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The Case of the Missing Cardinals

I was a lil nervous.  I hadn’t seen a cardinal in a really long time, and if you’ll remember, I believe my late Uncle Grandma comes around me in the form of a cardinal.  After Mike interviewed for a job here, she disappeared.  Of course I wanted to think (and still think) that she was doing work.  I think she must have been pulling magical strings trying to get my darling boyfriend to me.

But I got nervous.  The fact that she came around was the only thing that calmed me from my panic attacks.  So when she quit coming around, I started looking for reasons.

I’m glad to say that the streak is over.  I was on a run yesterday in Fremont, and the wind was ridiculous and it was muggy and I felt like crap.  I didn’t want to go any further.  I got to the point in my track where I could take a shortcut back home…but as I went to turn, I heard the chirping.  I turned, and against the bark of a maple standing on a branch was the most brilliant red cardinal.  BRILLIANT.

I’m going to say it’s safe to assume that she was telling me not to give up on my run, or on the fact that Mike will get here.  So I took the long way on the trail and saw two more cardinals along the way.

I tried to take a picture, but she kept fluttering away.  I guess it’s not something you can capture by hand or by film…but I feel better.

So I’ll pray this week that Mike hears back and that Uncle Grandma’s absence was warranted.

 
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Posted by on April 16, 2012 in Daily Happenings

 

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The Mud Puddle

At the request of my dear friend and former student, Jerry, I am writing again about my childhood.

My cousins and I spent every weekend on my grandparents’ farm, where we searched for Jessie Simmons’ tongue, and our sweet Grandma Cleobelle rarely let us in the house if it was nice out.  So we spent a lot of time inventing games, climbing trees, and getting into trouble.

This is my grandparents' barn. In front of this was the mud puddle.

In front of the barn, there was a perpetual mud puddle.  After it rained, it could be as deep as halfway up to our shins.  During the drought of 1988, it turned into flake clay mud that blew away in the dry wind.  But for the majority of my childhood, it was a mud puddle.

We rejoiced in riding our bikes through it, spraying water up on our backs and the cousins who were unlucky enough to ride behind us.  We filled water guns and Solo cups for water fights, and built mud pies out of the thick mud below the rocks.  And if we were lucky enough to find something that floated, we had make-believe sea adventures.  Even though Grandma wouldn’t let us into the house after such antics, we still played in the mud puddle, ate dinner with our muddy hands, and smear mud on our arms and faces like war paint.

What is it about a puddle, or mud, or dirt that draws children in?  Perhaps it’s an innate instinct to locate water and exist near it.  Perhaps it is just because we can.

 
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Posted by on October 11, 2011 in When I Was Young

 

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