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Through leafless and frosty airwaves, 9 p.m. howls of impending satisfaction whistle and glide effortlessly over the smooth drifts of snow. Now, as the forests, hay fields and manicured specimen trees waken from their winter slumber, the cacophony has dampened. From way up in them, thar hills exists an anomaly of canine festivities reminiscent of a frat party gone wild; Mayhem of multiple dogs, frolic in anticipation of their meal.
I am happy I don't live closer.
But the curious sort I am I do set my mind to wondering about, exactly, how many dogs constitutes the word "multiple" and how the owner of these dogs must love dogs perhaps more so than loves people. Someday, I say, I'd like to find out.
"That Day" just happened.
on-duty
At five a.m. on Sunday, the day I had set up for a 7am- slam-dunk-sleep-in, I was awakened by the sentence, "Mom! There are dogs running all over our lawn and they're chasing a fox." My minds' eye furrowed in confusion beneath my cozy eye mask. Barking, barking, barking with delight, I laid there and listened, hopefully, for the sound of a huntsman's horn signaling the end of the chase. A minute passed and, like a news-breaking story, the details began to usher in with unbridled speed.
It was Sunday.
It was 5a.m.
All the weekend homes were occupied by upper east side doctors and lawyers.
My husband wasn't home. Such a shame, really. He lives for these types of calls to action, like cleaning the gutters in torrential lightning & thunderstorms.
Alas, I was ON DUTY.
I rolled facing the south windows overlooking my lawn and peeked out from beneath my darkened cave in confirmation. Adjusting from my sleepy dream to refocus on purported dogs and foxes I was launched like a flaming pillow by a trebuchet. Ass over teakettle I jettisoned out of bed and stumbled my way to the most logical priorities one would need to anticipate in the event of finding ones' self at the end of a fox hunt or being joined by my weekend, NYC nephrologist neighbor who has his lawn mowed twice a week.
The pair of six day old pants that were heaped on the floor seemingly rose to action. I brushed my hair. I covered up with a magenta fleece and stuffed my bare feet into my Rescue Hero boots racing to ground zero to lessen the impact of bluster imparted by the incessant hound "speak".
"foxy"
The fox that was spotted happened to be my grossly overweight orange tabby cat. It was Apricots' first day outside since November. Her station beneath the futon in the basement is where she stays warm and safely nestled far, far away from our chocolate lab, Kola. A luscious spring evening laden heavily with lilac and lightning bugs was her migration call. The warm gentle breeze coaxed she and her sister, Dot, outside. Under the cover of darkness, like two teenage girls looking to sneak a smoke, they disappeared.
On the "fluffy" side, how Apricot tore her way up the closest, gnarly tree was nothing short of a miracle. The dogs where pleased to settle for this full-figured, 15 pound, "foxy" girl. Bouncing and "speaking" at the base of the tree in gleeful staccato, Apricot clamped herself onto the limb like a sailor lashed to the mast in a hurricane. Her ears tucked firmly and flush to the side of her head indicated that this was WAY more than she bargained for.
From the deck, Tatum wailed with worry. Her fear for my safety amplified my desire for prompt resolution before the sirens were called in as a third string backup. Praising the dogs for a job well done I approached these smiling faces without concern. They were doing their job and doing it well with the same abandon that Tatum dances or the way I can't help but cry with joy skiing the Skyline Trail overlooking Lake Tahoe. Pure rapture in each of these moments delivered in radically different ways.
I corralled these hounds into my garage.
the plea
The plea for help landed with a 5:45 a.m. email to the one and only woman in Northern Sherman who has her ear to the rail. Marianne knows when something has happened three minutes before hand. She was the line of first responders that came to mind to assist in finding the dogs rightful owner. Had I remembered to take my phone off off vibe I would have checked the chime that delivered her prompt response stating CODE RED. I repeat. CODE RED. Do NOT proceed.
But I'll get back to that.
restoring eden
Restoring Eden would have been rather easy had I been able to simply coax Apricot down from the tree, nudge her inside, and set the dogs on their merry way. However, experienced in the art of feline rescue, I realized that this was going to have to wait. That, and the Universe wasn't finished with me yet.
This was just the beginning.
the wild frontier
Just at that moment as a hush fell over the land. From up yonder wafted the distant howls of canine brethren.
Like a pig on the hot scent of a truffle, this was my call to action.
I mounted my Suburban steed with hounds in my panniers and my daughter still in her fleece, heart-print pajamas, counting ticks in the way, way back. This wasn't a time that warranted seat belts, nor bras. We were heading into: the wild frontier of Sherman.
The wind blew through our hair as we drove the neighborhood loop. At the bottom of the Smoke Ridge cul-de-sac we turned off the ignition to track echo-locate our target. Referencing my winter walks from months prior, I was a few degrees off of my auditory plotting sensors and readjusted the course to head, point five degrees north. We swooped down Anderson's mammoth hill and headed right, eastbound to Rte 55. Just when my psychic radar had lost the scent was precisely when I entered the eye of the storm. There on the side of the road; Sunday morning's epic geocache...a handmade wooden sign that read:
backwoods bling
I am happy I don't live closer.
But the curious sort I am I do set my mind to wondering about, exactly, how many dogs constitutes the word "multiple" and how the owner of these dogs must love dogs perhaps more so than loves people. Someday, I say, I'd like to find out.
"That Day" just happened.
on-duty
At five a.m. on Sunday, the day I had set up for a 7am- slam-dunk-sleep-in, I was awakened by the sentence, "Mom! There are dogs running all over our lawn and they're chasing a fox." My minds' eye furrowed in confusion beneath my cozy eye mask. Barking, barking, barking with delight, I laid there and listened, hopefully, for the sound of a huntsman's horn signaling the end of the chase. A minute passed and, like a news-breaking story, the details began to usher in with unbridled speed.
It was Sunday.
It was 5a.m.
All the weekend homes were occupied by upper east side doctors and lawyers.
My husband wasn't home. Such a shame, really. He lives for these types of calls to action, like cleaning the gutters in torrential lightning & thunderstorms.
Alas, I was ON DUTY.
I rolled facing the south windows overlooking my lawn and peeked out from beneath my darkened cave in confirmation. Adjusting from my sleepy dream to refocus on purported dogs and foxes I was launched like a flaming pillow by a trebuchet. Ass over teakettle I jettisoned out of bed and stumbled my way to the most logical priorities one would need to anticipate in the event of finding ones' self at the end of a fox hunt or being joined by my weekend, NYC nephrologist neighbor who has his lawn mowed twice a week.
The pair of six day old pants that were heaped on the floor seemingly rose to action. I brushed my hair. I covered up with a magenta fleece and stuffed my bare feet into my Rescue Hero boots racing to ground zero to lessen the impact of bluster imparted by the incessant hound "speak".
"foxy"
The fox that was spotted happened to be my grossly overweight orange tabby cat. It was Apricots' first day outside since November. Her station beneath the futon in the basement is where she stays warm and safely nestled far, far away from our chocolate lab, Kola. A luscious spring evening laden heavily with lilac and lightning bugs was her migration call. The warm gentle breeze coaxed she and her sister, Dot, outside. Under the cover of darkness, like two teenage girls looking to sneak a smoke, they disappeared.
On the "fluffy" side, how Apricot tore her way up the closest, gnarly tree was nothing short of a miracle. The dogs where pleased to settle for this full-figured, 15 pound, "foxy" girl. Bouncing and "speaking" at the base of the tree in gleeful staccato, Apricot clamped herself onto the limb like a sailor lashed to the mast in a hurricane. Her ears tucked firmly and flush to the side of her head indicated that this was WAY more than she bargained for.
From the deck, Tatum wailed with worry. Her fear for my safety amplified my desire for prompt resolution before the sirens were called in as a third string backup. Praising the dogs for a job well done I approached these smiling faces without concern. They were doing their job and doing it well with the same abandon that Tatum dances or the way I can't help but cry with joy skiing the Skyline Trail overlooking Lake Tahoe. Pure rapture in each of these moments delivered in radically different ways.
I corralled these hounds into my garage.
the plea
The plea for help landed with a 5:45 a.m. email to the one and only woman in Northern Sherman who has her ear to the rail. Marianne knows when something has happened three minutes before hand. She was the line of first responders that came to mind to assist in finding the dogs rightful owner. Had I remembered to take my phone off off vibe I would have checked the chime that delivered her prompt response stating CODE RED. I repeat. CODE RED. Do NOT proceed.
But I'll get back to that.
restoring eden
Restoring Eden would have been rather easy had I been able to simply coax Apricot down from the tree, nudge her inside, and set the dogs on their merry way. However, experienced in the art of feline rescue, I realized that this was going to have to wait. That, and the Universe wasn't finished with me yet.
This was just the beginning.
the wild frontier
Just at that moment as a hush fell over the land. From up yonder wafted the distant howls of canine brethren.
Like a pig on the hot scent of a truffle, this was my call to action.
I mounted my Suburban steed with hounds in my panniers and my daughter still in her fleece, heart-print pajamas, counting ticks in the way, way back. This wasn't a time that warranted seat belts, nor bras. We were heading into: the wild frontier of Sherman.
The wind blew through our hair as we drove the neighborhood loop. At the bottom of the Smoke Ridge cul-de-sac we turned off the ignition to track echo-locate our target. Referencing my winter walks from months prior, I was a few degrees off of my auditory plotting sensors and readjusted the course to head, point five degrees north. We swooped down Anderson's mammoth hill and headed right, eastbound to Rte 55. Just when my psychic radar had lost the scent was precisely when I entered the eye of the storm. There on the side of the road; Sunday morning's epic geocache...a handmade wooden sign that read:
FOR SALE
Puppies, Hounds, Beagles
"Are you missing a couple of dogs?", I queried, pleased as punch that someone answered the number posted on the bottom of the sign.
"Well, I ain't missing them, but they're probably missing me.", he warbled.
"Well, I'm sitting at the base of your driveway with your dogs in the back of my Suburban. May I approach your home?, " I ventured.
"I'm wearing nothin' but my boots, " he cautioned. "Give me a couple minutes and then come on up. Do you have four wheel drive?"
"I sure do!" My eyes wild with adventure I gripped the steering wheel like a game controller and engaged the L1 axle button, bound for the unknown. The deep ruts in the dirt driveway held me close to the mountain as we maneuvered our first switchback. Tires gripped tight like the sticky pads of tree frogs, we cleared the swath past the storage container to the next switchback. Climbing and climbing like Jack in the Beanstalk my mind wandered to the experience that awaited.
the call
With each turn, the volume of hounds increased. On the final stretch of incline, littered with roadside treasures, rang the phone. It was Marianne.
"I'm not sure you want to be going up there by yourself, Julie. This man just had multiple firearms removed from his property and..." The list went on until she began to hear the imminent approach of dogs through the earpiece of her phone. "...Oh...I'm guessing I've called just a little too late?"
"Yep. I'm committed Marianne. I appreciate the wrap sheet and I am sincerely thankful to know what I am about to get myself into but there's no turning back now. If I don't call you back in 30 minutes, send in backup." I smiled
There I was 15 feet from a log cabin. Dogs tied to trees. Dogs tied to dormant generators. Dogs free roaming and eager to greet the new arrivals.
I was in heaven. I had dogs in my car and dogs in every direction my eyes could see.
Despite the list of violations Marianne relayed I couldn't help myself. There I was behind the wheel of my Suburban, NOT making school lunches, NOT folding laundry, NOT taking out the trash, NOT sweeping the kitchen floor or wiping the kitchen counters of debris. There was something so unique and authentic about this present moment in time.
I was So. Crazy. Happy.
coon man
Off the front porch stepped a person in his late 60's. A solid-footed & sinewy sprite of a man, he put himself together with an air of a long-term bachelor living solely on rib-eyes and baked potatoes. He wore a black, long sleeve t-shirt and blue dungarees with suspenders, his silver belt buckle captured a dull glint in the morning sunshine. It was the very first time my eyes had met a man that wore his beard in a pony tail. His thinning gray hair was tidy, braided and just tickled the collar of his shirt. His teeth were the color of driftwood and his hands conveyed knowledge beyond my life's experience.
With his presence I was assured safe passage among his dogs and exited my car; My heart and smile were ablaze with joy. We shook hands and made cursory introductions as the hounds leaped from the back tailgate. And then, he took a step back as though he had experienced the fringe of a lightning strike.
"You own horses don't you." Bent at the elbows, he held his arm in front of him, fingers straight. "My hands and forearms are tingling. Oh my.This is something else! You are surrounded by the energy of horses." Not a stranger to this description, his energetic assessment of horses was comforting in its familiarity and revealed to me his status as a back-woods, evangelical shaman of sorts. "This is going to be a special meeting. It's Sunday morning and the good Lord has brought us together.This is Faith."
I restrained my inner schoolmarm and refrained from correcting his choice of words from Faith to Fate.
I restrained my inner schoolmarm and refrained from correcting his choice of words from Faith to Fate.
backwoods bling
Naturally, captivated by jewelry and it's symbolism, I was drawn by his backwoods bling. A thick, black leather cord hung loosely around his neck. At the valley hung the tip of a deer antler. Symmetrically to either side, wrapped in coils of copper, were two curved three inch bones... and one tie clip.
"Ohhhh, what are these bones?" I inquired. He motioned me, unsuccessfully, out of earshot of my equally curious daughter and slowly explained, "These are ribs of a raccoon. And look at this!" And in a hushed drawl of reverence, "Now THIS (as he held the tie clip), THIS is real silver!" There between the antler and one of the coon bones was a silver tie clip. "And lookie here on this side. This here?" And he pointed with his wise hands, "THIS is real onyx. I found it in the parking lot of my favorite restaurant."
Coon Man gave me a short tour of the area within a 20 foot radius of my get-away vehicle. My mind ebbed and flowed back to Marianne's warning and plea to abort. Coon Man shared the best restaurant to buy a steak, the bargain of his new Cutlass Supreme with only 32K miles (how in the heck did he get it up his driveway?) and how they tried to burn him out in 2002 (WHAT?!). He told me of issues with the law and of the toughness of beef that never has a chance to age. As my daughter recounted later, he was a talker.
persecuted
Coon Man recounted stories of ongoing persecution, protecting what he knows as his true and authentic way of life, and thus results in push back from both directions. The neighbors feel threatened and impinged upon by stray dogs and the safety of their house cat out on the midnight beat. Coon Man feels pinched and caged like...um....a wild raccoon. For what one registers as a high degree of "authenticity" registers for others as an personal affront. It's all relative to proximity.
perspective
There isn't a lot of control I have over my day, but the one thing I do have is the ability to choose how I perceive the conditions that surround me. Committing to a positive perspective is a conscious choice based in gratitude for what each new day brings. By sheer surrender to faith in the common good I accepted my fate of this one special morning and how it taught me the beauty of acceptance, the importance of compassion and committing to the call of adventure with an open loving heart. So, from my comfortable distance, I claim my appreciation for Coon Man and the opportunity he presented me to step into adventure.
I committed to this adventure to matriculate into an independent, confident and empowered woman; To know my boundaries, know the full capacity of my heart and be able to share and instill a sense of belonging and compassion to this unique soul others would have deemed a misfit. Coon Man was correct in his issuance of "Faith". A connection and commitment to a higher source was the orchestrating force behind this experience. Choosing to join up with that full tilt adventure gave my heart something to chew on and Faith is exactly what brought us together; To give me the chance to commit to a deeper sense of purpose, self-reliance and adventure. And for Coon Man to feel, if just for a moment, that he belongs.
perspective
There isn't a lot of control I have over my day, but the one thing I do have is the ability to choose how I perceive the conditions that surround me. Committing to a positive perspective is a conscious choice based in gratitude for what each new day brings. By sheer surrender to faith in the common good I accepted my fate of this one special morning and how it taught me the beauty of acceptance, the importance of compassion and committing to the call of adventure with an open loving heart. So, from my comfortable distance, I claim my appreciation for Coon Man and the opportunity he presented me to step into adventure.
I committed to this adventure to matriculate into an independent, confident and empowered woman; To know my boundaries, know the full capacity of my heart and be able to share and instill a sense of belonging and compassion to this unique soul others would have deemed a misfit. Coon Man was correct in his issuance of "Faith". A connection and commitment to a higher source was the orchestrating force behind this experience. Choosing to join up with that full tilt adventure gave my heart something to chew on and Faith is exactly what brought us together; To give me the chance to commit to a deeper sense of purpose, self-reliance and adventure. And for Coon Man to feel, if just for a moment, that he belongs.
Ask yourself:
"When adventure knocks how will I choose to respond?"
"When adventure knocks how will I choose to respond?"
Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397
1 comment:
Wow! What an adventure to share. I love your way with words and experienced every moment you described as I read each paragraph of your story. Let faith give you the strength and courage to always answer the door. Love, your wayfinder friend from Alabama
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