Another squirrel story for the books

When my dad found a smashed tomato in the bottom of his fishing boat I knew my latest war with the red squirrel would go public.

I was helping Dad winterize the boat and everything was just fine until he held up that oozing remnant of tomato and said, “How did this get in here?”

I swallowed hard and did a fast analysis of what fib I could reply with.

a)   I don’t know

b)   I dropped it while delivering tomatoes by boat to a neighbor

c)    The fish I caught while on the lake had the tomato in its mouth

The stupidest reply of all was the truth.

“I was throwing tomatoes at a red squirrel,” I said, and then waited for a lecture on wasting a good vegetable.

My dad is the greatest. He just looked at me and laughed.

The squirrel and I have had it in for each other for years. In fact I think the opportunistic rodent has been featured in more of my columns than any other creature with a heartbeat, including humans.

The red squirrel weighs about the same as the half block of cheddar cheese in my fridge. I am amazed that all 250g of the little bugger believes and defends a year-round attitude of exclusive territorial rights to property here that he does not own.

Once upon a time my nemesis shredded the insoles of and stuffed his pinecones into the wrong person’s boots--and ever since I found said boots in said condition some two or three winters ago, I’ve had it in for the squirrel.

I’ve come face to face with the beady-eyed varmint on multiple occasions inside my garage; poking its head out of the wicker basket it was shredding my boot insoles into and giving me a look of rodent contempt, to having a near mid-air engagement with the little sucker as it leapt off the garage shelving and flew by me in a race for the open door.

I have obsessed and fumed about the squirrel all day while at work; about ways to sneak up on it, traps I could set for it, and how I could repatriate the fur ball to the other side of the creek with my slingshot.

And then after making it nearly impossible for the squirrel to get into my garage, I found him climbing into a hole in the old wooden soffit where I’m sure he was making a winter home out of the down of the sleeping bag I left airing on the picnic table last week (no Dad, not your sleeping bag.)

I was sorting through the wheelbarrow full of tomatoes I had just plucked from the vines in the garden when I saw the varmint race up the garage siding and into that hole.

When I moved in for a closer look, the hairy little beast did a 360 in the hole and stared down at me in another territorial standoff.

Then I threw the first tomato.

By the time all was said and done, I’d thrown three tomatoes into the soffit hole, two more across the roof of the garage when the rodent made a run for it (including the rotten tomato that rolled off into boat), and at least four more projectile veggies into high tops of the trees where the squirrel sat unscathed and scolding me.

I’ve said it before and I said it again, shaking my finger at the squirrel and giving it a piece of my mind, “I would trade dealing with you for cleaning up copious amounts of cat barf.”

I think the cat and the squirrel are in cahoots with each other. Later that evening when I walked into my bedroom, there it was—copious amount of cat barf all over my brand new reading chair. Ewww.

No word of a lie.

A cranky turn out of pet peeves

Although I treasure a patient, intentional path in my life’s journey, I am reminded that sometimes I am an anomaly to that virtue.

Sometimes I fly by the seat of my pants when it comes to my mood.

Granted I made the choice to ingest far more caffeine than I usually do on this, the “Writing Eve.” In fact I hardly ever drink coffee after 7 a.m.

Three cups, maybe four, of heavily heaped “Black Silk” into the coffee maker at 5:30 p.m. have since become both my “glass of wine and whiskey” as the song “Honeybee” by Blake Shelton (now playing on Songza) spells out. 

Sure, I could blame my pet peeve mood on the java, but that would be stupid.

I woke up this way, so I’ll go so far as to say that I must need to let off some literary steam.

First of all; if you pass by me at a grocery store check out and get my attention by saying “Hi Beth, how are you?” and then walk away and out the door—big pet peeve. 

If I wasn’t already wearing my “insignificant cap,” I certainly was after that brief and disinterested question period.

I pet peeve people too quick to respond and less likely to listen (which leads me back to Pet Peeve #1) and those hell bent on sharing what they think is a similar situational story from their life instead of just keeping their ears open.

I pet peeve parents who use threats of abandonment to the vehicle in the grocery store parking lot for children who, if they don’t behave, will be set there to wait alone. I think that threat of punishment should be outlawed. I do realize that most parents never actually follow through with this archaic garbage. I still believe it is wrong to lead a child to believe it would happen.

I further pet peeve couples that are rude to each other in public. Shame on you for your disrespect. If you cannot manage to honor your partner in a public setting, it’s time to get to the heart of the matter before your next trip out together to buy something for the life you share.

I pet peeve simple things like October days too short to get my “to do” list finished or days too quick to the cold to find that certain wool sweater I tucked away last spring.

Most of all, I pet peeve the global giants of media for sending us disparaging messages of illness, disease, and warfare as the top stories in the gentle waking hour of the day.

But what do I know. I’m just an ordinary gal who woke up cranky and drank too much caffeine too late in the day.

Better luck next time.

The important stuff I didn't know

Lisa Kogan doesn’t know how to do algebra and neither do I. As soon as it was acceptable to drop math class in high school I ran screaming with joy down the hallway to English class. 

Math remains one of my weakest skills—unless of course I’m figuring out how many days are left before payday or calculating how long it will be before the bag of chips I just ate migrates to my hips.

Kogan, who is the writer-at-large for “O,” The Oprah Magazine also penned that she doesn’t know how to iron pleats. That I do know how to do and I learned it eons ago as a kid when ironing was one of my weekend chores.

I loathed ironing but I did it anyway because I was told to and because it was one of the ways to earn my allowance. But I cannot remember the last time I ironed anything in the last four decades. In fact I would rather find a wolf spider in my washing machine than have to iron. Well, maybe not.

I know how to make fabulous homemade pizza, beef stew, and chicken soup medicinal enough in vegetables to kill any virus within 100 miles.

I know how to whistle pretty well, accept a compliment with “thank you” even if I don’t believe it, and interact at a party consisting of more than eight people. 

I do not know how to kill a lobster but I can make short order of a troublesome skunk or a gopher and I’m a sure shot for the bulls eye on a target. (And yes, I legally hold the licenses required for the varmint and target practice.)

I know how to use a level and how to check the oil in my car engine. I know how to build rock gardens and pathways, teach computer lessons, write well, paint, and I have a very good eye for interior decorating.

I know a thing or two about sailing and how to build an outhouse. I can spell just about anything correctly the first time and I know that good sleep is the most important factor in determining health. This I know for sure.

Kogan said she knows this one little thing about men with crystal clarity; she knows what she likes. Me too.

I can sew and hem and I know how to crosshatch.

And I memorize license plates of people I know. That’s how I roll.

I know Greek mythology and I know how to restore old photographs.

I know how to canoe and I could survive by myself in the bush without amenities.

I know how to snowshoe and skate and drive a lawn tractor and a standard vehicle. I can lay carpeting, use a “Sawzall, ” and I know how to build a great bonfire.

Yet, despite all that I know how to do, I didn’t know until a week ago just how fantastic and fearless my father’s attitude is. He showed me what it means to have zest for life.

And little did I know he even has a bucket list for when, in 11 years, he turns 99. 

Here’s to you, Dad. The best is yet to come.

Outhouse and spider share spotlight

Never in a million years did I think I would call an outhouse with a roof and walls “deluxe.” 

But having sat on a makeshift “box” out in the open in the middle of the bush on a very cold fall day where anything with eyes can see me “do my do’s,” gives me license to tout luxury in the upgrade taking shape in the wilderness camp where I spend some of my time.

Some would say I need to get out more, but I can hardly wait to have to use the “loo” and be able to go in and shut the door and latch it. It will be akin to a “Calgon take me away” moment.

The next “middle of nowhere” triumph for “Little Miss Pioneer” will be getting from the wall tent to the deluxe relief station at night without summoning all the carnivorous night creatures merely by my sheer fright of the “black as the inside of a cow” darkness of the forest.

To paraphrase a saying I read once; “I may not be a great warrior, but I still need courage. Sometimes it takes more courage to do the ordinary things in life (like getting to the outhouse in the dark) than it does to walk to the door of the airplane and jump.”

Uh huh.

A close second to the courage it takes for my dark walk would be looking in my washing machine and finding a full grown wolf spider inside and trying to figure out how to get it out. 

I usually run my hand around the bottom of the agitator to check for bobby pins and other pencil-thin projectiles headed for collision with the gears in the washing machine motor before throwing my clothes in.

Thankfully that day I didn’t stick my fingers down there and connect them with the fangs of that big spider.

I shut the lid and ran upstairs and washed a sink of dishes while I pondered my next move.

Insecticide! A big grin reshaped my face. 

I grabbed the spray can and went back to the washing machine, lifted the lid, let it rip, dropped the lid, ran in a panic back up to the kitchen and dried the dishes, pondering my next move.

10-15 minutes passed and I was sure the tarantula’s cousin had succumbed to the near full can of chemical spray I had emptied like a pistol into the guts of the washing machine.

Wearing elbow-length rubber gloves and carrying a big stick, I gingerly opened the lid and nudged the hairy thing. It moved, I squealed and ran back upstairs for a long pair of barbecue tongs.

With a pail of water at the ready, I summoned all my courage and that of my ancestors and picked out the wicked, wiggling creature and plopped it into the pail and carried it outside, where I learned quickly in the light of the sunshine that I would rather walk to the outhouse 10 times in the dark without a head lamp than find one of those arachnids in my washing machine again.

Jumping out of an airplane? Piece of cake.

It's time for honest talk

There is an old story about a writer who goes to his teacher and says, “Teacher all the stories have already been told. There is no need for me to write. Everything that needs to be said has already been written.”

“It's true that there are no new stories,” the teacher said. “The universal lessons have been taking place for a long, long time and the same themes have influenced humanity since time began. But no one sees that story through your eyes and no one else in the world will tell that story exactly the way you will. Now return to your desk pick up your pen and tell the world what you see.”

On Monday, August 11^th I was sitting by the creek with my coffee cup at 9:00 a.m. It was my day off and my bones were warmed through and through with all the blue sky morning sunshine of that day.

On Facebook I posted my status, “Oh. What a beautiful morning.”

Friends chimed back and in no time we had the first verse from the musical “Oklahoma” ping ponged between us.

“Oh, what a beautiful morning. Oh, what a beautiful day. I’ve got a beautiful feelin’, everything’s going my way.”

And then I got a text from Daughter #3 wondering if what she had heard on the news was true.

I wish Robin Williams had found some blue sky to get him through his San Francisco Monday morning. Desperate times, desperate measures. No more “Mr. Really Funny Guy.”

And so he joined the ranks of the many, far too many, who choose that unthinkable, unfathomable solution. 

Suicide. 

It happens there in a city far away. It happens right here in the heart of Sunset Country. It happens a lot. It happens one time too many. 

I am a survivor of suicide; a loved one left behind.  

It’s been nearly three years since that cold winter’s day when life changed in an instant for me—indeed the one who came upon a life’s end—and for the many other tender souls whose lives blew down in the hurricane aftermath of the suicide.

I remain in steadfast hate of the word suicide and every time I hear of it’s reaping, a sinking feeling as real as rain comes upon me. I feel breathless and sick to my stomach and if I’m caught off guard, I get slammed with a bout of post traumatic stress disorder—and that my dear readers I would not wish on my worst enemy, not ever. It takes me hours, sometimes a day or more to recover from it’s ravaging.

And still, what to do about the ongoing reality of suicide in our community and in our world? Sink or swim?

If I, as a survivor, sink then I lose sight of some very important lessons sent my way; to be grateful for my life, to have fun, to laugh, to share my honesty, and not to live with a closed heart.

So I do my very best to swim for the shores of gratitude, determined to breathe in blue sky moments and plant seeds of communication, encourage others to talk about feelings, learn about depression and suicide and speak it’s name until it rolls off tongues and has no where to hide in those dark corners of unspeakable conversations.

Rabbi Jonathan Sacks believes that the pain we experience in life can lift us to a much higher and deeper joy if we can say to the bad times, “I will not let you go until you bless me.”

Grow awareness. Speak the truth of what matters most to you. Please.

A roving report on a summer's end

I have boat legs and the keyboard is sliding across the desk.

I have just stepped off the “Morning Dove” after four glorious days of sailing on good old Rainy Lake during the annual fall cruise with the Rendezvous Yacht Club.

I cannot imagine a better way to welcome the crisp autumn than to be in a sailboat in a hideaway cove in a visual theatre of red maples.

Don’t get me wrong; it was a cold and rainy “get there.”

In fact, the big mama of daily forecasts must have been having a real belly laugh up there, repeating the same crummy scenario I’ve seen twice now in this fall cruise realm. She did however pull some temperature and sunshine strings too, giving us a chance to dry out and switch from wool sweaters to cotton short sleeves.

But hey, I am a northern girl and I love this northern country ‘round the clock and back again.

So there I was sailing away from shore, loving every minute of it, bobbing up and down like a duck, clad in the same pathetic mismatched little rain suit. The same handsome, kind man remains at the helm in my life—a most excellent companion and navigation teacher too who strengthens my resolve to tackle a rolling sea.

He flashes that great smile at “Little Miss” despite her vintage “Russ Troll” doll hairdo whipped into a coif by the lake winds of September.

I stayed true to my autumnal pattern and went for a swim in the lake. I did not shout an ice-cold scream, but I wanted to. Instead I was invigorated by my northern “Little Mermaid” spirit. 

Once again, I did try the whiskey—Scotch whiskey this time. Oh Lord. Whose idea was that anyway? Despite my proud ancestral bloodlines to Scotland, Scotch whiskey tastes really, really bad.

I’m not even sure why I had three glasses of that nefarious beverage. Perhaps I was trying to impress the 14^th century spirit of William Wallace, the great warrior of Scottish independence. 

All I know is that I spoke to Ralph the next morning and he said I was a fool. 

Insert jolly roving laughter here.

And oh yes, Robert Service was in the house. The recital of “The Shooting of Dan McGrew” filled us up and laid open the importance of the old traditions of reading really good poetry from books out loud among adults.

The stage was set in the old Malamute saloon and we took our starring roles as the lady known as “Lou”, a crazed miner, and “Dangerous Dan,” very seriously (with lots of laughter.)

We even had a special effects department who controlled the boat cabin lighting in the dark moment of gunfire between the two storybook rivals. Fun, fun, fun.

Too soon, too soon, with the end of the fall cruise we closed the book on a summer’s worth of sailing, but we squeezed that orange really well.

Once again, thank you sailors for enriching my experience. Thank you for this day and that, and the want to do it all again next year.

Henry Rollins penned, “We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer's wreckage. We will welcome summer's ghost.”

Indeed I do.

How I spent my summer hiatus

How is it possible that seven weeks have zipped by since I last made notes in this column space? 

I have in fact been gunning to sit down and tell you for the past three weeks all about what’s been happening in my neck of the woods, yet somehow the critical time frame that I usually cordon off as writing space crumbled away again and again like a dry bran muffin while I was busy squeezing the last drops of juice out of my summer orange.

Maybe I should start by agreeing with fellow Times’ columnist Wendy Stewart who last week wrote, “I loved the freedom of summer holidays—the lack of routine and the impromptu adventures . . .” 

Yup.

Nonetheless I was feeling guilty about taking time away from my weekly writing session until I realized history was repeating itself.

13 months ago I wrote a column about being back to the writing table after—you guessed it—seven weeks of summer holidays!! Go figure.

And once again I squeezed the orange juice out of my orange this summer, and no matter her short season I am thankful for every day of it. 

Yet it seems like only yesterday (though five months have passed) since I wrote about how I was wearing spring weather like a favorite old good luck t-shirt. “I wore it like an old softened faded pair of jeans that fit just right. I wore it like a reunion with a best friend after a long while of being apart. I wore it well.”

And yet now, here I am rushing to beat the clock of chores before the sun of mid-September sets far sooner than the one I remember on that July day, just yesterday?

In the last seven weeks I’ve filled my life with the adventures of my summer, sailed Rainy Lake to nearly my heart’s content, penned my diary days with “August whatever 2014” because I was a free spirit and the date didn’t matter.

And I watched my old farmhouse get an amazing facelift. She has all new windows and new siding with all the trimmings and best of all, a second chance.

I have been afraid of change, but not this time. This house renovation was a Cinderella project, round three times and more fantastic and gorgeous than I ever could have imagined.

I didn’t think I’d ever feel this way but I do. I am no longer the caretaker. I am home.

And while my mind got to wandering through all the possibilities for more upgrading, my two cats—obviously more afraid of change than I—dug themselves under the freshly restored back porch—and remained under there for nearly 24 hours until dragged out by the scruff.

And then it was the last day of August, arriving like a speeding train.

And then, after eight years of living here, I discovered chokecherry trees in my yard.

13 cups of ripe berries and nine jars later I had my very first batch of homemade jelly—which actually turned out to be nine jars of chokecherry sauce for pancakes or ice cream because the pectin didn’t set. 

Life is full of setbacks; little ones, big ones and time waits for no one.

And here we are almost able to spot October on the horizon, while reaching for a sweater and the electric blanket and wondering where did the summer go?

I hope you squeezed the juice out of your orange. Keep squeezing.

A not so "purrfect" start to my day

I’ve become a “sleep geek.”

In fact, most of the time I get enough good sleep (7-8 hours most nights) that I can wake up on my own at a predetermined hour without an alarm clock going off first.

Of course that is if I’m not stirred from my biorhythmic slumber by the undulating tortuous sound of my cat throwing up outside under my bedroom window.

There’s nothing quite like that kind of wake up call.

Invariably on any given morning I check to see if the cat wants in at 5 a.m., which is usually when I wake up. Sometimes the cat has one paw stuck through the crack in the door before I open it—a sure sign that it would like to come inside. 

Sometimes the cat is nonchalantly strolling up to the door looking this way and that, having just finished throwing up and knowing full well (after many similar episodes) that barfing in the early morning hour will send me to the door to give it a piece of my mind—at which point the cat saunters on by my scolding pointed finger and into the great indoors, as if I’m not even there.

But let’s not forget a third “cat at the door in the morning” scenario—the one where my cat does as writer Pam Brown touts and “works out mathematically the exact place to sit that will cause the most inconvenience.”

That exact place would be about two body lengths away on the porch step seemingly unable to decide what to do next, while I stand there like a moron coaxing it with cat language as an army of mosquitoes hitch a ride into the house on my pajamas.

Then, just as I give up and close the door, the cat slips through the opening and—as William Lyon Phelps said—pours his body on the floor like water.

The routine is endlessly predictable.

The cat will inhale a mouthful of food, perhaps throw it up on the floor in the porch and go have a nap or want back outside again.

The latter choice is made clear to me by thwacking relentlessly with his paw on the screen door that leads into the kitchen after I’ve gone inside to have my critical first cup of coffee.

I have no idea how the stupid cat figured out how to do that. The first time I heard it I nearly had a heart attack thinking a stranger was trying to get in.

When I peered cautiously out, there was the cat staring at me gesticulating towards the outer door the way my border collie used to do when it wanted to go outside to pee.

And if all that cat drama isn’t enough to make me want to crawl back into bed for a sleep do-over, I can always open the door to find the cat sitting there with a Cheshire grin and the long tail of a field mouse still protruding and wriggling from its mouth wherein I bolt to the bathroom for my very own undulating tortuous round of morning sickness.

There’s nothing quite like that kind of wake up call either.

Loss for words met with gaggle of thought

Here’s the thing.

I could tell you that the fact that I don’t write a column every week is because I’ve been so busy with other things that I have no time for plunking out my chronicles on a keyboard.

But if I took that stance, my nose would grow like Pinocchio’s.

Truth be told, I have loads of time to write and more ideas and dreams and aspirations to write about than anyone can imagine.

Yet, I admit that on a daily basis I readily find countless other things to fill my time so that there is none left in which to write.

I’m a chronic procrastinator who blatantly denies and fights against a clear-cut opportunity.

Why is that?

How can I expect anyone to rely on that kind of hiccupped continuity?

And yet I tout my belief and confidence in the Universal plan, which is patient and nudges me with small reminders to put in face time with my laptop.

I can’t tell you how thick as thieves the its plan is around here, waving its green flag and leaving the days wide open for me the writer, even as I continue to put up roadblocks at nearly every turn.

Why is that?

Heaven knows there remains enough comedy and drama in my neck of the woods to fill the word count, including a very bold skunk, a demented squirrel, and a ghost deer that keeps eating the tops off all my budding flowers. 

Yet I feel like my writing is stooped in a vat of literary molasses.

No matter how I look at it, I am my own worst enemy, second-guessing my ability and believing the dream-stealing ego that resides in me, while everyone else around me knows better.

Neil Young, Bruce Cockburn, and Tom Russell wouldn’t be the writers and singers they are if they thought like that. Any good author in the entire world wouldn’t be one if they thought like that all the time. 

Perhaps my mind muddle is a product of the infinite slump born of a stunted summer that’s had me under a grip of relentless wind and rain.

It is my hope that the weeks will get warmer, the fall and winter catalogue will be delayed at the printers, and many more weekends will come my way out on Rainy Lake in a sailboat with my captain.

If nothing else, I once again can write about the 18 winged creatures who move about daily in long waddling lines in my yard, leaving behind their trademark green poo and enough goose down to start a pillow factory—all the while shaking their long necks in scold of me when I try to get to “my” barn or to “my” garden.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and the rabid skunk, demented squirrel, the flower bud eater, and the geese will pass through the yard at the same time and I’ll get a photograph. 

“Beth’s Wild Kingdom.” 

Yep, that’s my neck of the woods all right.

It's not a question of what, but who

When I was a little kid I wanted to be an animal keeper when I grew up and have an animal farm. That was going to be my life’s work—taking care of animals.

Maybe that dream was a spin-off of the “animal hospital” my mother always talked about. She said it was where all my toys went to get their “play wounds” mended when I went to bed at night.

And she was right. When I woke up in the morning, my teddy bear would have a neat little row of stitches and a Band-Aid, or perhaps a little white bandage covering the spot on his leg where the stuffing had once spilled out.

“Raggedy Anne” would have her eye sewn on again and the arm on my walking doll would be re-attached.

I believed in that imaginary animal hospital for a long time and planned my own such sanctuary for when I grew up.

I would build a cabin back in the woods on an old road known around here as, “Blueberry Mike’s,” and I would look after dogs and cats. I think I was 10 years old.

I dreamed I’d be an actress in Hollywood. I’d be “discovered,” given the dramatic role of my life, own a fur coat and a convertible, be famous, and be nominated for an “Oscar.”  I researched acting schools and modeling schools and planned a course for myself that would take me straight to the red carpet. I was 11 years old, I think.

I would be a biologist, too.

I used to sit in my dad’s canoe in the creek by our house as a young environmental observer and seine minnows, water spiders and big, fat bloodsuckers—you know the kind—the flat, wide black ones that slink in the tannin depths of creek water.

I studied mice and insects and birds and fishes and amphibians and by the time Christmas rolled around in 1972, my enthusiasm did not go unrewarded.

Under the tree, wrapped just for me, was Anna Botsford Comstock’s “Handbook of Nature Study.” It was 937 pages long. I was 12 years old.

I treated that book like it was made of gold. I collected cornflowers and leaves and four-leaf clovers and pressed them between the pages. I learned about wolves, and katydids, and salamanders, the earth, and the skies.

Ms. Comstock swept me away on a carpet of possibilities. The book’s yellow cover was worn off long ago, but the book remains on my bookshelf to this day, well loved and holding very old, flattened remnants of those pressed plants.

I’ve never lost my interest in all things “nature,” even though my desire to be a biologist waned long before I reached my mid-teenage years.

No matter. I had other dreams of “what” I wanted to be and the list grew to include a bush pilot, psychologist, flight attendant, and travel agent.

What I am today is no one of those careers. I am a mosaic, pressed out of many experiences and, in fact, I don’t think I will ever have an exact answer to the “what” I am.  

However, who I am is getting clearer every day.  

Still learning to sail my ship

I wish I had more courage.

To paraphrase my favorite author Melody Beattie;

“I may not be a great warrior. I might not lead explorations to the North Pole or climb Mount Everest, but I still need courage.”

I need courage daily it seems and most certainly almost every time I come home after a long day at work or after a time on a weekend getaway. 

I’m still learning to make peace with living alone and how to accept the reality of where I am in my life, and to accept it for what it is. 

I’m also still learning how to juggle the many unbalanced moments in my neck of the woods that revolve around the upkeep and maintenance required here as a single homeowner.  

I’m also still learning how to design just the right mix between work and play.

All of these things require courage and I need courage every day.

This avenue of thought has been ruminating in my mind of late because I was clued in recently to the fact that the social expectations of recovery from tragedy and trauma and loss continue to plague the ones who live in the mire of these past sorrows.

And I’m here to admit that even after two and a half years since my life changed in an instant, I remain a student of adaptation. And I still need courage every day to go forward in a way that honors the love I have for the journey and for myself.

I continue to have a really good support base in my little corner of the planet. I have family and friends who make a day better and those who make life better and at least one who provides both for me in an incomparable way.

Yet I still need courage every day to believe that change is good and change is positive and change is possible. It’s always a possibility, right Dad?

I have read and written and talked and been counseled and cried and shouted and swore an oath to move forward in any way I can and still—it takes courage do that every day.

And sometimes I don’t have any courage to bring to the plate. I still am learning that that empty plate is okay too. I am still learning that it’s okay to be carried when my courage is nowhere to be found. Good friends figure that stuff out and have strong arms.

“Honest friends are doorways to our souls, and loving friends are the grasses that soften the world.”

And the special friend who after quality time together asks me if my “tank” is full and means it, that too, takes courage.

Brene Brown said, “Courage starts with showing up and letting ourselves be seen.”

Here I am. 

That northern lake takes the cake

He’d been hinting at it for about a week, edging ever closer to what I’d hoped would be the ultimate question and result in the day I’ve been waiting for since the smooth-talking outdoorsman first put a minnow on my fishing hook.

“I was thinking about going trout fishing this weekend. Would you like to go along?” he said from the other end of the phone line.

There would be no trying to contain my inner childlike glee this time, no hiding my absolute enthusiasm at the prospect of landing a fighting machine, cousin to a salmon.

I did a fist pump in the air, kicked my leg forward and up and smiled wide as the Grand Canyon.

“You bet I do!” I replied.

Immediately I pictured myself landing a record weight trout that would take me an hour to reel in. I would use every muscle I had. Maybe it would pull me overboard and I’d have to wrestle it into the boat. The trout would be so big I wouldn’t be able to pick it up for that photograph in the latest fishing magazine.

My resolve was crystal clear. The lean, mean fighting machine swimming in those deep cold waters out there in a northern lake had no idea who was coming for him.

“But there’s only one catch,” added the man with the tackle box. I’d heard that cautionary statement before but this time I knew he wasn’t going to say we’d have to snowshoe two miles in to get to the almighty lake.

Instead it was a call to the crowing rooster in me and an early start to the fishing trip.

No problem. I was born early—5:20 a.m. to be exact.

It was like Christmas morning on that “troutful” day. I flew out of bed and into fishing gear, packed a lunch, slammed a coffee, stuffed my pack with chocolate and mosquito repellant and waited on the street corner at the pick-up point with my straw hat.

I was so “bare bones basic” that my smooth-talking outdoorsman nearly drove right by me, mistaking me for a pedestrian.

In the boat on that northern lake, I waited eagerly for my fishing rod to be loaded with a flashy, smart-looking roguish lure like the one the outdoorsman had tied to his own line. All I could think about was that rod-snatching bulldog cheetah of freshwater that had my name tattooed on his gills.

Hopes were dashed when I saw the lure my fishing partner pulled out of the tackle box for my fishing rod, coupled with a lead weight much bigger than I thought I needed.

I didn’t know a thing about trout fishing but I was sure he’d made mine an ill-fated mission.

“I’d like to change to something else. I think the weight is too heavy and I’d like a bigger lure,” I proposed, after a long, long while of trolling in vain.

“Really?” he queried, in a curiously responsive way. “When you catch your first trout, then you can change it,” he said, smiling.

Empty-handed. Yes, that would be me.

There are times when I know what I’m talking about and times when I do not. This was one of those times.

It was all I could do to reel in—catch and release—of four big, beautiful, strong, fighting machines including a 30” fat lunker.

And when I gave the brute back to the deep the outdoorsman asked, “Do you want to change up that lure now?”

I just smiled my “you were right” smile and said, “Not in a million years,” as I watched that gorgeous fish jettison away.

I am the luckiest girl I know.