June ends with this

We’re getting ready to enter the month of July and I have deemed myself the Groundhog Whisperer. In the past two weeks I have caught eight groundhogs and taken them to other areas. Wild areas. Areas I worry are being inundated with groundhogs. Tomorrow, I work on sealing the areas of the deck they use to access their tunnels feeling confident that I have moved or scared any others off. The last groundhog was the only one that seemed peeved, I received a number of clicking warnings. But nothing frantic. (This one was caught after ten minutes of having put the trap out, they love peanuts too much!)

During the groundhog roundup my neighbor also had a trap out, but he forgot to close it overnight and the next morning when I looked out, I could see two young raccoons looking very Chaplinesque. It was early (and I couldn’t wait for my neighbor to get up) and a day that would be hot, so I had Jerry help and we took the trap with the two convicts, spitting and growling, to the side of the house toward the ravine. I think the two raccoons had made a pack to attack me when I opened the cage but only one jumped toward me and when he saw his buddy running, he took out after him growling and biting – of course I was already headed the other way!

Mary 8 Groundhogs 0, sorry flat cats. Raccoons a draw.

Here’s a weak hand poem from the other morning.

Whatever alchemy life throws into us
like late day sun, a gold that welds memory
to the world: The sunflower near blush
as it opens its face to the light for the first
time or that moment we woke to your silence
and found you, head up in your crib, a bubble
on your tongue and a smile better than any bright
star welcoming us.

Clandestine groundhog transport

The past few days my Facebook “memories” have been full of Ursula and Zora. It was just two years ago that they came into our home. (And now almost a year since they both left. Sickness is a cruel string for cats, you can only do what you guess is right and second guess yourself, even now.) As the memories of U & Z went dim (They. Never. Go. Dim.) I began following the coming and goings of the groundhogs. Or the flat cats as I called them. Otto and Olive last year and then Olive had four kits this spring; and I have been watching them grow and explore -- until they started going into our neighbor’s garage and chewing on his car (wires) and climbing shelves – so we (neighbors, Jerry, and me) hatched a plan to 1) run them off or 2) move them.

We have found that the Internet is full of ideas about how to make a groundhog leave. After trying three of these ideas, I really think that the groundhogs have hacked the Internet and are posting these ideas as another “gotcha, you silly human”. So, we moved on to humane traps; placed in a great location and loaded with peanuts (groundhog Kryptonite) the whole family was caught and relocated within 48 hours.

The weather was quite warm, so I was very careful to check the traps often and then quickly load and transport to an out of the town wooded area. Three of the kits were trapped within six hours, which meant every time the trap closed, I had to get them quickly to their new location. I was surprised at how calm they seemed, though I’m sure their poor little hearts were beating like mad, all the more reason to get them quickly to a wild area.

The only glitch was after catching the fourth kit after I reloaded the traps with peanuts I caught a Blue Jay (as they also love peanuts). I knew something was up when I heard the racket from out back; luckily the Blue Jay didn’t panic (too) much and quickly left when I opened the door. (I will be offering a peanut tribute to these birds soon).


(Today's weak hand poem)
The small brown body
pushes against the cage.
Looks at me, not in fear
but understanding:” Who
will release you, human?”

Looking after the world

 

I love looking out on the second hottest day of the year to see a goldfinch, its back to the afternoon sun the shawl of its feather’s double gold, a gold that makes you swoon or cry or just exclaim, “Yes, that’s it! That is, it!” And one post over is the perfect lady goldfinch, subtle and more beautiful than should be possible. And the sun sort of sulks seeing them there.

The four kits are venturing further and further into the yards, even in the heat they are out after the clover. Then there is that moment they see something, and they all shuffle run back to the deck. Though I have noticed they like to chase birds, I guess because they want whatever falls from the feeders too.

This morning before it got extra, extra hot I had some yardwork to do and as I was finishing, I noticed a cowbird panting under the forsythia. It was quite warm, so I found the old pie pans I used last year, filled half it with rocks and the rest with water setting them around the yard in the shade for insects, birds or any being needing relief. I was just out a few minutes ago to refill them and chat with a dog walker, place my trashcan out. It is 88 now but feels like 96, so a relief.

I have been trying to write a poem about how an eleven-year-old knows how to cover herself in her friend’s blood to survive a massacre. It may be one of those things a poem cannot hold, my heart can’t hold it, it makes my headache. How does she go on? How do those parents. The nation moves on, leaving those burying children and grief on their own. I started reading David Sedaris’s latest book, Happy-Go-Lucky, and the first essay is called Active Shooter and I had to put it down and walk around the house, go out and touch the maple tree, stand in the extraordinary heat. The tree does not need us, the sun doesn’t care if it cooks us into oblivion, these things are just doing their job something we are failing at, looking after each other, looking after the world.

If a goldfinch could bring peace, feed the world, heal everyone, would we notice?

Weak hand writing and prompts randomly applied

Daybreak, birdsong, leaf chatter: the things that do not care about the things that matter to you. That sliver of moon last night, the handful of fireflies under the maple. The rain that falls right now, telling stories – what it has always said before, but more urgent.

In the foggy dawn
we walk, chatting
about what we always
chat about: world problems
oddities of the town,
our own somewhat broken
but grateful hearts.

We carry these things
like a lit candle
careful to use the heat,
the light and the hesitant
life the flame holds.

~~~

The hummingbird comes to the window, looks at its own perfection, turns left and right admires that fiery red throat, the iridescent green and for one moment the swoon nearly knocks him out.

~~~

A prayer of protection against the night

I have changed and now
know a kinder language
then some I have uttered.

Once those syllables let go,
moths into a candle-fed
room, where each word flared.

~~

"I'll go through the closets and cupboards to find things for auction..."

        ~~Jane Kenyon, Church Fair

Two soup spoons, mismatched

an old silk tie

my tithe has grown small.

What's a little non-belief between friends?

Today I was at the local Red Cross office as Jerry gave blood. I was trying to sit quietly and read (The Dazzle of Day by Molly Gloss, which I’m rereading) when the volunteer who ran the front desk, an older man, came over to chat. He wanted to know if we gave blood often and I told him we’d only started after so many years of not being able to. He asked why and I said we’d lived in Europe and for a long time you couldn’t donate. He asked where and I said Italy, Germany and Belgium. He asked if I’d seen the Pope while I was in Italy and I said yes, a few times.

Then he wandered off and then came back. “When you were in Belgium did you have a waffle?” “Yes. And chocolate.” He wandered off; I opened the book. He came back, “Did you have that Italian coffee when you were in Italy?” “Yes, often.” “And you saw the Pope?” “Yes, I saw a Pope. Not the current Pope.” “I don’t know about this Pope; he seems to not follow the rules. He’s sort of liberal.” “I don’t think he’s liberal enough.” -- I get the first “look” --“He seems to be out there on marriage. It’s not falling in line with traditional marriage and the church.” (I really want to read my book.) “In what way?” I ask. “Well, he’s not following the rules. And he seems to be accepting of those men who want to be girls or girls who want to be men.” “I don’t have a problem with that, but I think he has a long way to go.” “Don’t you think that people should be as God created them.” “I guess that would depend on your belief in god.” “You don’t believe in God?” “No, I do not.” – the “look” again, and a sigh and he walks away and sits down at the desk.

But I got to read.

I feel like I’ve been traveling for months. I left for Oregon on April 4th and returned May 18th. Then after a weekend that flew by (a couple of days running errands and making it to appointments) I drove to Dayton Ohio, Jerry had site visits and I was a tag along. The follow-on trip was to Columbus where oddly enough the newlyweds make their home, so even though the man had to work, we also got to see those crazy kids. (And in-laws!) Lovely time. Some good food, a lot of great company, a community market, a flea market, some cat hugging (no matter how they fight, I get a hug in). And then yesterday a drive home.

I guess after all the good vibes a questionable encounter with a Catholic was due. The last time I spoke to an older Catholic man I was protesting a Planned Parenthood protest (they were not ready for me joining the group with a sign countering theirs) and I actually had a nice chat. We agreed that the best way to help stop abortion was to allow access to healthcare, education and birth control. Pro-choice does not mean anti-life, pro-life does not mean you can’t see other ways to help.

Anyway, it’s June. There’s a low cloud over the world blocking the light. Global. National. Local. Personal. I want to add something here, but I can’t think of an inspiring thing right now. I think I need to go read.

My horse was a willow

Well, a lot of walking the perimeter in Enterprise. But this is a tree I’ve passed by twice in the last two days. It’s in front of a house we lived in before we moved to Joseph. The land behind the property is now Wallowa County Nursery, when we lived there it was a pasture. So just this poem written about this tree a few years ago (the prompt was willow) and a historic event.

(And a lovely meeting today in Joseph with a favorite poet/teacher/fisherman/new dad. How we meet and re-meet our poet friends is a wonder.)

Ignite

My horse was a willow
that stood tethered by roots
in the gentle curve of our driveway
just across the railroad tracks.
I rode each day, my reins and stirrups adjusted
in the baling twine. The low branch, as wide
and round as a Percheron, carried me. My racehorse
or bronc, hunter and cow horse.
I galloped as log trucks and cattle trailers
rattled past, guiding my sure foot
along cliffs and desert dunes.

The night the Grain Growers exploded
like the Leonid Storm, the burning wheat
falling over the surrounding farms
and fuel depot, my father ran to call Uncle Pat,
divined ways to get us away from the blast
that would plow down our road.

I sat on my steed its gray and silver mane
picking up the flames, imagined sorrel,
and began to whip the flank
tucked myself tight over the hard bark
shoulders and loosened reins
willing a run that would save us all
from the fire.

Here now

Today I was out walking in this small town. The town where I was born, a place we lived until I was six (before moving to New Mexico and Colorado) and then returned to a few years later. Staying until I was eleven, when we moved to Joseph. There are many houses around the town we lived in or had friends, relatives, places I walk past that have memories. One corner a woman had a parrot, not a friendly parrot, but she let us talk to it. On another a retired teacher who read us books. The library was just a few blocks away from some of the houses, in another we had to ride our bikes to get there.

I learned to swim at the pool, beside the city park. I used to go to the park at night, years later in my cape and swing and swing and swing. Today I did a quick turn on the swings and then walked up the little hill; the pool a dead spot in the grass, long gone. I walked down past the fairgrounds, there are some little places that way with horses around them, the scent of old hay and mud and horse and manure still a nostalgic aroma. Deer wander all over, nibbling lawns, watching me with careful stares. When I return to my mother’s house all of the neighbor’s chickens are feasting on the lawn, their dogs in the chicken yard doing what dogs do, eating things.

I talked to a man who had worked with my dad, whose children I once babysat, who I last saw three years ago when he helped my parent’s move to this place right before my dad passed away. He told me about a road trip he took with his parents and siblings and grandmother in the late 1950’s, a six-week trip through Texas and Missouri, Wyoming and Iowa. “Let me tell you,” he said, “that’s a long way to go with your grandma.”

Here's a poem from today and some pictures of this randomness.

                                     

Here now the hill
raced down on bikes
its steepness conquered
by our trusted brakes, our balance.
Here now the small downtown.
It seems a full third
of the buildings boarded
up or under renovation.
Here now the old market
local owned and loved.
Here now the library,
the courthouse denuded
of pines. The bookstore
that opens at 7:30 AM!
The former Safeway;
the former butcher shop;
the former steakhouse;
bar; 24-hour café; drug store
all gone. Here now the reformed
curve that leads to Hurricane Creek,
Joseph, the lake. Here now
all the houses on the streets
where we walked and rode,
skipped and ran, under
the mountain’s watch.