot to allow my chestnut mare to take her time so she could gather enough sweet grass in her mouth to turn her lips green. I was enjoying the gentle sway of my hips rocking to her gait when I noticed her swiveling ears and felt the flick of her tail. All at once I felt the warning of danger as her body tensed underneath me.
“Mia” who was normally quiet and steady, balked and danced a jig using her long slender legs. My eyes searched the wood line looking for the obvious such as a herd of deer, a bear, or a bobcat. Instead, my girlfriend pointed and gasped while holding her own mare steady from surging forward into the thicket. There under our feet were six bottle brush black tails with striking white stripes through them. We immediately stopped holding our girls back to allow their hooves to fly. I looked behind us as we galloped away only to realize that we were being chased by a family of skunks. They ran after our horses but thankfully our girls outraced them before they had a moment to spray us. I have no idea what it would take to get the smell of skunk off of a horse and I didn’t want to find out but it was a close call!
One of my most bizarre encounters occurred while taking a walk through a Florida subdivision. Out of my peripheral I saw the ground move below the towering pines and realized that I had stumbled upon a roll (also known as a herd) of armadillo. They typically don’t come out during the day and I had never seen one alive before. I had to bury one that our dog Moose killed on our farm. I remember being shocked to come across one on our little mountain… but this situation was something else entirely.
I got a little too curious and stuck around to watch them in order to understand what they were eating. Unfortunately, that’s when they noticed me as well. I’ll never again assume that armadillos are slow moving and social animals because once they realized I was there, they began to chase me. I had to run for my life past a row of houses and a gawking girl in pigtails that was sitting on her tricycle. I was convinced that if they caught up to me that I might contract leprosy. I never did figure out what they found so delicious but I left my dignity behind so I could escape with my health intact… and that was good enough for me.
It’s no secret that I loathe swimming (see last week’s post on this subject here). Since I was young, I’ve hated water activities of any kind and preferred to read a book pool side than join my peers. I’ll happily wade out into the water but once its lapping at my belly and I can no longer see my toes… I’ve had enough. Nikolai (my son) and Rob (my husband) talked me into going swimming at our favorite mountain top lake with them. I was having a wonderful time cooling off until I felt something bite me on the rump. Swirling about to save myself, I brushed it off as a fluke until it happened again. Then again! Only that last time… really hurt!
I screamed for my life and tried to run through water to get to shore but the stupid thing just kept biting me! I couldn’t figure out what it was and I couldn’t get traction. I shoved past a group of kids, stubbed my toe on a rock, tripped, and landed face first with an epic 10/10 worthy splash. Rob and Nikolai didn’t even try to hide their amusement and neither did the locals. When I finally made it close enough to shore to search my swimsuit bottoms, I felt humiliated to realize that the culprit which had bitten on my derriere was a small but apparently hungry fish. There wasn’t a soul on that beach that wasn’t laughing at my horror show and azalea-red cheeks.
Among all the birds in the bird world, Sparrows and Canadian Geese are my least favorite species. Sparrows are known for being territorial and Canadian geese… well they’re known for attacking people. My most traumatic memory as a four-year-old was when I attempted to feed bread to a Canadian goose only to have it come after me. It bit my finger, took some of the flesh off of it, and then beat me with its massive wings. Now having owned a farm as well as geese… I’m older, wiser, and far more prepared to handle them. Yet I’ve held a grudge ever since.
When Tallulah (my service dog in training) was around 11 weeks old, a territorial sparrow at a hotel gave both of us a lesson in PTSD. There we were, enjoying a walk together to stretch our legs outside our hotel room when a ninja in trees began to nail me repeatedly in the head. I never saw it coming! Poor Tallulah was caught off guard as well. One moment she was squatting to pee and the next, this insane bird was slamming into her nose pointy beak first. My brave half German shepherd girl yiped and attempted to hide behind me for cover.
This bird wasn’t giving up. As we ran from it, the bird flew from one tree to the next in pursuit of execution. Our only chance of escape was to run inside and allow the glass side-door to slam behind us. I will say that although the bird made Tallulah’s bathroom breaks a nightmare… we enjoyed watching the show from our hotel window as it attacked other unsuspecting victims. One woman clutching the hand of her lover had screamed and tossed her pool-side reading material at the bird. Another gentleman walking a Pitbull had to pick up his dog and run across the parking lot to his car when his dog became paralyzed with fear.
A horse, a donkey, a group of pigs, more than one rooster, an evil goat, a turkey, a snake, a swan, a bear, a feral cat, a racoon, a buffalo, and so many more have chased me. I have enough stories that I could probably fill the pages of a book. You would think that it would deter me but somehow, I only love them more which is probably why my neighbors know me as “the crazy animal lady.”
Is it just me or have you had some crazy experiences too?
Nikolai and Winnie (don’t worry I’m not a horrible parent, just a photographer)
Everpine & Petal 