LIFE IN A NORTHWEST TOWN

Having read a dear friend’s blog about her being bitten by tons of mosquitoes while looking for someone’s pet in the woods, I for one could only sympathize with her because the same thing happened to me.   Mosquitoes are indeed notorious for their bites during summer.  They seem to pack more itchy venom now than with all the three other seasons combined. 

With my story…you see…not too long ago, my father, Nick and I decided to tackle the backyard where a quarter of it goes down to the creek.  Having seen a trace of trail from our living room window, we wondered what was down below.  Could it really be a trail?  The thought was enough to spike our curiosity.  So we gathered all the necessary tools we need.  My mom declared that she was out of the plan.  She wasn’t going to participate with us because of a bad knee.  Also, she was opposed to the idea about my sixty-seven year old father going down an uneven slope with nothing to brace on but branches and tree limbs and good equilibrium. 

So next thing we knew, Nick, my father and I were standing at the edge of the cliff, our heads lowered, assessing what to do.  Nick was first to speak, "Do you think we can do it Papa?  It looks a little tricky."  My father gave him a sidelong glance and nodded his head.  "Yes, let’s go." 

And we did.  Nick and my dad went down first.  I followed next.  As I scale down the make shift ladder we built a year ago, I see my mother up on the balcony watching us.  She was shaking her head, displeased at what we were doing.  I gave her a smile and told her we’ll be okay.  Then I continued on reaching the bottom of the steps.  That was where I heard my father and Nick hollering at me not to go down anymore.  "Too steep…," they said.  "You might hurt yourself!" 

"What?…Why?…" I asked because I was ready to go and find the trail. 

Now this time, under the shade of trees and swarming of mosquitoes, I took on my mother’s displeasure, shaking my head.  I couldn’t accept that they didn’t want me to go down with them.  I felt like a kid who wanted to be so much a part of a game that the older kids were playing yet they say no you can’t because I was too little.

"Men…,"  I said, grumbling under my breath, wondering if I should even go back up the ladder or not.  I know these two dear men that I have in my life care a lot about me for them to give such warning or caution.  They just wanted me to be safe.  But my wanna-prove-to-them self was begging me to keep going and find the trail.

And so…I admit I hesitated for a moment…then decided to opt for the latter.  With loose soil under me, I carefully plowed down the hill, bearing a long pruner in one arm and a pick ax in the other, stopping every now and then to see the two men ahead of me bobbing and ducking their heads through the maze of blackberry bushes, tall grasses, walnut trees ad other trees nature had planted down the cliff.  I hear the swipe of the machete these two men held, clanging and swishing, cutting whatever came across their path like Indiana Jones.

Moments later, as if my father read my mind, I hear his voice thundering amidst towering pine trees, thorny bushes and fallen logs saying, "Bing (what my family call me) are you still up there?  Don’t come down.  It’s too dangerous."

I assured them I was fine and told them I’ll be careful and with arms outstretched began the trimming and pruning of tree limbs, large leaf ferns, bamboo shoots and what not, making my way down more.  Maybe a little less than a quarter down the steep hill, I decided I should rest.  By this time, we have entirely disturbed the mosquito population and they were seeking revenge, plunging their needle-like proboscis into my exposed skin.  Because I wore shorts that day, my legs took the brunt of their biting.  There was one good thing that happened though as I stood there.  A foot below me, I spotted fallen twigs and logs matted in moss and layered side by side as if made for a step.  Long-leafed ferns stood on each end of the fallen logs like guards.   They seem to be guides to a pathway.  There was one spored plant here and one there.  Another here and another there. 

A smile broke wide upon my face.  I felt this giddiness rise inside me.  I climbed down.  One careful foot in front of the other.  The path was leading to the creek down below.

"I found it!"  I said.

"Found what?"  Nick had heard me and was anxious to know.  He and my father already reached the creek and where positioning rocks along the bank to form a base.

"The trail.  It’s right here!  I found the easy way down!"  I yelled.

It was then that I realized that my Dad and Nick never really found the trail that we saw from the living room in the first place.  They had used this one path that proved to be unstable and difficult, scaling over a big log, balancing and bridging their way down only to be faced by a wall of blackberry bushes, cutting and slicing a path until at last they reached the creek.

So it is true that life and circumstances presented something to me here.  I have realized that as long as I live, I will have all the critics that would tear me down; naysayers that would stop me from doing what I ought to do.  I think there are two things in life that remain constant: change and criticism (or put downs).  They will always be there.  And how I react and carry myself to these things is what matters in the end.  There is also that little voice inside me that I need to take heed.  It is always there.  It never fails.  It will only fail if I stop being aware of it and look the other way.

As to the welts that these mosquitoes gave me?  They itched horribly but I doused them with Camphophenique, a pain relieving antiseptic liquid for insect bites, scrapes and minor burns.  It worked pretty well.  The next day the welts shrunk to almost the size of a nail head (small one).  So all is well.

This is the second time I’ve seen the squirrels today, hopping from one branch to another.  In their furry paws, they scale down a cottonwood’s big, mossy trunk.  With the forecast all sunny this week, I’m sure these critters are off gathering their much needed supplies of berries, nuts and seeds.  No different from us humans where  we’re off to the market or mall when the sun appears.

                                                          (Hammy - the squirrel)

I follow the squirrels with my eyes and they have stopped meandering about, perching themselves on our six foot fence.  There they stood, soaking (of what had been) their hibernated bodies in the warmth of the afternoon sun, taking a moment to air-dry their coats.                                         

       (Purple Columbines)                                                               

 In a flower bed nearby, dressed in their snazzy attire of striped yellow and black, the bumble bees catch my attention.  They flit their rounded bodies from a sweet-scented lilac (a late bloomer) to a bunch of colorful columbines, buzzing and singing, drunk dizzy in the delectable nectar.

Liveliness resonates not only in my garden but beyond our backyard as well.  The once whispering creek down the cliff now echoes the boisterous voices of children, laughing and splashing, minding not what the frigid water would do to their young feet. 

Nature is alive again and it puts a smile on my face.

You see…I grew up in a place where the sun always shine.  Now that I live in an area known for its rain, I have learned not to take today’s brightness for granted as well as the manner of light the sun casts - from soft to stark to soft again.

Not too long ago, a dear friend and I were talking on the phone and she had revealed to me that as a young child she would draw pictures of the sun on the cement pavement (on a day when the sky is shadowed with gray).  It was an act she did to deter the clouds from producing the much dreaded rain.  To her, having a sunny day meant longer playtime outside.  I laughed listening to her story because as a young child I did the same, exact thing.  Armed with sticks, rocks or chalk for drawing tools, there on the dry, dusty ground I would trace an image of the sun.  When done, I would beckon the solar disk to look at my picture, keeping hopes that it would be nice enough to hear my plea.  Amazingly and without fail, the sun would appear, peeking at first then slowly blazes its glory across the sky.  Right now, I sigh a good sigh just thinking about it for in our innocent minds, WE BELIEVED. 

And I asked my friend, "Whatever happened to such innocence?"  Now that we’re older, did we allow the clouds to block our sun?

How about you?  When you were a kid, did you ever draw your own sun to stop the rain?

AHHHHH!!! The sight of it was enough to make me gasp and scream.  On the carpet floor and shredded in pieces were pages of my hardwork.  Tension wrapped my neck and shoulders, constricting them of blood and oxygen.  Anger, hot and boiling wanted to shoot through the roof of my head.  Like a dragon where plume of smoke was puffing out of its nose, I was ready to devour whoever the culprit was.  I can’t believe it!  Before I left the room, the pages were on top of my desk.  Next thing I knew they were on the floor.

(Pepper…the culprit)

I admit I yelled after finding out who did it.  Then as it often happens, I felt bad for succumbing to such emotion cause I don’t often get mad and it takes a lot for me to get mad (shaking head - I guess this must be one of them).  As I stood there waiting for the "angry steam" to recede, a soft voice rose inside me.  "Breathe Row…breathe."  It said.  "It’s not the end."  It was the voice of Wisdom taking me to a story I encountered long ago.  It was in the book by Harold Sala called "Encouragement for the Seasons of Life."  He talks about:   

William Carey, a pioneer of the modern missionary movement, who left his native England and went to India.  In due time, Carey established himself and began to translate the Bible into the language of the people with whom he worked.  Before the days of linguists and computers, translation was a long, slow process.  Eventually a printer joined him and after years of effort, Bibles were printed and the process of distribution began.  One day, however, a disastrous fire had broken out and had completely destroyed the building that housed his offices and press.  Far more damaging was the loss of his manuscripts, grammars and dictionaries that had all gone up in flames as well.  Nothing short of death could have struck such a blow.  "Without a word of despair, impatience or anger," writes a biographer, "he knelt and thanked God that he still had the strength to do the work all over again!"

     And so with this story I realized that it is just paper.  Yes, I still have the strength to do the work all over again.  That the first two pages of the chapter I was working on was shredded because of one specific purpose - I was meant to change them.  To keep the pages probably would result in disaster.  I smile as I think of what had transpired.  Divine comedy?  Probably so.

     Behind the thicket of towering maple and cottonwood trees…behind the rise and fall of the mountains to the north, a band of light stretches in the horizon. 

     Hovering above all these, a ceiling of gray clouds declares its ominous presence, threatening rain.  It is still.  No wind…no nothing.  As if nature in whole is hushed in anticipation of a great climax.

     Then, it arrives.  Soft, fine spray of rain drenches the world outside.  Wet, drooped leaves display their sheen, bouncing from their ribbed surfaces whatever daylight is left.  I seek the birds to no avail.  The blue jays, chickadees, robins and geese must have cooped themselves in the coziness of their woven sanctuary.

     Minutes had passed and the western sun breaks through.  It wins its battle against the mighty hold of the heavy clouds, putting on its last, blazing show.  Sun, mist and shimmering leaves - this mixed spectacle revives my secluded soul. 

     Yes, as I gaze out the window, I am made to realize the fiery orb’s mission:  it is to create the greatest show on earth; to uplift and to be remembered before the dark curtains of night are pulled to cover the grand stage.