Kill the Wabbit

Mark has a thing about bunnies, and I'm not talking Playboy.  Er, at least I don't think I am.  Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah.  Mark and bunnies.

I'm pretty sure Mark was born with his mom's gardening gene, because, ever since I've known him, he has had a thing about plants.  And, peripherally, bunnies.  Specifically, bunnies that eat his plants.

"A story of frustration and defeat and despair.  Of dreams dashed."  These are Mark's words, spoken just now, as he asked what I was blogging about.  (Now I'm starting to think that maybe he does have a thing about Playboy bunnies. . . . ) He also said I should quit calling them "bunnies."  "They're rabbits, just like a stomach is a stomach and not a 'widdle tummy'."

Whatever.

Mark's battle with Bugs and company took a turn for the worse a few summers ago when the two of us were enjoying a little crossword battle on the patio.  At one point, we both looked up from our papers (mine much more filled out than his, by the way, but who's keeping track?) just in time to see a towering  Loosestrife jerk madly back and forth.  And, just as suddenly, at the hands of a tiny lumberjack, one final "whack" from its bunnicular bicuspids and the whole plant just toppled down.  WHAM!  Right in front of us.

I swear to God I heard a whispered "timber!"

Since then, there have been wire cages, live traps (successful last year, considering there are now six relocated rabbits doing it like bunnies at Woods Park) and, last weekend, even talk of borrowing an air rifle, which I immediately pooh poohed, imagining backyard neighbors Wayne and Pam looking out to see Mark aiming in their general direction some morning.  Our reputation is shaky enough without going all Duck Dynasty on them.

For some reason this year, the trap is basically worthless, acting more like a Kwik Shop where young rabbits pop in for a cheap snack and a pack of Winstons. And the cages are like highway on-ramps to the latest produce stand. As for the gun?  Thank goodness the gun is still at our friend's house.

And the bunnies--er, rabbits? Well, it's like a Bacchanalia back there--a mammalian frat-house party, complete with dancers and debauchery.  They cannot cram the plants down their gullets fast enough.  I'll be surprised if we aren't labeled a party house by the cops pretty soon.

Where's Elmer Fudd when you need him?!

No More Monkeys Jumpin' on My Bed

It is 5:15 a.m. and, already, I can see the outline of our crab apple against a lightening sky.

Now, it is 5:17 and, while I am appalled that that first sentence took two minutes to write itself, I cannot help but notice that, already, the robin out back sounds like an AM station, repeating its earlier songs in a dependable if somewhat limited rotation.

. . . much like the monkey mind that has gripped me this spring.

And I think to myself what a waste it is, this well-worn record of imaginary conversations filling up my head when everything else should garner my attention.

So, today--right now, actually--I reach into my head for that tiresome LP, letting my nails draw themselves against its uneven grooves, hoping to do some damage, and I take that song out of rotation for good.  No more fiddle farting around, I tell myself.  It is time to pay attention to other things.  Real things.

Like the aching beauty of the golden chain tree out front, scragglier than it was last year, yet still adorned with a hundred languorous, perfumed necklaces hanging off its branches.

Or the far-off rumble of Lincoln's midnight train as it slows into Denver with Eric and Kate aboard.

I turn my attention to Finn--my one, true disciple--now curled up at my feet, his rough fur expanding and contracting while he dreams of bunnies and bad breath.

It's working!  Already, I struggle to remember the smeared edges of my imaginary conversation, its hard-to-read words slipping out my left ear.

What ho! I say to myself.  And I laugh, having never uttered that saying before.  But I like how it feels on my tongue, the way it lightens me as it whorls in my mouth, unfamiliar and tingly, leaking through my puffed up cheeks.

What ho, indeed, this day before me, chock full of promise.

And I feel my body turn consciously towards it, open to its possibilities.

A Poem for MKK

There is a bridge that runs between us
weaving its way through the incessant rains of the overnight
and I know that you too are awake,
the soles of my feet thrumming with you

I can feel your eyes, jarred open by questions,
your restless legs seeking refuge
the cool sheets holding you,
however imperfectly

And this love between us?
That tenuous string stretching across rough pavement?
It is, somehow, enough for me
--despite everything, 
despite all the endless downpours of unknowing that seep into the
groundswell.

Still, the cardinal sings,
wings wet with the residue of a dozen
overnight storms

Still, the robin burbles,
pecking small holes in its nest so that its flightless young won't drown

And still the lowly grasses stretch their swollen blades to a morning
they know is just around the corner.

We are baptized--each of us--in these spring storms,
made new again somehow.

Carving Memories

After I attended the Becoming an Outdoors Woman conference in Halsey National Forest two years ago, I bought myself some nifty tools for navigating my new outdoorsy world.  Granted, I still live mostly indoors, but I like knowing that--if needed--I could now make my own waterproof matches, properly bandage a simple wound or locate a cleverly-hidden token on a geocaching adventure.

When I was making all those post-conference purchases, I also thought long and hard about buying a decent Gerber utility knife--something I had never even heard of before sleeping in a 28-bed bunker with a surprising array of outdoor-hungry, occasionally pungent Nebraska women.  But I never did buy one.

And now, this morning, I wish I had bought that knife, because I really feel like I should be notching the trunk of an old  tree with a list of all the firsts and lasts that have filled me these past few months.  I imagine that, in ten years, my fingers would appreciate running through a knotted, pulpy river of personal recollections, helping me to remember this particular chapter in my life.  And that Gerber knife would've helped them do just that.

Instead, today I am left to imagine myself gripping that "lightweight anodized aluminum handle" and working my way up the trunk of said tree, leaving behind proof that I was here and there were some stories that mattered very much to me. Four of those notches, in particular, would garner my fingers' attention:

•First, they would find a deep, long gash, made in a surprisingly singular motion, marking the 28-year-arc of my mostly happy life as a journalism teacher.  Tucked inside that narrow, carved gorge would be a hundred memorable stories told in adolescent scrawl, each one jarring loose a young voice that needed to be heard.

•Just above it would be a fresher, clumsier scar exposing still-green wood.  Within it is the story of my newest chapter, as school librarian, one that is still writing itself.  This, too, I imagine, would feel good to my fingers--a hopeful, story-filled lineation not yet complete in its journey.

•The next notches--the oldest--are neither graceful nor smooth, each disrupted by knotted burls that force my knife to find a new path.  These are the arcs of my life as mother and daughter, each precious and complicated and beautiful in its own mysterious, jarring ways.  Less sure than the others, these clumsy paths tell my fingers that they have found my main storyline, the one that writes all the others.  And so, my hand rests here, on this imperfect place, and soaks in all that it means to have been Jane Holt, way back in 2015, when my knife was so busy documenting these momentous days.

You can understand, then, why I have visited the great digital Amazon this morning, my eyes rolling over all those Gerber knives, my head in a hundred different places.

Of Lily-Livered Chickens Trying to Do the Right Thing

It's true. Yesterday, I knowingly put some frozen chicken breasts on the kitchen counter and then walked away for, like, six hours, until a small pool of pink liquid had gathered under those now-flaccid cuts.  And then, instead of throwing them out, I grilled the chicken up and served it to my family, complete with a nice splash of lemon juice and olive oil atop it!

(Spoiler Alert!) NO ONE DIED!  In fact, one family member even complimented me on the dish!

Have I really grown so concerned about my children's impending personal bankruptcy as they ponder buying cars and renting bad-landlord apartments that I've actually decided it's better to just poison them with air-born bacteria  than face the inevitable difficulty of witnessing their penny-pinching, Ramen-riddled near futures?!


One word--no.

And, while I have no intention of making room-temperature chicken  a regular menu item, I do think there's something to be said for making our peace with this messy, hard-to-lasso life, which is a difficult enough task without fretting all that raw poultry.

Right now, for instance, my siblings and I can wish all we want that our parents were excited about the idea of giving up their independence but, as the saying goes, wishing doesn't make it so.  And that means that this next chapter of our lives--even without considering the trajectories of our own children's lives--will probably be messy and frustrating and, I hope, laced with more compassion and patience than I can muster up at this particular moment.

Best, then, to accept what Dennis Trudell called "this sloppy, raggedy-assed old life" and find the sweet spots, the quiet and lovely moments in which we are most alive, and savor them.

[Disclaimer to my Home-Ec teacher:  Ms. Keep, I want you to know that I almost always follow safe food-prep procedures and try really hard to plate up colorful, well-balanced meals for my family)

Signs, Signs, Everywhere a Sign

I'm not much for yard signs, although there are two signs in my front yard as I type this--assuming no students came along in the middle of the night and replaced them with flamingos or plastic forks.  One of my signs, in particular, makes me smile, because it represents my friend Annie's courage, as well as my hope for a sparkly future.

I suppose it's possible that someone driving well beyond the speed limit down Woods Avenue might mistake my signs for birth announcements, considering that first names are prominently displayed on them--ANNIE and MEG--and given that "It's a Boy" and "It's a Girl" now seem kind of passe.

Anyway, I am not quick to say "OK" when a candidate asks if my lawn would like to be aerated with promotional materials.

More than anything, it's my sense of neighborliness that dictates my hesitation.  I am very much in favor of being a good neighbor, regardless of affiliations.  And it would kill me if a neighbor didn't come over to borrow an egg just because of a stupid sign I have in my yard.

Even though it kills some Republicans to refer to our country as a Democracy (just as some knuckleheaded Democrats choke on the word "republic"), democracy--at least in its old-timey form--once was a strong advocate for just such equal access and interchange.   But these days, when the go-to modus operandi is bulging veins and spittle, a yard sign can feel a bit like an aggressive line in the sand.

"Beware!  Cross with caution, all ye who listen to Rush (both the radio guy AND the annoying 80s band)!" 

And here's where I'm going straight to the crapper, because the signs that affect me most these days aren't even political, unless Jesus is running for an office and I didn't realize it. 

Maybe I'm just one of those sniveling spiritual weaklings who is too embarrassed to wave any sort of "I like God!' flags for fear that someone might expect more of me, but sometimes I struggle when I happen upon the "Jesus, I Trust in You" yard signs that I keep seeing around town.  . . . and not only because of their unfortunate color combination and cartoony depiction of an otherwise awesome being. 

For me, they can feel like a gate-less fence--a barrier rather than an invitation to come over and share a beer and chat about things.  Sometimes, I swear I can even see a wagging finger of spiritual superiority and hear a voice that hisses to me "Better luck next time, sucker!"

Yeah, I know.  This is all probably just a sign that I need to live a better life, or at least get on some decent meds. And, frankly, I'm secretly hoping that it really is just me, because the alternative is much harder for me to bear.

An Easter Story for 2015

April 4, 2015

On that early morning, God thrust his heavenly hand into the inky skies, indigo wisps of dawn curling off the tips of his mighty fingers.  He did not stop until his palm had rested upon the cool edges of the earth's shadowy boulder.

A handful of disciples had gathered atop the lake's dam, their eyes drawn to the ruddy full moon sitting low in the southwest skies.  Slowly-silently--God rolled that boulder across the moon, infinitesimally erasing it from the skies.

And when the moon had become but a curved sliver of light in the horizon, God pushed once more, until the earth's boulder had snuffed all of its fire, leaving the disciples gasping in its absence.  By then, choirs of red-winged blackbirds and their sparrowed brethren had broken into song, unable to keep the story to themselves.

Against the whining backdrop of far-off sirens, the disciples stood up, brushing the gravel and grass from their stiff limbs, and wended their way back to their cars, the first pink promise of the sun drawing their attention now eastward.