Where the Wind Whispers My Name

Though this is the title of my most recently published book, I’d like to expound on it from a different viewpoint.

 As I sit here the pain of the cancer wracking my body, my memories return to the beauty given for our eyes to behold by the Great Artist.

In my mind I again ride the North Cross Highway in Washington State with the deep canyons and the high rocky outcrops framed by emerald forests and a robin egg’s blue sky. Crystal clear streams cascade from the heights to race burbling and chuckling to the miiror pools below.

 Again I ride the eight miles up the side of a dry desert mountain road to be awed at the crest by the brilliant shades of green in the valley below with it’s scattering of pine trees, the lush grass alongside the stream and the rocks of a cliff face that contain every color that can be imagined. Once again I dismount and bow my head to give thanks for the beauty and tell myself that this is where I’d like for my bones to rest.

 I remember the rugged Oregon Coast where the waves crash and the huge rocks that stand far out in the water silently whisper in my ear about shipwrecks, treasure and dangerous things that await the brave and foolish.

 I have mentally returned to the beach campfire on the haunting Washington Coast. With few visitors the night waves beg you to come and be one with their cold crashing depths, while the wind cries a lonely song along the shear rock wall scattering sparks from the fire.

I dream of the magnificent Alaska. The deep dark forests, the many dangers and beautiful panoramic views. I again long to survive the deep snows of winter alone in a cabin that I’ve built with my own two hands. With no water nor power. I would again search the steams with detector and pan looking for the yellow iron (gold) nuggets that hide there amongst the bears and the moose.

 In closing I will ask you a question. There is no need to answer it to anyone except yourself …

From Where Does the Wind Whisper Your Name?



Hog Riding Pros and Cons

I was five years old and sitting on the back seat of a Studebaker when I saw the sign and asked my granny what it said. “Pigskin Davis Furniture” I thought that “Pigskin” was an interesting name, but what really impressed me was the commercial artists drawing of some old coot in jeans, boots and cowboy hat sitting astride a huge hog. After all, I knew where there was a pigpen.

Gathering up cousin Raymond I explained that before we could ride horses and be real cowpokes, we had to start small … like on a pig. Raymond thought that was a great idea.

One good thing about pigpens … they are easy to find. Just follow your nose.

We arrived about mid morning just when those hogs were getting lazy after their morning breakfast slop. A word of warning here. Eat not of the slops. The pigs do not take kindly to it !

The hogs watched us from where they had gathered in a corner of the pen, as we climbed the rail fence. Hopping down, I noticed that the ground was soft and muddy, though it hadn’t rained in a month. (It was in later years I figured out where all the moisture had come from. Instead of mud puddles this was pig piddles.

But I digress.

 Raymond and I held a short conference with each pointing out a likely looking mount, while the pigs also held a conference as to which of them were going to eat us.

No gunfighter ever stalked a street any better than Raymond and I stalked our chosen swine. They didn’t stand a chance!

Mine lurched to the left, then dodged right, but I was ready for him. Leaping out, I managed to get both hands on his shoulders. It dragged me a few feet and left me face down in a pile of pig poop. I had just cleared my eyes of things that shan’t be named, when I see Raymond flying by me on the original Hogwarts Express, his eyes open wide, a big grin on his face and pig doody hanging from his ear. Determined, I manage to hop aboard my porker and set a new record set in the annals of pig racing.

I was rounding the pen and coming into the home stretch. Raymond was a half a pig ahead. To encourage a bit more speed I scream a Creek War Cry, but my pig spoke no Creek and came to a sudden stop. It’s plum amazing how slick a pig’s back can be. I go sailing over his head and grabbed at Raymond to keep from falling, which we both did after colliding with the poles that made up the fence. I had a lump and Raymond was shedding a bit of blood from a cut on his head, so we decide to call it a day.

Then came my grandmother. She made us strip down in the yard as we took turns pumping buckets of cold well water on each other. I think she had the sense of smell that would put Spot, our hound to shame. We just couldn’t get clean enough to suit her. She finally dumped a half a bottle of cheap perfume on each of us, but still made us eat outside and sleep on the back porch. Said she was surprised the old momma pig didn’t eat us and we were never to do that again. Durn! It seemed  like such a good idea at the time!


Old Man Coyote

All cultures have their demons and evil ones. With the Native American it’s Old Man Coyote the Trickster. More a gray character than an evil one, Coyote loves to play jokes on unsuspecting people.

He’ll look into your heart and see your fears. He then magnifies those fears and whispers them in your ear. He thinks that is funny, but what makes it even funnier is that he knows the fears were false to begin with.

There you are, all worried and thinking “He/she will like me better if I pretend to be cool (or whatever) Or “I’m not smart enough to take that class. If I do, I will fail and everyone will know I’m a big dummy.”

Sure there are real fears, but there’s a test you can do to determine if it’s Old Man Coyote holding you back.

Just say aloud (or you can whisper, if need be) “Get away from me, Coyote !”  He has to do what you command, but will go hide behind a bush hoping to catch you unawares and will try again and again until he finally gives up and finds others to play his jokes on. Try it. You’ll see. : )