Remembering MizLa

Greetings From Domelandia,

It's a mild mid-winter morning here in Southern Colorado. Just enough warmth to tease me into thinking about Spring and gardening. I walk over the long hill and back most days. This morning - I am not making this up - I saw a black caterpillar on the road. He was cold, but alive. I tell him, "It's JANUARY, for Pete's sake! Where did you come from?"

On windy days I keep to the forest where the trees protect me from the wind. It is quiet there. A couple of days ago I passed one of our favorite picnic spots, and memories of a gorgeous summer day came back to me. Our daughters and I are in the box canyon south of the house. Strawberry blonde daughter isn't walking yet--she's riding in the baby carrier on my back. The Redhead is holding my hand, and I'm helping her negotiate rocks, cactus, and other obstacles that can trip up a three-year-old. We sit down in the shade and take sandwiches and drinks from our picnic bag. A lizard scurries by and takes refuge under a nearby rock. His small body shines iridescent green and blue, and his sides move in and out as he breathes. The girls have a good long look at this mysterious creature in the deliberate fashion of the very young. I don't hurry them. We have plenty of time.

When I was a child, my friend MizLa gave me the gift of time. I think of her a lot when I'm outside in the garden, or feeding my birds, or walking in the woods. She's one of the reasons I am a nature freak.

Dad worked in an office all day, and Mom spent most of her time cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry for our family of seven. Her afternoon hours were spent preparing the large evening meal in her one-woman kitchen, so we kids made ourselves scarce until dinnertime.

Marjorie LaMartine (MizLa) lived three houses down from our home on Rosebud Drive. From the time I was five or six years old, her house provided the perfect after-school destination. I'd find her outside, performing the daily rituals of tending bird feeders, scrubbing birdbaths, and watering her yard as well as an amazing variety of plants. Her yard, shaded by huge trees, was an oasis in the hot Texas afternoon. Exotic flowers and plants, streaked and spotted with improbable colors, unfurled graceful leaves. The soft fragrance of poppies and bluebonnets drifted through the air as we moved inside the cool green canopy.

I had so many questions, and she knew so much! She told me what species of birds liked which kind of seeds, and that some ate insects instead. The birds added their musical opinions, and she knew every voice. Cardinals, mockingbirds, sparrows, titmice, starlings, and wrens were easy to identify, but if we saw a visitor to her sanctuary whose name we didn't know, we'd find it in her bird book. She had other books, too--books about rocks and minerals, stars and planets, fish, flowers, trees, mammals, and reptiles. (After she explained why toads and lizards and snakes were good for gardens, I no longer thought they were icky). An hour at MizLa's was more educational than science class, and a zillion times more fun.

MizLa wasn't like other ladies I knew. She had a cosmopolitan presence, from her slim, stylish clothes to the way she arranged her pale hair. She wore tailored blouses, slacks (not jeans!), and canvas shoes to work in her yard, but she always 'dressed' for dinner. Her husband, Francis, arrived home at six from his job as an engineer, and expected dinner to be on the table and his wife to look presentable. The dinner hour was their time to reconnect, and I respected the boundaries of our friendship. I went home when she started dinner.

She and Francis had no children. (She often laughingly introduced my folks as 'the parents of her children'). Her house was immaculate, and the shelves in the living room of her tiny home held books with mysterious titles. She had an amazing collection of knickknacks. My favorite was a green ceramic lady on tiptoe, arms stretched up and out, captured forever in a moment of ecstasy. MizLa's home furnishings were eclectic. Lace doilies accompanied Navajo rugs in the bedroom. Placed in front of an ordinary chair in the living room was an ottoman constructed from the legs and feet of a former moose. My sister and I loved to pet those strange and wonderful legs.

One afternoon, I received a phone call from MizLa. "Can you and Madeline come over and bring your doll baby bottles?" The excitement in her voice told me something was up. "Yes, we have..MOM!! Can we take our baby bottles to MizLa's?...No, we don't know what for...MizLa, what for?" MizLa: "I have something to show you-you'll see." "MOM! MizLa says WE'LL SEE!"

Sister and I hurriedly gathered our doll bottles and raced to MizLa's. We found her in the living room, kneeling beside a small cardboard box lined with an old sweater. We sat down and peeked into the box. Nestled inside were five baby cottontail rabbits.

MizLa said, "Well, let me just TELL you what happened today! I saw Chessie (her cat) attack a rabbit. I tried to get the poor thing away from her, but it was too late. Then I saw a baby rabbit just lying on the ground. I picked it up and saw a hole underneath it. I realized I'd found the mama rabbit's nest. I kept reaching inside and pulling bunnies out until I had five of them in my pocket!"

Sister and I sat by the box, listening to MizLa's story and feeling sad at the tragedy of the murdered mother rabbit and her orphans. Poor babies! They were little snips of soft brown velvet. "They're so sweet!" I was barely able to contain myself. "Can we hold them?"

MizLa smiled. "We're going to try to save these babies, and when they're grown, we're going to set them free. They're not pets--they're wild animals, so it's best if we don't handle them too much. It's not good for them when they're so tiny, and we don't want them to get too used to people."

I'm sure my sister and I would've protested if this announcement had been delivered by anyone other than MizLa, but we believed her. Instantly, we wanted what was best for the bunnies. We were content to hold them only to feed them or to move them out of the way when we changed their litter. Every day after school, we'd race to MizLa's house to take care of the rabbits, and each day they grew bigger and more active. Soon they were moved to a cage outdoors and started eating rabbit food and grass. We loved them, but we didn't give them names.

The day before they were released into the woods near our house, I said goodbye. It was a lovely late-spring afternoon and I sat beside their cage one last time. The afternoon sun slanted through the trees and shone through their long transparent ears. I saw the veins lit there; they were tiny blue rivers. I stroked their soft fur, and knew that tomorrow they would be free. I was happy for them.

It was hard for MizLa when my sisters and I grew up and moved too far away for daily visits. We stayed in touch, though, and brought our own children to meet her. It's been a long time since we heard the news that she was gone, but I remember feeling that the world had lost a very special woman.

She is still with us. I felt her presence this morning while I was looking at that caterpillar and wondering how it came to be here. Thank you, MizLa, for all the wonderful memories you gave us, and for the gifts that we don't remember. For nurturing us with your love of nature, and for loving us.

Bringing Glory Home

Greetings from Domelandia,

We had another great Christmas with the family here. Our little granddaughter was fascinated with the horses. I lifted her onto Glory's back and held her there as the old horse placidly finished her alfalfa breakfast.

Glory Dun is a part of our family. She's been with us since that gorgeous autumn day in 1979 when The Viking and I borrowed a neighbor's pickup and headed off to the LaJunta sale barn to buy a horse.

I remember that day, and the sound of meadow larks, and the sense of adventure that possessed us. I'd had a horse when I was growing up in Texas. I missed riding and caring for a horse, so I was excited at the prospect of getting a young horse and training it to be my gentle companion.

We'd heard that some of the horses were bought and broke to work cattle. Gentle, older horses were purchased as 'kid' horses, and some went to the meat packing companies. Those horses were injured, old, or believed to be too wild to be of any use. The mares in this group often had foals at their sides. We knew the meat packers had no use for these little ones--they didn't weigh much--and that they could be bought for very little money. That was about how much money we had, and we hoped it was enough to buy a foal.

We found the auction barn, walked in, and registered as official bidders. We found seats close to the round arena and waited for the auction to begin. The smells of the concession stand mixed with odors of manure, sawdust, and the unmistakable aroma of horse. Underlying that normally sweet and sweaty smell was also the smell of fear, though I didn't recognize it right away.

The clomp and scuff of boots echoed off the building's metal roof as buyers came in and sat down. Faces shadowed by stained Stetsons, ranchers shifted their wads of chew to say howdy to friends. Spittoons were provided, but evidence of faulty aim littered the floor, and cigarette smoke hung in the air.

The auctioneer sat at a table on a raised platform across from the buyers. He said the horses would be sold individually or in lots, depending on how the owners wanted them shown, and he'd be giving us a description of what we were looking at as they came in. He introduced us to the wrangler, whose job it was to drive the horses into the ring, point out any injuries, and to keep them moving so the buyers could have a good look at them. The side of his face bore the deep imprint of a hoof, eloquently illustrating the chancy nature of his job.

The best horses came first, mostly under saddle, ridden by their owners. Some of these folks had fallen on hard times and needed money--it was easy to see they were unhappy and I felt sorry for them.

The bidding began. The auctioneer spoke in a foreign language, punctuated with staccato acknowledgements when he saw a wave or nod from the crowd. Some of the sellers accepted the offered price, some didn't, and the sale continued.

Injured horses were sold next. One horse hobbled in on three legs--the fourth dangled uselessly. He dragged himself painfully for a few steps and gave up, his head down and his sides heaving. I felt the blood leave my face, and my stomach rolled over. The auctioneer drawled, "Well, boys, we know where he's headed," and the meat packer make his first purchase of the day.

Soon the mares with foals were driven in. If they had good breeding and confirmation, they were sold together. It was apparent that many of them had never been touched--manes were thick with burrs, ribs could be counted--and their terrified whinnies filled the arena. One group came and went. Then the wrangler opened the gate and a wild black mare galloped in, a tiny steel-gray filly at her side. My eyes filled with tears, and I knew she was my horse.

The bidding started at $25. In my excitement I bid against myself a couple of times before the auctioneer told me, "hold on a minute, sis." I couldn't tell which person I was bidding against, anyway. I was crying too hard. Then the bidding reached $45 - my $45!! - and the filly was mine. It was time to get the heck out of that place and get my horse safely home.

Money changed hands, paperwork was signed, and before long I was backing the truck to the loading ramp. The filly was there, scared out of her mind, and looking for her mother. It took two grown men to hold her still long enough to get a halter on her and to wrestle her into the back of the truck.

At this point, I had a rude awakening. The image I'd had of a tiny, helpless foal who would obligingly stand or lie down in the back of the truck was a fantasy. She was only a couple of months old, but amazingly strong. She reared up, plunged forward, and leapt neatly out of the truck. It's a miracle she didn't break a leg-or two. More grown men appeared and got her back into the truck. They got her down onto her side, and The Viking positioned himself on top of her and held her down. This method seemed to work, so we started home.

The return trip was a harrowing experience. At times the filly would seem to relax, but if The Viking loosened his hold, she felt it immediately and began thrashing around. The blanket we'd carefully installed as a windbreak and sun shield snapped and popped in the wind, and we had to stop and take it down. Those 100 miles were some of the longest I've ever driven. The Viking was tired, and from time to time I could see him being tossed around in the truck bed, struggling to keep the filly down. I gritted my teeth, said a prayer, and drove on.

At last, we drove into Trinidad. Just another 20 miles or so and we'd be home! The filly appeared to be worn out, and as we drove through town, we were both thinking of getting her settled, getting our supper, and tending to the Viking's bruises. We breathed premature sighs of relief.

At a stop sign in downtown Trinidad, a policeman suddenly stepped in front of our truck, raised his hand, and blew his whistle, indicating we were to stay put. Then the Trinidad High School Homecoming Parade of 1979, complete with majorettes, cheerleaders, and band, marched by right in front of the truck. The horse and The Viking started jumping together again, this time to the rousing tune of the Miner's Fight Song.

Half an hour later, we were all home in one piece, bruised, tired, and grateful.

We know now how unprepared we were and how fortunate we were that nobody got hurt. We've done quite a few things through the years that weren't supposed to work, but more often than not, we got some luck and lived to tell the tale.

The foal grew into a beautiful gray horse. Steady and willing, she taught our daughters to ride, and carried them on her back for many years. She has plenty to eat, some horse friends, and lots of room. She's been able to live as horses were intended - free to wander the hills. She's achieved the ripe old age of 31 years - a good long life for a well-loved friend.