Replayed Kind Words

      Today, as I was walking across the parking lot of a store, doing my best to step in every rain dropped puddle I could find, a woman in a large vehicle backed out directly in front of me. I stopped, of course and waited, but then she turned her head and looked at me. The surprise on her face was genuine. I expected little more from her than a hurried wave at me to continue on my way, or, perhaps, for her to continue backing up. I was neutral either way. To my very great surprise, she rolled down her window and smiled apologetically, saying kindly, "I am so very, very sorry. I didn't see you!"
      Her smile was infectious and I found myself returning the gracious gesture ( I hadn't really been paying attention, either).
      "It's no problem," I told her.   "You can go."
      "Oh no, no. You go. Get out of the rain. You go, please."
Such a short exchange between two perfect strangers, nothing more, really, than a momentary blip in my day. And yet, if it was merely a blip, and we were only strangers, why, then, did her words and smile replay over and over in my head as I continued on my way with puddles and then shopping? I don't know her and she certainly does not know me. Yet, there was a moment when the world of me and her connected and entwined.
Why? Because we live in days when walking down the street, with our eyes forward, seeing those around us, has become rare. We live in moments that we do not even see, so preoccupied are we with the electronic in our hands or the grudge against slights or the taut anxiety of an overstrung society.
      This woman's consideration, her immediate willingness to smile and speak kindly to a stranger, to make a connection beyond irritation or oblivion, was a rare moment.
       I have always been a people watcher. I watch who smiles, who cries, who grumbles and who laughs. I observe the countless passer-bys with their drawn and worried faces. I see the person with the scowl they have carried so long they do not even know they carry it. I make it a point to never stare down. I pass people by, and I smile. It is rare that anyone makes eye contact with me long enough to return the smile. And that is okay, I guess. We can't smile always, on the outside. But I smile at those I pass, and every so often, someone looks at me, sees me, and, sometimes with a startled expression, tentatively returns the smile.
      I watch people. Why are so many people oblivious to those around them? It is so easy to say something kind, to smile warmly, to nod pleasantly, to take a breath and relax and realize the world is beautiful. I admit I am not an eternal optimist and sometimes the world does not seem so beautiful. But that woman today, her in her car and me in my puddles, she made the world beautiful. She doesn't know she did it, I am sure, and I assume she was not intentionally trying to add anything to my day. But she did. She added a moment that has become so rare and far between in every day life for every day people, that I replayed her kindness again and again.
      Smile at those you pass by. See the colors of their eyes. Observe the countenance of their souls. Recognize their silent search for everyday beauty. It only take a split second to offer something beautiful to those around you. Do it enough and let it catch on until everyone is replaying kindness, not only within, but replaying it to others.
      Kindness from strangers should not be so extraordinary that it stops us in our tracks. Kindness should be a constant.



Sometimes, I do short fiction "Yellow Honesty"

Sometimes, I venture into the world of short fiction. I blame it on an amazing creative writing professor. And an amazing Brti Lit professor. Okay, mostly, I blame it on my very twisted, morbidly curious mind. Mainly, my blog has been nonfiction. However, I read a news article, I saw a news report, my soul cringed, and my imagination took off into the worlds of "how" and "why." From such, was born this.

The Color of Silence
By: Brook Marie

            They always told me to be honest with them, that the truth was better than lies no matter how painful the truth might be. “Be honest, always,” said my father in his deep, grumbling voice. “If you aren’t honest we can’t help you,” my mother spoke softly, all the good intentions of a mother resonating on the soft waves of her voice. “What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” quoted my father to me one day: I was seven and had tried to explain away something or other. Tangled web. Tangled. Web. Sticky. Caught. Can’t get loose. Trapped.

            Yellow is a horrid color. Oh I know, people say – don’t ask me which people – that yellow is vibrant and alive and happy and cheerful! They say. They say. They don’t have a clue. My sister loves yellow. She would. She’s the happy child in my family. Always dancing and laughing, her blonde pigtails bobbing up and down, up and down, up and down – I race to the toilet and throw up violently. Outside the bathroom I hear my parent’s concerned voices.

            “We should take her to the doctor.” It is my mother. She thinks everything can be fixed with a Doctor’s visit.

                                    Mom, my heart is broken/

                                                The doctor can fix that dear/

                                    Mom, my soul is crushed and ripped open, a gaping hole/

Oh, sweetheart, let’s go see the Doctor! I’m sure he can help/

            My father’s voice follows. “It’s just the flu. That time of year again, you know. Winter is setting in wet this year and everyone at work has been getting the flu. It’ll pass.”

            The cool porcelain of the toilet kisses my cheek. They don’t know a thing. They can’t fix a thing. They asked for honesty. They asked for truth. The truth is, I hate yellow. And my sister is dancing about in a new, yellow dress.

­­______________________________

            When I was six I begged to ride the school bus to school for first grade. I was a big girl. In my mind, the world was something I could conquer with tea parties and sword fights. My mother and father smiled fondly, a touch of sadness in their eyes (“Our baby is growing up”) and agreed. Take your lunch box. Be safe. Sit up front near the driver. Be safe. Don’t run around while the bus is moving. Be safe. Don’t distract the driver. Be safe. We love you so much. Be safe. Mommy will be right here at the bus stop waiting for you when you come home. Be safe. Be safe. Be safe. Be. Safe. Safe.

            At church my parent’s best friends had children that rode the same bus as me that year. They smiled fondly when my mother boasted, somewhat sadly, about how independent I was becoming. My father rubbed her back and nodded, looking over my mother’s shoulder to wink at me. I grinned back and then ran off to play tag with the other kids. How innocent was the world I lived in!

            When we were leaving, my mom looked at me and said, “Drew and David and Elizabeth will ride the bus with you. Drew will make sure you don’t miss your stop for the first week or two; just until you get the hang of it.”

            Inwardly I scowled. I was a big girl. I didn’t need Drew to help me. He was twelve. He would be bossy. Outwardly I nodded, afraid to disagree lest my parents change their minds about letting me ride the bus. They smiled at me, satisfied that they were making the right decision.

______________________________

            Drew held my hand the first day, and helped me down the steps of the bus. Through the window, Elizabeth waved cheerfully. She is one year older than me and she is my best friend. Was. She is not my best friend any longer. My mother thanked Drew and I pulled my hand away. The bus was warm and smelled funny but I had reveled in the sense of “bigness” that swept over me when I rode it.

            Field trips on the bus were always fun. The cracked leather of the grey seats itched my bare legs that stuck out, skinny and white, from my new shorts. Elizabeth wasn’t on the bus. David wasn’t on the bus. Drew wasn’t on the bus. Only first graders. We were going to the Pumpkin Patch. I loved the bus, that day. The Field Trip monitors and the teachers cracked all the windows at the top. Autumn breeze came in cool and crisp like an apple. Field Trips were the best bus days.

            Winter and my mother was worried. There was ice and snow on the road. My father said there wasn’t, my mother argued there could be. Perhaps she had better drive me to school. But the bus pulled up to the house and away I went, my mother calling out as the doors squeaked shut, “Be safe!”

            Outside the bus, the world was grey and frosty, winter had come and the world would soon be white. Now it was only cold and dreary. Inside the bus I was warm and safe and Elizabeth sat beside me and my new scarf was soft and warm and long and wrapped like a hug around my neck.

            The next day Elizabeth and David were home sick and the rain poured down. My mother again called out, “Be safe!” adding, “Drew, make sure she doesn’t slip and fall or get pushed getting off the bus.”

            I didn’t slip. I didn’t fall. But I have yet to get back up.

______________________________

            I loathe yellow but my dreams are filled with yellow. I crave honesty but honesty is harder to find the longer you wait. My tongue swells up when the truth threatens to come out and my throat gets thick. My mother smiles at me, worry and concern etched across her face. My father frowns at me, confusion over my attitude creasing the corners of his mouth. And the truth lodges tight in my chest, catching my breath in a painful grasp of ugly nettles. It’s too late. Too late. Isn’t it? The truth is ugly. Honesty is supposed to be the kindest thing you can give someone, but it only looks tainted and black to me.

            My little sister is in the kitchen, crying. I have snapped at her. She is so small and the world is so bright for her and I have spoken harshly to her, cracked a portion of her sunshine. Mom’s voice carries softly, “Oh sweetie, that wasn’t very nice of her. Here, you come help me finish dinner.”

            The last time I was asked to help finish dinner, my mother pulled out a bag of shiny, yellow bell peppers. I screamed and howled, an animal set loose in the kitchen, and threw the repulsive vegetables across the room. I tried to find words for my torment. I was seven, then, and knew my words but my words no longer knew me. My mother sent me to my room. She never asked me what was wrong. She couldn’t have known to ask me. That’s what I tell myself. But she should have asked me. I was her child.

            Her child. No one else’s child. Hers and my fathers. They should have known that honesty was inside of me, trapped in a web, poisoned by a spider. But they didn’t ask because…because. I spilled paint purposely on my yellow shoes that Grandma sent me. Taking out the trash, one day, my father found all my yellow building bricks in the garbage bag. When I was eight, my mother received yellow flowers for her birthday. I cut the heads off. When she asked me why, I tried to tell her but how could my child’s mind find the words to explain that yellow cut me open and watched me bleed out? Sometimes honesty has no words.

            Now my father is yelling at me. I deserve it. I made my little sister cry. I shattered her perception of me, the protector, the bigger and better and stronger. My father never yells. He is a man of low, grumbling, soothing voice. I needed him to yell sooner but sooner came too late.

______________________________

            Today the sun came out, through the wintry grey of an overcast sky, and the cold, filtered light made my stomach churn. Little sister has on a pink snow coat – our mother stopped buying yellow clothing a month ago. It took her years to figure out that yellow destroys me, destroyed me, and she still hasn’t asked why. Elizabeth’s mom called my mom. She and her husband are going out of town and can my parents watch Drew, David, and Elizabeth? Why would my mother say yes? Why would my father agree? I haven’t been friends with Elizabeth in five years. Drew is old enough to watch everyone but his parents will be gone for two weeks and don’t want them alone for that long.

            They have been at my house for two days now. I cannot sleep. I lie in bed and grind my teeth, hoping the grating noise will drown out the wails inside of my head. Elizabeth has tried to be kind to me but kindness is a farce in the face of disowning honesty. I was honest with her and she turned away. I spilled out my brokenness to her and she silenced me.

            There is movement from the next room and I freeze under my covers, my hands gripping white on my chest. Everything around me slows down to a painful tick of each second on the clock by my bed. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Go. Away. Go. Away. Go. Away. The silence is loud, so loud! How can no one hear the silence? Tick. Tock. Go. Away. Silence is death. Death is the yellow glow of the hallway light that briefly flickers as honesty finds its way to my room. Tick. Tock. Time is running out.

______________________________

            There are no words for despair. Alone, now, in my tiny apartment, where I have painted the yellowed and aging walls a vicious green, I remember. The clock never stopped that night. The questions were never asked. The bus never slowed down. The screams never came. But honesty came.

            Lying naked on the shower floor, seventeen, a bottle of pills in my stomach, a patchwork of scars and cuts, old and new, revealed at last, my parents found me. They found what was left of me, the shell of me, the bottled up, broken, withheld honest part of me. I hated that hospital room where I recovered. Cheery yellow paint to wish the patients well again. In that hospital room, with a complete stranger, honesty came. She was kind and soft and understanding. Things were set in motion. But it didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

            The damage is done. The break was final. Honesty only destroyed those around me when it finally came out. When I was a child, I couldn’t find the words for honesty. When I was a teenager, I choked on the wall inside of me and buried myself beneath it. As an almost adult, I let it out and watched with a detached numbness the catastrophic fallout around me. This was the result.

            This is the result. I look around me. Pristine. Clean. Neat. Spotless. Orderly. Safe. Haven. Safe. Be safe. Make safe. Isolate. Withdraw. Precaution and contain. They can’t touch me. That is the result. They won’t touch me. I am broken, beyond repair.

            The sun is coming up. Another day. Yellow light streams in a thin line through the crack in the curtains. Stand up. Walk over. Seal the curtains shut. Outside, a school bus rumbles by, a yellow coffin singing my death.

           

As Promised - Peek Into "The Grim Daughter"

I am not an expert on the rules of publishing, though we all know I wish I was. LOL! But as such, because I have just begun to query this book out to agents, I am only sharing a brief excerpt from the opening scene. Over time I hope to share various other bits for your reading curiosity and pleasure. Here it is. "The Grim Daughter"

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality....
~Emily Dickinson

CHAPTER ONE

            The first funeral that Kresley Morgan ever attended was when she was three years old. As cliché’s would go, it had been a somber affair with mourners dressed in the customary black, the sky had been overcast and spitting out a pathetic grey drizzle, and the tears had been flowing. Kresley remembered holding tight to her mother’s hand while vainly attempting to lean over the open hole in the ground and see below the casket. Looking back on it, Kresley realized that she had not been clutching her mother’s hand but her mother had been clutching hers, trying to keep her precocious young daughter from pitching head first into the dark and muddy hole.

            Since that first somber gathering, Kresley had attended, all total, sixteen funerals. She thought it ironic that she had basically attended one for every year of her life. Death had never scared her and now, as she approached her seventeenth birthday, Kresley found that she had developed a sort of passive acceptance to the concept of dying. It was hard to fear something that had been such a dominant part of her life.

            The last funeral she had attended should have choked her up, drawn a cry of anguish from her lips, leaked bitter tears from her brown eyes, or caused her to pull brokenly at her blonde hair. Instead, Kresley had stood by the mahogany casket, eyes dry, hair in place, mouth loose with relief as the sun beat overhead and before her, her mother had been lowered into the ground. She had been aware of the furtive, questioning looks from some and the overly sympathetic glances from others but she ignored them all. They had not had to live with her mother these last few months. They, who wanted to sob over the now deceased Mary Morgan, had not had to witness Mary’s last few weeks on this earth.

Forever and a Day

Has it truly been so long since last I visited the poor wee thing known as "my blog"? For shame! And I should indeed feel ashamed. Time has flown, I don't know where, and my life has continued stepping onward - one coffee fueled, fantasy prodded, too many goals at a time hectic step at a time. The clock has continued ticking and here I sit.

        So here is the short, fast, not to be bogged down by mundane details, update. I graduated! Yes, indeed I did. I spent months studying 19th century British literature and all that it entails. In the entire time I attended grad school, there was only one class offered in my emphasis. Many suggested I switch to something I had taken more classes in such as: Shakespearean literature, Post-modernism, creative writing, or Rhetoric. Did I listen? Hmmm... My husband is a Marine, and as such, he has a saying about Marines. "We work harder, not smarter." It is self-deprecating and entirely in good humor but with my emphasis in grad school I found myself doing that very thing. I refused to comp out in anything simply because it would be "easier." I have had a long standing love affair with all things British and 19th century since I first read Oliver Twist and then Jane Eyre at the ages of 9 and 10.

      Off I went, disappeared into a world of academic studying, education fiction reading, history drenched, and imperialism soaked 19th century. And I passed! Yes I did and I could not have been happier to walk down that aisle and accept my diploma. Even if the man squeezed into the chair next to me reeked of seven day body odor, stale corn chips, and beer, and was sweating enough liquid to float the Medusa! Yes, even then, I did it, was thrilled, and am done.

       Next, I plan on pursuing my PhD. But until such time, I have re-entered, with great zest and determination, the world of all things fantasy, paranormal, and slightly horrifying. From my head to this page and, hopefully, to your hands one day, dear reader.

      I have used my temporary reprieve from schooling to once more enter the world of writing strictly for MY pleasure. And what a wonderful break it has been. I have finished two more novels. One of them may have a sequel, although I cannot be positive. What I am positive of, is this: certain characters have taken on a marvelous life of their own and have henceforth taken up residence in my conscious and subconscious thoughts. Awake or asleep, they clamor about, demanding to be heard, and driving me relentlessly to continue telling their stories. They have become exceptionally dear to me. I think I will keep them about for some time to come. :)

     And now, in closing, I am going to try something new. Because I had so much fun writing my most recent novel, and because my fun is only increased when others derive pleasure from it as well, I am going to post the beginning of chapter one in my very next blog. I don't like to wait and others should not have to, so, I shall do it immediately after this.

     I hope you enjoy it, and, if you are still around after my sudden and abrupt hiatus, I hope you will continue to check in from time to time. I love to talk to any and all about a little bit of everything. Feel free to say hello!

On Querying and Rejection

I wish I had some amazing, flamboyant, simply enlightening advice for those of you on the journey to landing an agent and getting published - I really do. But this isn't that kind of blog. This is more a "I know what you're going through if you've been rejected more times than you can count" kind of blog.

Yesterday I received yet another rejection. I tried to count in my head, to find a number for how many that adds up to, now. It was impossible. I've been querying this one book for two and a half years now. I know that some people say, "Just shelf it and move on to the next" but I simply cannot do it. I believe in the book I have written that absolute much! Is that insanity? Not to me and it shouldn't be to you, either. You should believe in your work enough that you will take a thousand rejections with grace and then prepare for a thousand more. Keep writing, in the meantime, of course. Write your heart and soul and brains out. Write until the keys fall off your keyboard. Write until your fingertips become calloused. Whatever you do, write! But also, keep querying.

If I can get rejected as many times as I have, and still have complete faith in my work, and keep seeking out representation, then you can as well. There isn't any magic formula that makes rejection feel okay. It's basically just, Suck it up buttercup! LOL! Not what you wanted to hear? I know. I don't want to say that even to myself. But that's the truth. Keep in mind that you aren't the first to get rejected more times than you can track. There are plenty of people in the world that can fill the slot of giving up easily enough. Don't be one of them. Be one of the persevering writing god or goddesses!

Here's my bottom line, because I am going to keep this short: if you don't believe in your work enough to keep learning, keep trying, to keep researching and seeking ways to be better, then why should you deserve to land an agent and ultimately a publishing deal? You need to be so certain of your work that you can take rejection for as long as you have to. That's being a writer. That's having a story to tell that you just have to get out to the world. If it doesn't mean enough to you to try even when others say stop, then it won't mean much to anyone else out there.

Oh! KEEP WRITING! You don't have just one story to tell.

Just Keep Keeping On

We all have something we are working towards in life, something that we reach for only to have it seem to take several hasty steps further away from us. This can be discouraging, disheartening, and downright frustrating. To think, "There! I can just touch it!" and suddenly our end game seems more distant than it ever was. What to do? Abandon our dream, pick a new one, find a different goal? Don't give up!

Anything worth having is worth working for. Sometimes, more often than not if you are me, the thing worth having means more work than ever dreamed of. It doesn't matter. Look at it this way. Every fumbling step you take is just a building block of experience in life. Take myself for example. I have three huge goals in life. 1.) I want to get fit again, like I was when I got married. 2.) I want a Master's degree in English Literature. 3.) I want, so very badly, to find a literary agent that will look at my writings and say "YES! I can get you published!"

I spent the past 10 years fighting what seemed to be a losing battle against constant weight gain. And then two years ago I re-assessed and looked at everything I had done WRONG. I didn't look at what I had done right. To be truthful, I hadn't done much correctly. But what am I saying? Sometimes we get so wrapped up in what we think we are doing right, that we don't even realize everything we are doing wrong that is pulling us down, down, down.

Now, this is not always the case, but let me assure you, we, as a human beings, are proud creatures! To admit we might be wrong is to admit a weakness that can be scary to face. And yet, we must look at the downside as well as the upside. The downside tells us how we can improve, where we can improve. If we are only ever right then shouldn't we have succeeded in every area of our lives by now? Yes. But we haven't (unless you are perfect and then, of reader, please let me meet you and learn from you!).

I wasted three years taking inconsequential classes as I pursued a basic bachelor's degree. Oh, I told everyone around me that I was excelling and pursuing and getting closer to my dreams, but in reality I was scared to fail and so I danced around getting down to business. This is the next thing I want to bring up.

Don't scare yourself or intimidate yourself into believing that you could possibly fail to reach your goals. It's easy to say we don't do this, but quite often, if we look deep inside, we will find that the reason our goals always seem so far away, is because we have been sabotaging ourselves. It may be unintentional, but there it is; lurking beneath the surface, so close to our skin, that we have become used to it and no longer see it for what it is. It's okay to be scared. I don't think I would want to chase something so boring that it never frightened me at least a little! Be frightened! Let your dreams and goals be that big. Just learn to control that fear.

For those of you who write, who wish to be but are  not published, who create worlds in your minds and characters that keep you company, those of you who dream of one day having your hard work acknowledged, keep on keeping on. Re-assess what you have been doing up to this point and look at the things that DO NOT work for you. Don't look at what you've done right so far. What you've done right up to this point hasn't taken you to where you hoped you'd be by now, has it? If it has, please disregard this. I am speaking to myself and to those who are still chasing that publishing dream.

Stop letting fear keep you from learning from those who have succeeded. Stop thinking that what you do right is the only way to improve. Take your faults, shortcomings, downsides, and excuses, line them up, list them out, and tackle them one by one. Eventually, you will succeed. It will be worth every hour of heartache and pain, frustration and tears, sweat and agony that you go through. I find that there is little satisfaction in easy, handed to me, success. When I succeed, I want to look back and see the trail of me I have left behind - because behind me are the parts I did not need. I shed them like an unwanted layer of faults and shortcomings and became better and stronger.

Growing and learning should be a never ending experience. So make mistakes, be scared, be humble, take advice, concede to the fact that we do not know everything, and always keep keeping on.



*I graduate with my Master's degree in English Romantic and Victorian Literature in the Fall of 2016
*I have shed almost 70 pounds in the past 16 months
*I have two academic pieces being published and am still chasing the elusive literary agent for my fiction. :)

The Terror of Trumpkin: Part One

Trumpkin. That was his name. Or, its name. Trumpkin. Two small syllables dreamed up in the mind of a nine year old girl that could strike terror into the hearts of her siblings. Trumpkin. Who is Trumpkin, you ask? Let me tell you.


Long ago, before there were ten of us, there were five, and of those five, there were three who ran through the woods behind their house. Laughter bounced off the sunlight dappled trees, and shouts of imaginary conquest sent the wildlife scurrying for cover. To one side of the edge of this wood lie a large lawn topped by our home and to the other side of the wood ran a singing, bubbling creek. We were children with no worries beyond what our young imaginations could muster up. For the most part, the limit of terrifying in our minds was nothing more dreadful than to be caught in the woods after the sun set. Why the dark trees might scare us, we could not say. But that is the thing about the dark, one can never be certain what hides beneath the black and shadowy veil. But I digress.

There ran us three, James, Jeneva, and myself. From towering rock walls that loomed to life with groans and lurches, to towers that bent low to whisper spells in our ears, to the waters of the creek that offered healing powers, all the way down the smallest animal burrow in which resided creatures known only to us, we surrounded ourselves in those woods with imaginary play. All was beautiful and exciting, bright and thrilling. Until one day...

"Trumpkin came to my window last night," whispered Jeneva as we stood at the edge of the wood.

"He told me that I had to bring you in to meet him."

Something cold tickled my spine, a sensation new and unfamiliar to me. Beside me, James had fallen silent, his ever turning mind expressed in the skeptical twist of his brows.

"What's a Trumpkin?" inquired James.

He didn't appear nervous. Never one to be left behind, I mustered up my best brave and bored voice. "Yeah. What's a Trumpkin? No one came to your window, Jeneva!"

At this point, somewhere in the woods a loud crack could be heard. Irony? Perfect timing? Coincidence? You tell me. At the sudden sound, Jeneva jerked her head to peer nervously over her shoulder. When she looked back at us, there was a hint of urgency in her face.

"Just come meet him," she insisted. "He's, uh, he's not very big. He lives in the hole by the old bush and rotted tree. He wants to play with us."

A person might consider what I am saying and convince themselves that they would never fall for such a trick. A seven year old, however, as James and I were at that time, has a harder time ignoring the excitement of a the fantasy realm. After all, we lived out our most exciting fantasies in these woods, day after day. This constant play only added to fuel our suspicions that perhaps Jeneva had met something outside her window.

Still, we chose caution. We were iron children and could handle anything but iron still bends to the new and inviting. James and I peered more closely into the woods where Jeneva had just been looking. She had looked nervous. There might be something there after all.

"Tell him to come meet us right here," demanded practical James. He folded his arms over his chest to emphasize the point of his skepticism. "If you saw him at your window then he can come out here and see us."

"No, no, no!" Jeneva was shaking her head furiously. "He doesn't like the light! It's better in the woods. He won't hurt you...he just wants to play."

I caught the hesitation in her voice, the pause between words. But how could I say no? This Trumpkin character preferred the shadows to the light. I glanced up at the mid-morning sun: I preferred the shadows to the sunlight. Perhaps this thing, whatever it was, would not be so bad. Already my mind was gone, chasing another daydream of my perfection in a world that circled around my every whim:Trumpkin would be grey - because he could not be too appealing. His eyes would be kind and soft. I would meet him and he would choose me as his number one playmate! Why? Because I was the most fun but also because I was mysterious. I prided myself on being mysterious. Others would be scared of him and those who were not frightened, well, that would be because they had no imagination and could not see him. But Trumpkin would be my friend. My parents would hear me talking to someone late at night and yet they would never see him. He would be my friend, my secret. He had only come to Jeneva because I was such a deep sleeper. Yes! That was it. Surely it was not because she had a better thought than me? No. Never. My parents would worry I was going crazy. They would take me to doctors. Doctors would discover that I had an unexplainable connection to a second world. Soon, the government would hear of me and they would want to study me. I would have to go on the run. Nowhere would be safe! But Trumpkin would take my hand in his long, wrinkly one, and he would open a hidden door in the rotting tree. I would follow him in and there I would find..."I'm going to find him!" I announced firmly. Jeneva smiled and stepped aside.

"Just follow that trail we use for the sword fights. He'll be waiting for you down there."

This gave me pause. She wasn't going with me? "Aren't you coming?" I asked, trying to sound brave.

James laughed. "You're scared," he teased. To Jeneva he stated, "There's no such thing as a Trumpkin. I'm going to catch craw-daddies in the creek." Off he went. Jeneva called after him, "Don't make him mad! He isn't nice when he is mad!"

I later realized that these words were purely for my benefit. I had been hooked by her imagination and mine. Trumpkin was already taking shape in my mind. Only, now he was not the kind-eyed creature of my previous mental musings. Now, his eyes had become slits, suspicious and cunning. Did I really want to go into the woods alone?

Sensing my hesitation, Jeneva trotted past me. "Come on, Brook! I'll lead the way. If we find him, it will be so much fun." With that, she turned and sprinted ahead.

I hurried to keep up, but, like the bad luck of a horror movie, she rounded a bend in the trees, and when I followed, she was gone. There I was, seven years old, a puppet to whatever diabolical scheme my imagination could come up with, completely alone, surrounded only by tall trees, and thick, tangled vines.

"Jeneva!" I called. "Jeneva, wait!"

Silence. Eerie, cold, creeping silence. Not even a bird. My heart began to flutter. "NO!" I said loudly to the shadowed trees. "She's just trying to scare me. Jeneva! I know you're hiding. Come out."

She did not come out. A brilliant thought came to me. Smiling to myself I placed my hands on my hips. "If you don't come out and show me Trumpkin, then I'm going to know it's all fake!"

Satisfied with my ultimatum, I waited. And waited. All around me, the shadows seemed to grow longer, the trees taller and more menacing. Still, I waited, even as my breath came in shorter puffs. Just as I was about to call for my sister one more time, a scream broke the silence!

"Jeneva?" My voice was a squeak, barely there. That scream had been hers.

A second later, on the heels of the scream, came Jeneva's voice from what seemed to be a great distance away. "Help me! Brook. Runnnn!!!

I didn't stop to think. My imagination was free. I tore through the woods, in the wrong direction I might add, from the house, and crashed through the trees and bushes. Behind me, my imagination followed:Run, little girl. I'm coming for you! It was Trumpkin! He had murdered my sister - or taken her prisoner in his smelly, rotting, old lair - and now he was coming to steal my heart! I was sure of it. Even now, as I ran, I could hear his large, scaled, bare feet scampering behind me, drawing closer, and closer. No! He wouldn't catch me. I picked up my speed. Where was I? This was a new part of the woods. I could hear the creek, somewhere. Faster, I flew through the woods. Faster, behind me, came Trumpkin. Now he had wings like a bat, but they were torn, and rotted. His tongue was a piece of rope that lashed after me, seeking to trip me up. There! Up ahead I saw the creek. With my breath coming in painful gasps, I broke free from the cover of the trees and reached the edge of the clear waters. Behind me, the wood fell quiet, with no sound or sign of the evil that had pursued me. "Stop it!" I ordered my mind. "There isn't anything there."

There was a popping sound to my right and when I glanced over I saw, some distance away, my sister peering at me from behind a tree. Her eyes were large and she looked terrified. "Brook," she called out hoarsely. "He's in the water!" And just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.

Slowly, painfully, inch by inch I turned to look down at the creek running by my feet. The water rippled and circled, dark and foreboding. No longer did the waters sing and bubble. Darkness swirled at my feet, and, inch by terrifying inch, I watched as a face emerged!

To Be Continued...


Note* This is all true. The italics indicate where I am inside my mind and I allow you, the reader, to understand how my mind worked at that particular time. The rest are actual events as I remember them from my childhood.

Stupidity Born of Fear...A Mile with a Snake

Snakes and I do not get along well. Scratch that. Snakes want to KILL me and I want to run and hide in my impenetrable blanket fort whenever I see one because, well, everyone knows blanket forts keep the evils of the world at bay. I have had a massive phobia of snakes since before I can remember, and of sharks, but that is for another time. The mere sight of a snake gives me heart palpitations and messes with my ability to properly think. I am being quite literal when I say this; my brain absolutely turns to scrambled mush and as a result, my subsequent actions become rash and fool-hearty.

Take, for instance, my encounter with a simple, harmless, minding-its-own-business black Racer Snake. It was a bright, sunshiny day and I had decided to take a walk. So off my teenage, immortal self strode, down the winding dirt roads I called home at the time and away from the house. I took my time, meandering from side to side of the deserted roads, plucking random wild roses and imagining the amazing wedding I would some day have to whatever guy I was currently crushing on. (I was a mite boy crazy as a teen). Occasionally I would stop and belt out a song, envisioning the crowds at the The Grand Ole Opry screaming my name as I mesmerized them with my silver goddess voice. Of course, on the rare occurrence a truck rumbled by me, I quickly shut my mouth. It wouldn't do to have people thinking I was crazy as a loon or anything.

So on I went. About halfway into the walk, the Arkansas humidity was beginning to pool in damp, rubbing spots on my body and I was severely regretting my decision to walk. Only a glutton for heat stroke took a walk in the middle of the day in the Arkansas summer. I wasn't a fool, per se, but I did cause and receive a good deal of strife in my house and so a walk was my escape - from both my actions and my consequences. I reached a fork in the road and to the left, a bare, dry strip stretched out, wavering in the heat, and to the left...Ahaha!!! Shade! Bring it! Shade in the Arkansas heat doesn't mean much except the lack of sun, the temperatures still stay the same. Still, it was shade and I was going that direction for sure. To the right I headed. Plus, I knew that a short ways up the road there was a small trickle of creek that ran across the road. I could stop and soak my face there.

I was about a hundred yards from the creek crossing when I halted in my steps and scrubbed the sweat from my eyelids. I peered ahead of me. Yep. Sure enough. There was a large, black object piled high in the center of the road. Immediately I felt the rise in my heart rate. It was a snake, and a big one at that. He was coiled up in all his scaly glory and, as I saw upon closer inspection, paying absolutely no attention to me whatsoever. It was hot and he had found a cool spot in the dirt and shade. I was simply a nothing passing by. This is what I know in retrospect. At the time, however, this snake was evil and the epitome of my fears and he would KILL me if I turned my back. Never mind that he was a perfectly NON-venomous snake. At the time, my mind went something like this:

It's a Racer! Maybe he hasn't seen me. Oh, crap, I bet he HAS seen me. I bet they aren't called Racers for nothing. He looks huge. And fat. I bet he just ate so maybe he'll be slow. Or maybe he won't. Wait. Isn't there a type of snake in these parts that is super aggressive and will actually chase a person? I'm sure I hear that somewhere. But he isn't moving. Maybe he is dead! Yesss!! Dead, dead, dead-y dead! He's, Ahhhhhhh!!! (Jumps three feet in the air as the snake shifts its head) Okay. Not dead. Very much alive. Oh shoot. Now he's looking at me. Wait a minute. He's a snake. He's a reptile. I'm a human. I'm a brave human and nothing gets the best of me. Maybe I'm only scared of snakes because I've never confronted my fear. Yes. That's it. Now I know what I need to do. You hear that snake? I have to confront you. Get ready for it. I'm coming. I can do this.

And so it went in my head as I carefully, tremblingly took step after step, willing my body closer to the snake. The close I got, unfortunately, the bigger I realized the snake was. When I was about five feet away, I stopped and darted my eyes from side to side. It had dawned on me that I needed a stick to hold the snakes head down and I needed a long one. Lucky for me, the road I was on was encased on either side by bushes and trees. Finding a stick was easy. However, once I had the stick, I discovered I was still too petrified to do much and the stick was thinner than the snakes body. This wouldn't do at all. So I gave myself a deal. I would toss the stick onto the snake and if the snake slithered away, I would not have to confront the snake because I would be allowed to run in abject terror in the opposite direction. If the snake didn't move, I would continue with my confrontation. What snake doesn't move when something lands on it, right?

As my deals with myself tend to go, this particular one backfired and the snake merely readjusted his fat coils as the stick landed across his back. I stood gaping, highly aggravated at the snakes lack of concern for the crazy girl throwing sticks at it. Off I went in search of another stick which I promptly tossed onto the snake and then another. I continued this for another five or six sticks and the snake continued watching me curiously. Finally, I admitted defeat. The snake was getting the best of me, lying there calmly in the road while I darted back and forth grabbing and tossing sticks, letting out puffs and squeaks of terror each time I got near the snake. This would never do. Now or never.

Grabbing a stick as thick as my arm and as long as my body, I darted forward before I could think it through and smashed the stick down just behind the snake's head. If ever a snake could look startled, this one surely did. Instantly, the snake let out a hiss of protest and his coils unfurled...revealing, to my complete dismay, at least five and half feet or more of snake body. This snake was way bigger than I anticipated and now I knew I would die. I had pinned it down and this snake would surely kill me for disturbing it. Now I really had no choice but to grab it up because, well, tossing the stick and walking away was not an option.

Pressing far harder than I am sure was necessary, and shaking like a loose leaf in a hurricane, I worked my way up the stick. The snakes body continued to roil and curl and straighten and the nausea inside of me threatened to spill over. Still, I continued with my task until I was in touching distance at which point, not giving myself a chance to throw up and chicken out, I jabbed my hand out and grabbed for all I was worth the base of the snake's neck. The stick clattered to the ground as I locked my elbow and kept my arm as straight and far from my body as possible. Meanwhile, my feet were doing the horrified, adrenaline dance and the noises I was emitting sounded much like a dying rooster.

Now I had the snake and the snake, probably sensing the stupidity level in the girl holding him, hung limply and calmly from my hand, only the very tip of his tail (which happened to drag on the ground, so long was he) twitching occasionally. What was I going to do. Rational though was slowly attempting to work its way back into my brain and the first flicker of light that came to me was, "What on earth am I going to do with the snake now? It's longer than me and if I put it down it will more than likely bite me on principle alone."

No one would ever believe I had conquered my fear of snakes. Not without proof. Well, proof was currently dangling from my hand. About face. Back up the dirt road I marched, snake trailing, headed for home to show every one that I was brave! It didn't take more than a couple hundred yards for my arm and my head to realize this was a very heavy snake and I had a long way to go. The only problem was that now I had convinced myself that to release the snake was to get bitten. I needed to get to my brothers so they could ooh and ahh over my bravery and then take the snake from me. Forward ho! No stopping now.

By the time I reached our property I was soaked in fear induced, stupidity encouraged, exhausted sweat. Man, did I ever stink! I smelled horrible! In fact, by the time I caught sight of my dad and brother in a field in the distance, I smelled so bad I was even embarrassing myself. Ew! It was like my mom's compost pile had met a sewage dump and the two had played patty-cake and I was the result. Ugh and blech!

Picking up my pace and lifting my chin and planting a smile on my face to show nonchalance and bravery, I hitched the snake higher and approached the edge of the field.

"Dad! James! Check out what I caught!"

My dad glanced up from whatever he and my brother were working on and raised his eyebrows. James perked up and looked slightly impressed although not as impressed as I had hoped he would. "That's a big snake," called James. "Is it a Racer? Why are you choking it like that? It looks dead."

I glanced at the snake. It DID look slightly dead, I admit. I checked my Dad to see what he thought and he was shaking his head, going back to his work. "Toss that thing into the woods, Brook," he ordered. "That thing stinks. They kick off an odor when they get scared. Get rid of it before you stink, too."

Down drooped my face, and down came my arm. The snake stinks when scared? All hopes of impressing others with my so-called bravery faded as I realized the snake was the one with the flavorful scent and the snake was probably more scared of me than I of it. How dare it?! And now I felt like an idiot. I had just gone through several minor heart attacks and a number of  ridiculous dance steps aiming to impress people and to prove to myself I could conquer all fears. Ridiculous...again...as usual...only me. Sigh.

Still, all of this didn't ease my fears in releasing the snake any. Assuring I was out of sight of my dad and brother, I jigged from foot to foot as I hovered over a ditch leading into the woods. Counting to three, multiple times, I finally convinced my hand to let go of the snake and I flung with all my might. Which wasn't much. My arm was dead tired and the snake plopped into the soft foliage in front of me. For a minute the snake and I froze, staring at each other. And then, with a single readjustment of his muscles, the snake sent my brave self fleeing down the road as fast as I could possibly go.

By the time I had reached my house, I had come to a very simple conclusion. Some fears should just be left alone.

In Retrospect and of Letting Go the Hay Bale

   

      I should have let go of that darn hay bale! Who in their right mind continues to hold on as the world inverts itself before their eyes and then promptly tumbles to the hard ground below while a torrent of scratchy, packed, square bales continue to rain down on top of them? This girl, right here. Apparently. In retrospect, I am sure letting go would have been far less mortifying and painful. Unfortunately for people like me, we don't think in retrospect before the fact. Often, for people like me, it takes years - in my case, almost twenty years.

     The truck that carried the bales was, at one time, an old camper. This particular camper had been an old Winnebago from the late 70s or early 80s and had carried the clan of my Iron Family from Virginia to Arkansas where we began living the country life a year earlier. As of that ominous, hay bale attacking day, the old camper had been given a hefty makeover. The living quarters had been torn off, leaving the bare, flatbed bottom, and the cab was all that remained. We had ourselves a right, regular, hardy farm truck.

     On this day, my dad, my brother James and my brother Thomas and I had all headed out to a nearby field where we were gathering and stacking dozens of square bales. There was an old, four room house on our property - a call to a different era - wherein we would be transporting the bales and stacking them for the winter that was to come. All day long, under the miserable heat that is Arkansas climate, we grabbed hold of taught twine, hefted and tossed bale after bale onto the back of the flatbed. My dad, wanting to make as few trips as possible, and being the ever efficient man that he was, stacked those golden squares higher and higher and higher until a tower of shade fell over us on the ground below.

     It seemed to take forever and by the time the last bale had been stacked like the fittings of a rubix cube and we were all covered healthy, alternating layers of sweat, dry grass dust, spider webs, and gnats, I was more than ready for a refreshing breeze and a break. So when my dad asked which of kids would like to ride atop the mountain of hay and keep it steady for the bumpy drive to the old house, I was quick to volunteer. Up over the hood and the roof of the cab I scrambled and onto the top of the bales where I made myself a comfortable seat smack dab in the center.

     "Now listen," my dad called up to me from what seemed like very far below. "Spread yourself out. Lay on your stomach and hang on to the twine so you don't go bouncing off." (The road we were to travel was a pothole marked, boulder checkered, rivet worn dirt road that wasn't even comfortable to walk on, let alone travers from atop a rickety flatbed load of hay bales. "I don't need you falling off so just lay still and try to keep the bales steady."

     Fall off? Who? Me? Pft! This was going to be a blast. I wasn't going to fall. I was going to let the breeze blow through my crusty, plastered, sweat soaked hair and enjoy the view. Still: "I'm not going to fall, Dad!"

     My dad gave me a look that I have long since learned to recognize as his "Too smart for your own good, huh - look and then told me, "Well, now, I don't want to lose any bales so if those bales come down you better come down with them." I took this to mean, Don't let go! Hang on to them!

     The whole ride back to the old house was uneventful save the occasional wobble of a bale or the slight, stomach churning, two inch air lift my body did from time to time as the truck encountered a large rock or crevice. Initially, I took my dad quite seriously and plastered myself like a four limbed star fish to the top of the stack of bales. Stretched limb to limb I, I dug into those bales with all the force I could muster. By the time the entrance to the field in which stood the old house came into sight, however, I was thoroughly relaxed. Sure, the hay was poking me uncomfortably, and sure I couldn't stop sneezing from the dust in my nose and eyes, but the breeze had dried my sweat prickled skin and the rocking of the truck was lulling me into a false sense of security.

     Turning off the dirt road to enter the pasture to reach the house was a tricky thing. The dirt road was not wide and on one side was a long stretch of barbed wire fence. The pasture surrounding the old house was also encased in barbed wire fencing and held only a narrow gap through which the truck could pass and so the turn in to the field had to be executed at just the right angle. To top it off, not only was the angle sharp, but there was a small ditch and then a sharp rise of ground where the truck would have to be revved in order to get keep the weight of the bed of the truck from becoming stuck.

     My dad, giving me more credit than was my due worth and apparently believing me to be smart enough to still be aware of my surroundings, hollered out his window for me to "hang on" and then cranked the steering wheel.

     Bump! went the front two tires as they hit the small drop and Lurch! went the back of the truck. Vrrr!! went the wheels as they plowed down and up, gaining momentum to haul the remainder of the load over the small obstacle and into the field. Uh-oh...went my mind.

     My eyes flew open, my body lifted off the bales and was airborne for a brief second in which I latched onto the twine wrapping the bales and tangled my fingers into unbreakable knots. Oof! Back down I went. Phew. That was close. And then the back tires hit the same dip-and-bump the front two had except this time my dad really had to floor to keep the tires from becoming stagnant and stuck. The truck lurched drunkenly from one side to the next, the bales began rocking and trembling dangerously, and I; I realized with dismay that the stack of bales was going over and my hands were hopelessly caught in the twine. There was no getting free and, as the top level of bales went flying off, I made up my mind (perhaps I was justifying the inevitable fall I knew was happening) that I was nothing more than an obedient daughter. Dad had told me to stay on no matter what and I was staying on this bale. No matter that I had all but chained myself to it and couldn't let go even if I wanted to.

     What happened after that was a dizzying blur of toss, tumble, blue sky, ground, hay bales, tires, shouts, more blue sky and impact that sent the breath out of me in a whoosh. I wasn't graceful enough to twist like a cat and land bale first. Nope. I landed on my back, bale solidly anchored to my center, and curled around it like a monkey. I managed to let out a pitiful wheeze and open my eyes in time to see about a dozen more bales rushing towards me with glee. The thud, ouch, grunt, mommy, smack of the ensuing bales left me winded and with little breath. I was vaguely aware of my dad shouting, the brakes of the truck screeching, and the sound of doors opening and feet rushing. Then the bales were being tossed aside and my dad was extracting my vice like fingers from the bale.

     "What in the world, Brook. What were you thinking? Are you alright?"
    
     As my senses began to collect and my breath painfully crept back into my lungs, I became aware of my brothers watching me, trying hard not to laugh. How dare they? Well, as much as the panic and adrenaline demanded I cry, I was not going to let them see it. So I struggled to my feet, hitched my nose into the air and told my dad, "You s-s-said that if th-the bales came d-down I had better c-c-c-come down with them!" The last word was spoken with a note of defiance, daring anyone to pity or laugh at me.

    An incredulous look crossed my dad's face and then one of annoyance. "You doggone knucklehead," he said. "You know I didn't mean that. Brush yourself off and let's finish this."

     He strode away and my brothers followed, howling with laughter. As their laughter faded out, and they walked off, I discreetly brushed a tear of pain and embarrassment away with one hand, and rubbed my very sore back with the other. No matter. Laughter was better than pity any day. Even the annoyance at my ridiculousness that crossed my dad's face was better than pity. Back to work.

He's Not Crazy! He's Just Misunderstood; or, the Mule that Tried to Kill Me

 

     In my world, there is nothing I cannot do; there is no bridge I cannot cross, no mountain I cannot scale, no river or ocean I cannot swim and there is certainly, under no circumstance, a horse or horse-like animal that does not, will not love me! Mules are no exception. They WILL love me. I will look into their big, soft brown eyes and they will adore me. They will automatically trust me and think to themselves, "Now here is a lady that knows what's up!"

 

     The setting: Missouri, just north of the Arkansas border. Down miles and hours of winding country highway which are really nothing more than a narrow strip of blacktop with faded yellow dividers and rampaging country-boy drivers with little to no concern for their vehicles well being as the careen about sharp, blind corners with the speed of a sin with the devil on its tail. The more detailed setting: One sharp turn off the country highway and down a potholed half gravel half blacktop road at the end of which Cedar trees tower haphazardly  around a rustic looking log cabin. The yard is bare except the occasional splotch of abused and neglected grass. Other than that, the ground is dirt and gravel. Near the far back corner of what passes for a 'yard' is a roughly thrown together corral no more than 20'x20' at the most.

 

     The characters: One young man that I guessed to be in his mid to late twenties, one older man with a half-bald head, pot belly protruding from beneath a pair of threadbare overalls, and five or six teeth mysteriously gone missing. My dad, my mom, my six siblings and...me. Wonderful, brilliant, fearless, all knowledgeable thirteen or fourteen year old me.

 

     The reason:     

Wanted!

Docile, gentle trail horse or mule on

which children may learn to ride.

Must be kind, sure-footed, and saddle and bridle broke.

 

     Owning a horse of my very own had been a life-long dream. Could I ride one? Pft! Of course! After all, when I was nine my dad took me to a place that offered pony rides; and while those ponies may only have ever plodded in a dejected manner continuously about a steel bar, tethered to a moving circle, I had not fallen off and had even been told I had a 'natural seat.' Of course I could ride. And then let's not forget the hours I spent galloping about on my imaginary horsey-friend Diamond-Star-Bangles-Jubilee. I knew exactly how to ride a horse.

 

     Pulling into that shambling, somewhat questionable, lot where we were to inquire about a mule for sale, I admit I had my doubts. I wanted a horse and a mule is certainly no majestic steed! But, it had four legs, a man - of sorts - and a long tail. It smelled like a horse, sounded mostly like a horse, and, I was sure, would love me like a horse is supposed to. It had been a long drive in which I had spent most of it envisioning the way my hair would trail behind me in the breeze as the steed, er, mule carried me in long strides across the open country-side of our Arkansas farm and in which I caught the eye of a rodeo cowboy. Never mind that there were no rodeo cowboys in the vicinity we lived, my beautiful mount would draw them in.

 

     We children tumbled out of the old van, tensions high with excitement at the prospect of finally purchasing our first animal to ride. The old man aforementioned rocked back o his heels from his position on the cluttered front porch, spit a stream of tobacco, lifted a hand, and hollered, "Y'all here about tha' mule?" When my dad confirmed, the old man ambled down, yelling for "Jimmy! We got us some inner-ested buyers. Leave off that what-fer and bring tha' mule on out!"

   

     "Jimmy", the younger man, left something he had been tinkering with and headed towards the corral we had passed coming down the driveway. My heart was aflutter with excitement! How could it not be? A horse, or mule! Finally. This was it. There was no way we would leave this place without my dad having made a purchase. Granted, it was a mule, but so far, fingers crossed, that hadn't seemed to phase my dad. Mules are sure-footed, easily trained, and generally docile animals. My dad had spent the first thirteen years of his life on a farm and he was comfortable and in-charge around any number and type of animal. It was all I could do, as my dad chatted with the old man, to stand still and not bounce from foot to foot. I listened in on the conversation between adults with one ear, and eyed the corral greedily with one eye.

 

     "So," the old man was saying. "This hure mule is 'bout five years old and he's a small fellow. He ain't got too much height on 'im like most mules but he's got a good pace an' he be a good first ride fer yer young 'uns."

 

     "What's his temperament like?" wanted to know my dad.

 

     "We-e-e-l-l-l-llll," drawled the old man, giving my dad the shifty-eye and spewing another stream of tobacco out on to the ground. "I reckon he can be a bit feisty but that's jest the spirit in 'im. You don't want no mule that don't do nothin' but stand thar when ya' try an' ride 'im. Here he come now."

 

     We all turned to watch Jimmy approach, leading what could possibly be our newest member of the Praught animals. Jimmy was coming, alright, but the mule was an entirely different matter. He was medium height for a mule, nothing too intimidating, and he was an ugle mixture of color - something between a sickly grey and a road kill hash brown. He had already been saddled and bridled before we arrived, apparently, and there turned out to be a very good reason for this as it had probably taken the two men several hours of cussing, fighting, and sweating to get the said objects onto the mule. The mule? Oh, my, the mule! Jimmy was coming towards us, grunting and straining on the reins, and the mule was doing his best to lock his front legs and go backwards. There was a wild, flashing in the mule's eyes as they rolled in his head, the whites showing, and his teeth were bared beneath pulled back lips.

 

     "Jest show 'im who's boss, Jimmy!" This from the old man before turning to my dad and hurriedly explaining, "He jest wants to get on back with his buddies, is all an' he's a bit nervous with strangers but I promise ya', he's a right good animal to learn to ride on."

 

     At this point, the mule leaned forward, bowed his neck, and lashed out viciously with one back leg then immediately attempted to chew out a chunk of Jimmy steak. Luckily, Jimmy was quick and promptly walloped the insane animal across the chin. It was also at this point that my dad directed us children to back away from the animal we had all been clamoring to get a look and touch of. Ever the obedient children and, plainly, the sensible ones who sensed danger, my siblings darted back and away from the lashing legs and nipping teeth. The old man was doing his best to assure my dad that this wasn't normal behavior and, hey, as a sign of good faith, he would even let a couple of us kids take turns being led around on the mule's back.

 

     Thank you kindly but, "I don't think that mule has a nice bone in his body and that is not feisty that's downright psychotic!" exclaimed my dad. The old man could see my dad would need some convincing so Jimmy was ordered to tie the mule up to a tree a short distance away so he could 'calm down' and we children were told to go play but to stay clear of the mule.

 

     As the adults began to delve into conversation, I could see my dreams of owning a magnificent steed slipping from my grasp. This would never do! I must have a horse, or mule, and THIS one was the one I was going to own. Why, look at that mule, standing serenely under the tree, tail swishing gently at flies, head hanging contentedly. There wasn't a mean bone in the mule's body. Why, I bet the owners were villains who abused the poor thing. Oh, they may look harmless but I was not fooled. I had read Black Beauty and I had read The Black Stallion. All this mule needed was confidence, love, and a gentle hand. Who better to provide those things than Horse-Whisperer Me?

 

     I continued to innocently run about with my brothers and sisters, but I kept one eye on the mule and one eye on my parents. Slowly, gradually, sneakily I moved one step closer, and then another and then another towards the mule, careful not to draw attention from the adults or my siblings. It took several minutes of stealth but soon enough I was within arms reach of the poor, misunderstood animal. That poor, misunderstood animal also happened to have lifted his head warily and begun eyeing me threateningly. But did I notice? Of course I didn't. I had star in my eyes. Love in my eyes. Confidence in my step. A whisper and a coax in my voice. This mule would hear my voice and all would be right in the world!

 

     "You're such a beautiful boy, aren't you?" I kept my voice low as I slowly reached out a finger. I tried to remember everything Alex from the Black Stallion had done to tame the wild animal. Voice low, movements slow, eye contact maintained. Check, check, and check. Whoa! I snatched my fingertips back just in time to save them from immediate amputation by teeth. Well, that was odd. No matter. I would not be deterred.  Once more, I reached forward a hand. Once more the teeth snapped at me accompanied, this time, by an aggravated kick of the hind leg that was, luckily not pointed in my direction. Back and forth we went for what felt like hours but, in reality, was only a few minutes.

 

     Well, this is stupid, I thought to myself, greatly aggrieved and feeling much betrayed by certain authors. I love this mule, can't he see that? He should be nuzzling my hand at this point! Maybe he just thinks I want to sit on him and then beat him - as the owners surely do. That's it! I'll just get on him and then he'll see I mean him no harm. I only want to sit on him and let him feel my love through my body language.

 

     It's a wonder, I often think now, many years later, that I have survived thus far in life with all my bones and teeth and mental capacities in tact. Surely, had not the good Lord watched over me time and time again, I should have been badly injured or even dead.

 

     My thoughts did not work like that at thirteen and fourteen. No. Instead they worked with a single-minded imperviousness to anything being impossible to me. So, to the side of the mule I went, managing to keep all my fingers and flesh as I jabbed in a grabbed firmly ahold of the side of the bridle. By doing this, I was able to control the mule's head and keep the sociopathic intent of the animal away from me. Poor, poor, misunderstood animal. Right? Now I found myself in a predicament, though. I needed to get my foot into the stirrup and grab both the front and back of the saddle to pull myself up but I only had one hand and the mule was now rocking his body like the USS Crazy Town in order to keep me off his back. He was just nervous. That's all. I just needed to take charge and show him.

 

     One foot was hiked up into the air as I careened my leg back and forth, trying to slip my toe into the wildly swinging stirrup. My balance was a war that I was losing and suddenly my palms started sweating! Oh no! I was losing my grip on the mule's bridle and therefore my control of the teeth. The mule's head was turning, the legs were stomping and this mule had murder in his eyes. He was taking a person out today and that person was going to be me. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew? No! Never!

 

     "You stupid animal!" I muttered, hopping about on one leg and chasing the stirrup with the other. "What the heck's the matter with you? Let me get on or we can't buy you and I want to buy you! Maybe I'll just quit and then you'll be left ere and the owners will keep beating you and then you'll remember the girl who you could've let love you and, oh boy, you'll be sorry, then! Stand still you moron!"

 

     My toe found the edge of the stirrup. Yes! I was going to win!

 

     "Brook Marie!" My dad's voice bellowed across the yard, startling me, causing that familiar you're-in-trouble-now flutter to jump in my stomach and disconcert me. "Get away from that crazy, stinking animal right now before you get yourself killed.

 

     I stumbled backwards, releasing the mule, and propelling myself out of reach of the murderous animal just in the nick of time. Jimmy had come barreling over at the shouts from the old man who was probably seeing a lawsuit in his very near future, my siblings had come to a standstill and were gaping at me, and my mom looked ready to beat me or have a heart-attack, I wasn't sure which.  One of the reins used to tie the mule up and had come loose and Jimmy managed to snatch up the reins just as the mule pulled free and made to come after me.

 

     "What in the world is wrong with you?" barked my dad.

 

     Face beet red with fear and embarrassment, I hung my head. What could I say that would make anything I had just done look smart? "I'm sorry but I just wanted to prove I could tame a psychotic animal in a few minutes flat? It worked for the Black Stallion? I need a majestic steed to gallop off into the sunset with?" Nothing seemed feasible considering my near death by mule experience and so I said nothing.

 

     Even now, looking back on it, I can't think of a single excuse that explains why someone would invite a mule to kill them. Every now and again, though, I wonder what ever happened to the animal and if he ever changed. I don't know. But I do know that if ever an animal needed a psychiatrist, it was that crazy, stinking animal.

 

     There still isn't much that I think I cannot do. I still pretty much consider myself infrangible and all-powerful. I did, however, learn early on that crazy animals are crazy animals and they need someone even crazier than me. Mules just aren't my forte, apparently.