Mitchell Way
I was sitting in my Laboratory for Creative Ideas slowly sipping on a mug of coffee and blankly staring at my computer screen. I was stuck with a case of brain dryness. A literal Sahara desert of sand in my skull where my brain should be. Then I heard it — aggressive rapping on my window.
I had a friend named Laura who I went through middle and high school with. She lived on a quiet street next to the city park. In her front yard grew a Japanese Akebono cherry tree whose soft pink flowers bloomed brightly every spring and caused passers-by to slow and gaze at its colorful wonder.
I have the same routine every morning, as does my wife. She puts conditioner in her thick platinum blonde hair, fluffing the back and adjusting the curls in the front. Sometimes it can take her ten minutes. In contrast, I slap Lectric Shave on my face and head, sit on the edge of the bathtub with my Norelco battery powered razor in hand and in three minutes have my whole head shaved clean. It is not uncommon, on groggy mornings, for me to unconsciously remove an eyebrow or two also.
Besides the obvious reasons of blackberry thorns, stinging nettles, and devil’s club, running bear in the woods was an experience that causes me to consider the consequences of returning to the hills of Whatcom County.
I cannot for the life of me understand the reasoning of a black fly. It literally has the whole world at its wingtips and yet it sits on the side of my house and waits for me to open the door so it can enter. Why? Are flies interested in interior decorating? Do they want to compare my house with the one next door?
When I came back from my shower, my wife Cheryl was in her cot reading a paperback novel. It was late in the evening and still hot for a Kenyan spring. Our sleeping arrangement for the night was a five-foot-high cinder block wall bedroom with a canvas tent roof.
I could see him from a distance. We had known each other for years and though he stops over occasionally, I have never really learned to enjoy his company.
Inner tube rolling
The act of wedging oneself in the inside diameter of a tractor inner tube and vertically rolling. Although I had proven the idea ineffective for long distance travel, I was curious if it could become a competitive competition.
“Dave! Did you hear that? Can you feel the earth shaking?”
“It sounds like a spooked, slobbering horse,” Dave remarked nervously as he looked around the edge of the building we were standing next to. “Cripes! It’s getting louder. It’s coming this way!”
A short essay on the inadequacies of being a cow.
It all started one afternoon while I was preparing to mow the back field. I have a Craftsman Commercial riding mower which I use to keep the grass level of the half acre down to a two-inch height. The mowed area borders five acres of cow field which pastures six cows, six calves, and a bull named Melvin. It was a typical polygamous family relationship with Melvin; all the cows and calves vying for his attention while he hides in the back of the barn drinking fermented cider.
Peaches and Lydia Chanterelle were sisters who were my age. They were blessed with each having a beautiful voice. At the time, I had a gospel singing group which toured the northwest corner of the US and the Chanterelles sang with me.
Elwood K. Wayson was a man of the woods. He was a hunter, trapper, and fisherman. He was a spar tree setter for logging camps and later a lineman for the local power company. Elwood lived in a small house behind mine when I was growing up. Since I had no living grandfather, I adopted him to be mine.
I am standing in the kitchen looking out the window at my garden. There are two Blue Jays on the bird feeder, eight finches hanging from the suet block, two hummingbirds fighting for supremacy at their feeder, a two-point buck and a doe feeding on apples in the orchard, a black cat that hides in the garden hedge and four squirrels on my front porch. I feel like Snow White.
My counselor thinks that I should lose the dress and identify with another Disney character.
It was a scene reminiscent of an Elmer J. Fudd hunting cartoon. My granddog Milton Barry and I were stalking wild game. I was wearing my plaid hunting cap and my wool coat. In my hands I carried a 12 gage 1897 Winchester pump shotgun. We were walking on tiptoes. I had never seen a dog do that before.
It is 5:00am. I wake to the sound of scratching on my bedroom door. It is granddog Milton Barry and it’s potty time. I lament the fact that I gave him the second cup of hot coco the night before. He yips at me like I am not moving fast enough as I stagger through the house to the back door in the dark. I manage to find most of the household furniture with my shins. Standing on the back deck in the rain I find that this was once again another clever ruse he uses to get outside so he can chase whatever trespassing animal might be in our yard. Blasted dog! He pretends to be deaf as I yell for him to return. He only has a brain the size of a walnut.