Stick Horse Cowgirls

I got an email this morning from a client who has been dead at least six months.  We’ll call him “Peter,” which is not his real one.  Seeing his name pop up in my inbox was eerie.  I knew immediately that it was not a “real” message and, sure enough, it was one of those that is sent out to everyone in your inbox advertising sexual enhancers or weight loss or some such—I don’t know which in this case since I do not open these. Still, it was odd seeing Peter’s name, especially in this early-morning fog before my coffee.  It felt momentarily like a message from the grave from someone who had not been ready to pass on from this life.  Like a stilled voice trying to cry out to be remembered. Indeed, he had not been ready.  He left an eight-year-old son for whom he and I fought hard.  His death had been out-of-the-blue, young.  He need not signal from beyond for me to remember Peter. But, I am digressing—my ADD.  There are many rabbit holes I...

We’ve lived a long time in the woods—or at least near to the woods.  The forest comes up close to my house on two sides and from there stretches miles back over hills interrupted only with dottings of civilization.  Hearing the night forest sounds when the weather allows open windows is one of my favorite things about living out here. One of the sounds I love is that of the whippoorwill bird, who sings only at night.  For those of you who live out of his range, you can hear one at this site .  Scroll down to the section on “call” where you will find a recording. Normally I hear the whippoorwill from the darkness of the forest.  Lately, however, I have had one calling on my back utility porch.  His song is loud and from so close fills my den.  That porch is the point of my home which is nearest to the woods, the steps being but maybe 50 feet to the thick trees.  Hearing him so close made me think about the whippoorwill’s impact on my son. Whe...