All You Need is Love, and a Cat…

Please note: PdxDragonfly will be changing to Mulligan’s Place

I never wanted a dog. They are icky, flea bitten, sloppy tongued, barkaholics. Yet three of them implanted themselves in my life in spite of my objections. Because my mom loved dogs. Therefore I had to have a dog she said. A cultured (expensive) dog. Fortunately we didn’t have the funds to satisfy her fantasy at that time. What wandered into our lives instead, almost as if intentioned, was a flea bitten, sloppy tongued, barkafrolic, dirt encrusted stray.

Mom said the dingy little tramp had to go to the pound. Dad had the Gift of Noah: he loved animals. Therefore the dog became a Mulligan. I named him Dingy. To remind my mom of the dog’s unique heritage. She insisted the dog stay outside, in spite of the intense bath I gave him. Mom was sure the dog would howl at night, therefore giving her the excuse to pound him. Of course Dingy quickly learned to stay quiet and out of site until I lifted him into my bedroom. I wondered that his ability to hide and stay quiet seemed eerily inborn.

We got away with the ruse, even after Dad left for one of his frequent business trips. Inevitably Dingy and I got caught hanging out. He would have been taken to the pound that day except Dad chose that particular day to surprise us all by coming home early. Mom immediately started her poison tongue strategy, her Theda-Bera self fling onto the bed, etc etc.

After several hours of conversations behind closed bedroom doors, Dad gave in to Dingy having to go, but not to the pound. They sent my dog along with my youngest brother, Douglas Corrigan Mulligan, out into the San Berdoo desert to our “gold mine” to guard it. Dad had some prospective investors coming to visit the mine and he wanted to keep it “safe”. Upon years of reflection, I can now conclude Dad wanted to enhance the illusion of a valuable investment.

Doug and Dingy stayed in one of the three trailers for at least a week before it happened. Before the investors came. Before the salted, cursed mine could prove productivity. Doug and Dingy walked their daily route around the encampment, in the daytime, looking off to the mountains, so anyone from afar could view the mine being guarded. Which is why he didn’t see the rattler. Which was lying, uncoiled, probably ill, and didn’t rattle out a warning.

In the brief eternity as Doug set his leading foot in the sand and the snake struck, Dingy leaped between my brother and the snake. The snake’s venomous fangs struck with such force that they buried in Dingy’s skull. In the few minutes it took Doug to kill the snake, pull its fangs out of Dingy, my dog died.

The newspapers in San Bernardino had a field day with the headlines of how a small dog saved his owner’s life. My dog. I spent several weeks in my bedroom, crying alone. For which my mom was grateful for me out of her hair. She insisted I come out for dinner. She then shamed me for my swollen, red eyes. And for not being grateful, in her thinking, that my brother’s life was spared. What child stands a chance of verbally defending themselves against Cruella DeVille?

Years later, when I married my mom, in male form, I was gifted with a female German Shepard, which I named Zera, in honor of my hero Zena, who in my dreams often rescued me from my physically abusive husband. In real life Zera turned “vicious” to my husband, but was loving to me. One day, as she slept on the floor next to my side of the bed where I lay sobbing from one of hubby’s slap fests, (his form of exercise), he came into the room having decided I hadn’t had enough “discipline”. Zera reacted before hubby could reach me. Snarling and growling, she drove him from the bedroom. I closed the door immediately and loved on her for a good hour.

The next day she was gone. Of course. Hubby donated her as a guard dog to a junk yard. He took me to see her one time. She barked and growled as if she didn’t recognize me. I was so upset I didn’t realize she was growling at hubby, who stood just behind me. I cried for several days until hubby threatened to punch me out if he caught me crying again.

Eventually we had a plethora of animals that people dropped off, at night in the dark, in our cul de sac. One, a puppy cross between a poodle and a cockapoo became my puppy. Sadly she was killed by a rock thrown by someone to quiet her from barking. I never owned another dog after that day. Because I decided I was bad luck to dogs.

But now I have Cat. Who reminds me daily that he is in charge. Who growled like a cougar when three men tried to break into my apartment. They fell over themselves running away. Who has now grown into a 16.5 pound muscular Bengal who is finally learning to control his huge claws and teeth without inoculating me. But insists on smelling the feet of anyone who nervously visits us. Bengals rarely purr, don’t cuddle as a rule, don’t like to be treated like a kitty cat. But he slept on my chest once when we wound up sleeping in my car one dark night. Kept me warm. Saved my sanity more times than I can count.

I don’t need to be reminded to hug him every time I can get away with it. Have you hugged your Noah’s Gift today?

Following the garbled path…

With everything going on in the world right now, sometimes it’s difficult to focus on anything that seems real, meaningful, worth time. I can’t even figure out how I feel about the devastation of lives in which I have zero control, except to try and avoid thinking about it because there really isn’t anything I can do to change any of what is happening. And I certainly can’t express my feelings because I stopped crying years ago. Too easily trickles become streams when one looses control. Therefore, last night I decided to watch a movie. Something with a decidedly innocent (ok, dumbed down) basis.

After a half hour of ho-humming through Roku, I decided on the movie “Pig” starring Nicolas Cage and directed by Michael Sarnoski. Nothing exciting going on there, I thought. I mean, how much can one say about a pig? Cat refused to watch the movie with me. He isn’t into heavy thinking venues. Neither am I and I assumed a story about a pig couldn’t tax my mental investment a whole lot. Just something to watch. And it was filmed in Oregon, where I had lived for my entire married life, before finally divorcing the “pig” I was married to and finally finding peace when my children grew up free of his Bolshevik approach to parenting.

The movie began slowly, in a cabin, in the woods. The beginning scenes were about as fast paced as the movie goes through its entirety. Lots of yawn time. In spite of the fact that Nicolas Cage was one of my favorite actors. I almost turned the movie off several times because the conversations were as slow as the entire movie was paced. In fact I struggled to piece together what exactly was the overall purpose of the decidedly loser film. But there were just enough little intrigues, dropped sporadically. A mystery of the purpose of this film. Because everything needs a purpose before I can let it go.

The clues kept me awake just enough to try and figure out what was going on. When the gently delivered information was introduced with those tricky kinds of statements that make you say, “Wait a minute…” I realized I had to see the movie through to the end. And it did all come together, like a skilled chef who doesn’t play guessing games when he mixes ingredients; everything that goes into the meal has a purpose. When it all comes together, all the diner can do is understand he or she has been captivated by an expert at his trade.

As for the end of the movie, when the understanding came, I cried like a baby.

Damn you, Nicolas Cage and Michael Sarnoski.

What Would You Do…..?

Having moved to the Midwest from the Pacific Northwest, the climate change was noticeable at the least. Sure, Oregon and Washington states are damp and often perceived as dreary at times. Ok, a lot of times. Like Fall, Winter, Spring and Summer. But one of the coziest compensations are a wonderful invention called the ‘Fireplace’. I will admit to spending many hours gazing into the hypnotic dance of the flame while allowing my mind the freedom to write stories and poetry in my head. But here in the midwest there appears to be little ardor for fireplaces, as judged by the shortage of them, especially in apartments. I say all this to explain my ecstasy for wanting access to a dancing fire when our local temperatures here submerge below freezing.

Therefore, when I first saw a portable plastic replica for a faux fireplace (glass and plastic), in spite of it’s simplistic appearance online from Bed, Bath & Beyond, I was smitten. A year or two ago I had purchased a small lantern from BBB and loved it. It’s only drawback was that the lantern could not pass itself off as a fireplace in spite of my enthusiasm. Of course when I found the FauxFireplace, I immediately ordered the it plus two “realistic flames” lanterns. My footprints adorned my walls waiting for the wonderful magic machines to arrive.

This morning the box was delivered. No matter it wasn’t in time for the holidays. My mind Soother/Inspiration/Ecstacy machine was here at last. A bit of hesitation slowed my opening of the USPS box. In spite of the large label declaring the package as “FRAGILE” it appeared dented/wrinkled/injured. My fear was confirmed when I finally gently parted the cardboard flaps loosely covering three objects, each wrapped in a single, thin piece of bubble paper. The smallest lantern was broken on two corners, with the plastic pieces settled in the bottom of the box. Then my shaking hands uncovered the fireplace. With a long crack the length of the front glass.

My first action was to call our local homegrown BBB store, up the street a few miles, through snow piles and construction work going on. So I was a bit relieved when The-Most-Horribly-Recorded-Message-Voice-Ever said the phone number was not a working number. Say what? I even redialed to make sure I had the number right.

Not to be totally outfoxed, I swiftly moved to the computer and found BBB’s web page. With the “chat” box. The robotic answer machine said I would have a wait time of approximately 10 minutes. They were off by 30 minutes when someone (he? she?) finally responded. My mood had succumbed from anxiety to yes, upsettedness by the time an operator finally responded, skipping through meadows of Spring flowers. Since I excluded the cuss words I was thinking, plus had to type everything out, my explanation of the problem was remarkably civil.

After all the apologies etc were doled out, the chat person finally suggested I email the items back to BBB, in some southern state, and they would send me a new one. Once again I explained the poorly wrapped condition of the fireplace and emphasized I did not wish to receive another broken item. The operator then said the UNTHINKABLE: I could just return the item (by mail, at my expense) and get my money back. OR, I could take the items to the physical store and hope they had more in stock but if they didn’t I still had the option to mail in the fireplace…etc etc etc. Fortunately he/she could not hear my feelings in my voice. Emotions are difficult to express in typewritten messages anyway. I found it difficult to express my anger at their cheating me out of my dancing fires because I am not, by Nature, combative. I am a fan of Sun Tzu’s words that the best war is the one not fought. More flys with honey thing. I finally just thanked he/she for his/her time and closed out the faux chat.

In the end I decided I would try to find a way to mend the broken glass. I placed the fireplace inside the glass tv stand (so that Suicidal couldn’t get close enough to practice his paws and strike force, let alone his 12 pound butt. The tv stand glass is dark enough that one has to look close to see the jagged scar on the fireplace. Except when it’s “lit”. Which then shows the wound quite well. But at least it is better than staring out my front room window at the snow piles and watching the Indy 500 wannabes roar down the slick streets in their quest for glorious crashes.

But just to be fair, I am asking you, Dear Reader, what would you do in this circumstance? I promise to read all responses and maybe even consider one that sounds reasonable. Thanking you who read this missive and take the time to reply.

Secrets of the Trees

Words are

treasures in time

spoken once, like an opera.

I sought the jewels all my life

spending many foolishly

wanting to sound intelligent. Sometimes

​

I lied

because I didn’t want the punishment

that came with telling the truth. When

I told my mother

trees talked to me and taught me

to be gentle with all of Gaia’s creatures,

she locked me in a dark closet. 

​

When I finally agreed that 

trees couldn’t speak

she gave me

ice cream. I can no longer

trust anyone

with the secrets of the trees.

The Crazy Irishman

My father is an Irishman, he sleeps

beneath the icy sheets; snowflakes drift

through crystal eyes and shatter into vision. He speaks

​

intangibles: flys are fishing on the line. I am the apple

of his eye. He rode his horse into a saloon

to get a drink of beer. He drank

a cup of bitter songs and thanked the stars

for freedom. His mountain

​

sat atop a dream and crumbled into

nothing gold. Mourning is an albatross. 

Black is day, the ink of white, in floating words on ice.

Stars breathe into the world

and set his mind on fire. Old Timer’s Disease

​

is explanation enough. My father

was a mountain man. 

I was the apple of his eye.

Yesterday’s Rivers

Rain startles the path

along Green River. The rhythm of a train

in a passing jogger’s pant, the sudden flash

of a hopeful rod and reel

​

bring memories of fishing white water.

We kissed in the rain, your eternal white shirt

recording droplets like the late night computers

you coaxed into cascading paper streams

while I rubbed your shoulders and asked quiet questions

​

you never tired of answering. Smokey Mountain mists

drifted through your cerulean eyes. You said you’d never get used to

cold Washington rain. I laughed

at the way you called cheese ‘chadder’

and your soft cussing as you untangled the fishing lines

​

I frequently snarled. Your sweet words

wrapped in Southern nuances

froze us in time as life passed

like swirling leaves in the summer rain

washing away

the scars of yesterdays. The cough, you said, was only

​

a passing cold. They tore your white shirt

struggling to fit the respirator. You never gave me

the chance to say goodbye. Rain

returns yesterday’s rivers.

You Said You Said…

Pain is a gift, you said,

to teach us love for life. You said

I was too willful; no one could love me

but you. You said I was your helpmate

​

created from your rib

and that my arguments against it

were with God, not you. You said

the black beneath my eye

was my own fault. You were just

helping me to understand.

You said I was too willful.

You said no one else cared

enough to show me love. You said

anger came from love.

You said you were always

right in what you said. You said

​

you loved me

when you hit and kicked and slapped

and punched and degraded and pinched

and burned me with your cigarette.

The lies hurt worse.

To Be Or Not To Be: is that really the question…?

Once upon a time, two peaceful villages existed side by side in a luxurious valley bordered on the north by a sturdy mountain chain. Some say both villages got on so well because the mountain was a barrier which kept out any invaders from the north. At least for the length of memory of the elders of both villages. The Human village lay to the west and hustled in the morning sun, bringing their fares to the marketplace. The village to the east was an uneven circle of tall trees, home to the quiet Elves that dwelled in the base of the huge trees which were said to be as old as the mountain.

Both villages lived in harmony, trading wares peacefully but keeping to their own until one day a Human Girl and an Elf fell in love and wished to spend their lives together. After much debate between all the Elders, the Joining was carried out with the Human girl going to live in the Elvish village. Being a sweet girl and knowledgeable in the use of wild grasses and herbs, she soon endeared herself to the Elves, which brought both villages even closer together.

The first season after the Joining was peaceful and, in fact, many said both villages prospered because of it. Then came messenger elves from over the mountain to spread the news that a new band of humans were en route to the mountain from the unknown lands of the north. These new humans were as tall as the elves, larger than the largest humans, and carried new deadly weapons of warring times, leaving a trail of burning villages behind them with no survivors. Because elves did not live in the colder north, only humans had been attacked. Both the human and elvish villages were concerned at the news because the new aggressive humans wore armor that resisted even the deadly accurate Elvish arrows. Both the Elves and the Humans decided that both villages must defend against the intruders because both villages were now one with the marriage between the Human girl and the Elf.

The slow approach of the fearsome new humans, burdened with wagons and heavy horses, resulted in a conundrum of unimaginable debate: The Elvish approach to battle was to scare off any aggressor and thereby take no lives, as Life was precious to the Elves. The Humans insisted the new marauders had to be killed as the human way was to persist until all life was gone from any conquered peoples, the custom in those ancient times. It did indeed occur to both villages to simply pack up, vacate their valley, thus preserve both peoples. But the humans had only a few horses and wagons, not enough to carry all their villagers away fast enough to avoid the approaching menace from the north. Therefore, the humans pleaded with the Elves to save themselves and escape while they could. Which, of course, the Elves refused to do because their villages were united with the Joining of the Human girl and the Elf.

Hence came the Conundrum: To stay and defend one’s own lives but thereby destroy one’s basic belief system, or to scatter as best they could to preserve at least some of their peoples, which would Destroy the unity of their beliefs.

What would you do…?

Don’t forget to hug your belief system today…

Sisterhood of the Rose

My daughter once asked me

why I never gave up 

on myself. I cannot lie.

I gave up many times:

when I didn’t meet my mom’s expectations

when math kept me from flowing into college

when my husband beat my face into a bloodied pulp

when my daughter’s life dripped from crystal bags.

​

I became a phoenix

rising from the ashes of someone else’s fire.

I fear snow and ice, not sacrifice like Iphigenia.

I write poems not brilliant speeches like Mrs King.

I work in Love Library and mourn the library of Alexandria.

I wash memories off of dishes, remembering the pies of Mother Christmas.

I wage compromise, not war.

​

When I feel insignificant

in the presence of Eleanor Roosevelt, Boudicca, Trieu The Trinh, Mother Teresa,

Artemisia, Fu Hao, Helen Keller, Ahhotep, Coretta Scott King, Lysistrata,

Joan of Arc, Queen Mauve, Iphigenia Queen Tamara, Cleopatra, or all the Sisterhood of the Rose,

I realize if I deny my connection to them

they will have lived for nothing

but themselves.

Earth Laughs

In a surge of greed mankind rapes the earth

scraping her yielding skin with iron and cement

erections. In scorn,

he vomits in her oceans,

scars her face with meaningless roads.

In a frenzy,

mankind yanks out 

her hair, the trees, stands atop 

her mountain breasts 

to proclaim his wisdom, 

puzzled by what Earth has known

for millions of years.

In feeble discontent, man hurls himself

into space,

celebrating his independence. 

Earth laughs

knowing man cannot escape 

the earth within his skin.

Faraway Places With Strange Sounding Names…

In the twilight of the seasons
when the herons find their wings
we dream of sailing down the Nile and  
reading all the hieroglyphs.  Is it said that 
life and death are one?
​
We will travel to the Stonehenge,
see green hills my grandfather roamed,
sit in awe of Macchu Pichu, smell
the rain in Africa and touch
the paws of mighty Sphinx.
​
I will teach my grandson Spanish,
how to hear Chapultepec Park. He
will see Hawaiian sunsets, hear the stories
of the moon and learn to say I love you
with the music of his hands.
​
All the world's a place to play in,
God knows how to build a park.
In the twilight of the seasons
when the herons find their wings
We'll go sailing down the Nile.