Tracks in the Snow

The tree is trimmed, the halls are decked…fa-la-la-la-la-la-la. Christmas music is playing (great ‘radio’ available on the internet.) Snow on the ground, fog muffled and isolates. Winter…

I am not a winter person. Not at all. Years ago, when the kids were small, the coming of winter and the dark, snowy days made me blue. I would gather things to do, green plants and good books in the fall, like a squirrel afraid of starving; storing every tiny thing I could think of to ward off the winter blues.

One thing that always works for me is walking outside no matter the weather. The only things that keep me in are sub-freezing temperatures, intense snowstorms or bad air. Today the air is so thick with fog and smog if looks smudgy gray, so it’s walking inside on the elliptical or just walking around inside.

Among the many joys of walking are tracks in the snow. Proof left behind of all we’ve missed. Friday, a cross-hatch of bird tracks, rabbit tracks scattered up the hill, many dog tracks criss-crossing each other, one set whose owner needs to trim his dog’s nails, and deer. Oh, how I wished I’d seen the deer. We have a relationship. I see them all the time. At first, they’d run, but I’d always wave and shout after them not to be afraid. Now, they simply watch until I wave, then go back to eating. I suspect they’ve decided I’m harmless, though a bit strange.

The Maddie Rose situation and the Christmas Tree: I woke the other night to the soft tinkling sound of breaking glass. My dining room was a battlefield of shattered Christmas ornaments (favorite one, of course). I cleaned up the mess, had a talking to the sworn innocent. I think the siege on the tree ended, knock on wood. I find it hard to imagine my words swayed the cat. And if they did, why, by gosh, aren’t I selling like Stephen King?

I wish I could get into Maddie Rose’s mind. What draws her to something? For instance, I’ve been working on a poem all week about a little ghost town out on the Salt Lake Desert. My husband took my mother and I on a day trip out there many years ago on our way to Grouse Creek. Not much left. It’s a desolate place of dead dreams and broken promise. What remains remind me of those tracks in the snow swept away by the years and wind. What once had been a bustling rail town has all but disappeared. Yet, there is something about it that pulls at my imagination and calls to me.

I captured the haunting images by photo and memory, but what made them real were five tiny mementos, now only four. I know better than to leave things on my desk. I know Maddie Rose cannot resist my desk. I don’t understand. I look at that desk and can’t see the fascination for a cat. She loves pens, paper clips, highlighters, loose papers. I’ve said before, is she, herself a frustrated poet, reincarnated to be my cat? Or simple a mischief-maker, out to drive me crazy? I’ve searched the house in all the usual places and of course, she’s not telling. Only watching me, with wide green eyes, as I look under things.

It gets me thinking though. About the poem and what I was trying to say. It gets me wondering about that little token, that little something no one else would treasure. Why do I? Why does it speak to me, this broken piece of clay? What direction will this poem take now? Was it meant to be changed and Maddie Rose is trying to be my muse? I’d ask her but she’s not talking.