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.

One Word

One word, one foot, one worry. Get those behind me. Then, do it again and again until I get through. A little step, sometimes a tiny step, no one else can even see. But do that enough times and the next thing I realize is I’ve finished the story, poem, task, that next medical test. I’ve spent my whole life learning that’s how you get things done. Not by big flashy steps, but tiny miniscule ones. That’s how battles are won, books are written, setbacks are conquered.

So, I got the CAT scan out of the way. Everything looks good. Then, I went into the Urologist, thinking I’d get the scope yesterday, but we had mostly a consultation. He agreed with my kidney doctor that all that was wrong was to do with the MPGN. Still, I have to have a scope to make sure, so it was set up for after Christmas.

I put off putting up the Christmas tree, waiting until I could celebrate being clear of everything but the MPGN. (Perspective, again. Once, I would have celebrated a complete clean bill of health, now…I just want nothing more to be wrong.) We didn’t have a tree last year. I was just too weary of dealing with my illness (That’s not true, it wasn’t the illness by then, but the medicine and…I was still sad about Irene.) and we had a new little frisky kitten to deal with. She’s older now, a real terror, but I decided she has to learn her boundaries.

And, I need the tree.

Funny how just bringing the decorations up from the basement helped. Kind of sad, though. We had to get rid of the old military green footlocker we had our decorations in because of a flooded basement last January. The new, clean plastic containers just aren’t the same.

You see, I’m terribly old-fashioned. My tree isn’t designed or matched. The decorations have been on the tree, year after year, added as we could afford. Many have been on the tree since the beginning. I like it like that. Years ago, we made only one concession-an artificial tree and then, only because the real trees we were getting weren’t lasting through to Christman. The last one we bought dried out terribly and barely made it to Christmas. I miss the wonderful smell, so I’ll try to buy some boughs, etc.

Because Christmas is definitely about smells. Bayberry (you never find this anymore), cinnamon and pine. For me, the smell of a new doll also brings a ton of memories. Betsy McCall, Madame Alexander baby doll my father bought in Denver and hid downstairs in the rafters because they’d sold out here, ( and first suspicion about the big guy) Betsy Wetsy, Terry Lee. I never was one to play with dolls much, but, oh, that smell. It still gives me butterflies in my stomach and a smile in my heart. It’s as full of memories and smiles as puppy breath. Whenever I see either, (doll or puppy) I beg for a sniff. With all those wonderful smells, and glitter-covered ornaments and the memories they evoke, I’ll bet I find something to write about. What about you?

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving and it’s time for thanksgiving. I really can’t come to this day without feeling a huge sense of gratitude. I spent yesterday looking for a few quotes to put on my bulletin boards I have around the house and on the front porch to reflect my emotions.

None really express it. None of my blogs where I’ve written about my gratitude do either. I am a word person, but there are not words to express how grateful I am that I feel better. Healthy, even. And I have so much more to be grateful for. A great family, my mom still with us, a sister , I feel closer to, like we’re friends, or like back when we had kids and talked to each other every day. And I have good friends, and more than that, I have enough. Enough food, clothing, heat, health insurance, transportation.

And, I’m writing again. Not safe little things, but stories, poems (some of the best I’ve ever done, I think.) I sent out a submission just Friday. It wasn’t so long ago I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to do that. Not so long ago, I couldn’t string my thoughts together. And while it’s a little thing in the scheme of things, it’s huge to me.

I’ve been dreaming again, and about my writing. It was the strangest, most disturbing thing to have my dreams turned off, just like the screen was shut down, no longer connected. I am so grateful the idea of going back to the beginning and poetry, came to me. I can’t help thinking something bigger than me guided me. Knew how healing the writing would be for me and guided me. Or maybe it was just Esmeralda Plug. (I’ll tell you all about her in another blog.) So, I have to say how grateful I am that I found Melanie Faith and her poetry workshops. They were just what I needed, just when I needed. And, how about her last name.

During this time of year, what I have stands out in sharp contrast to what so many don’t. I don’t want to take that lightly. So, while I’m elbow deep in pie crusts and bread crumbs, I intend to appreciate what I have. I won’t moan about my last rejection, or not winning (or placing) in my last poetry contest. I’ll just be grateful I’m able to do what I so love. And it isn’t just being able to…It’s being able to.

For the Holidays

We can never know what is around the corner of our tomorrows. As so often happens, it is unrecognized treasures. Some sink; some float. We can never tell which will do what until the water hits. The water hit this year and I’m still afloat. A bit worse for wear, but I feel better every day and I’m going to embrace that.


I have wonderful friends and family around who have kept me afloat when I couldn’t do it myself. I’m back to walking my dog two miles every day. Just a few months ago I couldn’t walk to the bedroom.


I’m writing again and feeling excited about it. Writing has become its own reward. It better be. Odds are against me right now, but that’s ok, too. I will never underestimate what I can do again. Instead, I’ll look back on how far I’ve come already. It’s what I do everyday anyway, that counts. That’s what gets a book, essay or poem written. That’s how you get well. That’s how you live.


I’ve come to realize how blessed I am. I never want to forget that. My life will never be perfect. As Annette Funicello said, life doesn’t have to be perfect to be wonderful.
Wishing for peace, love, and happiness for all of you.



Happy Holidays