MENTAL HOPSCOTCH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

“Kate and Nigh-Nigh” watercolor painting by kayti sweetland rasmussen

Charlie throws himself onto our bed, snuggling heavily to gain more space between us in our antique double bed. There is no sleep from that time on till morning light, and the mind jumps from subject to subject, alighting on each for no more than a second. I am assured that 95 percent of modern society uses either queen or king size beds. I find myself needing a step stool to climb into some of these beds. A friend once asked me “how do you both sleep in this little bed?” I told her we were both little people.

As I have mentioned before, I was regularly displaced from a bed of my own as a child in my grandmother’s rooming house. Grandma felt it expedient to collect a little money for the room since I could very well sleep on a couch or large chair. I always slept with my mother while my father was at sea, cuddling a stuffed raccoon until my mother took it away from me before I left on my honeymoon. I am embarrassed to admit that I often wonder what happened to that comforting furball.

Once “bed” imprinted itself on my brain, I began thinking of various people I know and the beds they choose to sleep in.

When visiting an old high school friend, twice divorced, I noticed she had a single twin bed in her boudoir. Though she always seemed to be looking for a new boyfriend, I felt the bed was a clear signal that she chose to sleep alone and probably gave second thoughts to a prospective suitor should he have been invited into her bedroom. It reminded me of a sleepless night in Rome when the only available bed was a cot-sized single, which Dr. Advice and I shared. While he snored, I stared at the ceiling.

Another young woman of my acquaintance divorced a nasty husband who took the bed from their bedroom while she was at work. The empty space echoed her empty pocketbook, and left her with the possibility of displacing her children from their snug little beds, or sleeping on the sofa. Her older sister came to offer consolation and told her it was imperative that they buy a bed immediately, else “how did she expect to entertain?”

Many years ago my sister-in-law and I while looking for the bathroom in an older bachelor cousin’s home came upon a flimsy nightgown hanging on the back of the door. We giggled and wondered what her mother would think. She later became his seventh and last wife. No idea what size his bed was.

Once long ago on a night trip with two small children, we pulled over to the side of the road to sleep. Shortly thereafter, a tremendous roar occurred directly over our sleeping heads. Our two year old sat bolt upright in her sleeping bag, eyes as big as saucers. Unwittingly we had bedded down under a railroad track. Since then we have spent numerous nights in tents, in the back of a pickup truck and lying on the open ground under the stars with chipmunks darting over our faces. I don’t recall losing a lot of sleep on any of those occasions. Maybe I have more to think about now.

HUNTERS vs. GATHERERS

The Old Arrowmaker, w/c by KSR

Hunting season is practically a religion with some people.  My father was a deer huner.  He tried very hard to convince me that if the herds were not controlled, they would starve to death in winter.  That may be true, but if I were a deer, I’d rather go hungry than to see all those maniacs running through my forest dressed up in their camo and crazy red hats, and waving the latest model rifle my way.  Of course the deer do make a game of it by hiding behind bushes and trees and making the hunter work for every shot.

Hunters spend a lot of time readying themselves for the hunt.  Cave man simply had to pick up his club and grunt goodbye to his wife.  But today’s hunters go into a fervor getting properly outfitted in the attire of the proper hunt.

A number of years ago, two young grandsons retreated to their ancient memory of the Hunter.  Armed with new bows and arrows, camping gear and boys,  we set off for a spot near Lake Almanor in Northern Caifornia to take them on their primeval deer hunting experience.

Dr. Advice and I are not hunters, unless you consider a sale at Nordstrom in my case.  We have done a great deal of scrounging the depths searching for fish, and he did some pheasant and duck hunting in the past, but I don’t think we could be considered part of the Hunter economy.

Day One of the hunt.  With a number of other seasoned hunters readying themselves in the campground, the boys dressed in their new camo clothing, dirtied up their faces, pocketed their compass,and as a final addition, sprayed on  Fox Urine!  (It was described in more colorful language).  It is female fox hormone and smells so bad you will never forget it, but is supposed to attract prey.  However, how fox hormone can attact deer is beyond me, don’t they have their own scent?

We drove them to the dropping off point, and set the pickup time.  Since they had no watch, I gave the youngest one my “Rolex” watch to wear.

We arrived at the appointed time to find both hunters sitting on the side of the road, the youngest one with tears running down his face, saying he had lost my “Rolex”.

I could have let him suffer, but instead I told the truth, that it was a phony his Dad had given me anyway.  I told them the good thing was that some hunter was going to find it and think he had found the real McCoy, saying to his wife “Honey I didn’t get a deer, but I found a real Rolex!”

As a dyed- in- the- wool Gatherer, I fed them large plates of “Hamburger Helper” and told them to wash their faces.

DAYS OF DOGS AND ROSES

Pomo Indian Girl, Oil on Canvas, KSR

Dogs have many ways to get your attention .  l. When asleep.  2.When awake.  3.  By shaking, sneezing, or low growls.  4.  Sitting quietly and staring with a sweet and forgiving look on their face.  In other words, dogs are part of the civilized world’s most efficient con artists.

They have built-in clocks which if an action  has taken place at a certain time one day, it must be continued on the next, ad infinitum.

One of the best at this is the Jack Russell Terrier.  It is a given that they know what is best for them and for you, and once their minds are made up, there is no going back.  In return for all this, they are one of the most delightful and entertaining of little dogs.

Charlie took over this household a bit more than five years ago, and after frequent discussions and disagreements, he has taken his proper place in the hierarchy, which is somewhat left of center.  He is a bright light in whatever locale he finds himself and has never met a stranger.

Through the years there have been many dogs, each an individual challenge.

Max the Doberman had to vie for attention from Liza the German Shepherd, the resident perfect dog, so the bar was already pretty high.  It took about two years for Max to become a good citizen.   He spent many days lying beside Dr. Advice’s chair in the office emitting noxious odors as only a Doberman can, but he was a lovely and loyal friend and an energetic running companion each morning to me.

I’ve written about Liza before, and at each telling, she becomes more of a paragon of canine virtue.

  There were several serious little dachshunds, and once a chihuahua, who traveled everywhere with us, and they were each happy little campers, cheerfully crawling into a sleeping bag or a boat wherever we went.

Penny and Panda were an unlikely “odd couple”.         Old English Panda was stranded when her home ranch was flooded out.  As country people do, our grandson along with everyone who had a horse trailer pitched in to rescue over 100 horses.                                             The owner had a heart attack at this point, and several dogs  were left seeking new homes.

I have always loved Old English Sheep dogs since I first saw Peter Pan with the Nana nurse dog, but I told my grandson when he ended up with Panda that I could not take another dog.  But when we drove up to the ranch one afternoon, and this amazing Nana dog came tripping down the porch steps and leaped into our truck., all bets were off!      A dog is that wonderful happy roll-around thing that can be a life enhancer, and I could never be without one.  A dog is not interested in politics, religion or the local news.  They are willing to sit quietly and commiserate when we are feeling poorly.  Show me a person who can equal this quality and I’ll marry him!

Now you’re probably saying what do roses have to do with this?  Gertrude  Stein wrote “a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose”.  No explanation needed.  Because we most recently had over 120 roses to enjoy, we seem to be known as the “rose house ” even to strangers in our town.  And if you show me a person who doesn’t like roses he probably doesn’t like dogs either.

                                                                                                                                                                                                    PANDA                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   PENNY

HIKING 101

It became much more fun when there were four of us instead of just the two, and we couldn’t wait to introduce both grandsons (there were only two at that time) to the high country we loved.  They had been good campers since the age of two, but children were not allowed to backpack until the age of seven, so only the older brother went first.  To illustrate our enthusiasm for the long hike, I made a quilt showing everything we might see (excluding the bears!)  As children do, he became an instant expert when we got on the trail, and after a week of sleeping under the stars and catching the small silvery trout which waited for his hook, he was ready to go home and impress his younger brother with tall tales of the weeks’ events.

Two years later, both boys were able to go, and as sometimes happens with all of us, the things you have most looked forward to become a little scary when you finally get to do them.  The older brother was in a state of high excitement, but the seven year old approached the start of our journey with trepidation.  This hike was in Desolation Valley, and  would eventually take us to 9600 ft. elevation.  We joined a small group in a boat which took us across the lake from civilization to the trailhead where we were all on our own.  Dr. Advice and I had climbed in this area a number of times and though we would cover a lot of territory, it would be an easy hike for the boys.  We paired up with me walking with the younger boy who gradually seemed to become more comfortable both with his pack and with the whole adventure.

Though it was August, as we climbed we ran into snow, which became a little deeper as we progressed.  In the mountains you become used to looking for landmarks, and there are many along this trail including the lake where we would be spending our first night.  The lake lies at the base of a group of rugged peaks which resemble nothing more than a moonscape.  Quite recognizable, and not too far from where we started.  We learned years ago to carry a police whistle in case of emergency, and though the boys each carried their own sleeping bags plus their whistle, Dr. Advice and I divided the rest of the gear.  I could see a familiar dogleg coming up ahead, and told my small companion that we would take it and catch them up as the trail straightened.

However, all trees look alike in the forest, and all trails look alike under a blanket of snow, so when I realized we were not coming out in the same spot I had hoped for, I blew my whistle and we listened for an answering tweet which came right away, but on the second try there was no reply.  Not to worry , I told my little friend whose blue eyes were getting larger and more concerned;  we will recognize those crazy moonscape mountains in no time.  By this time, I was getting a little worried myself, and did not follow the second rule in mountaineering:  stay where you are and wait till you are found.

By this time it was afternoon, and we had climbed atop a large rock to see if either the lake or the craggy peaks were visible.  My small partner was in a state of despair, and in no mood to play games such as blowing our whistles and yelling for help.  He worried about where we would sleep or eat, and I assured him we had all the right stuff to survive the night if it should come to that (which it would not of course).  We blew whistles and counted to ten, and after a few minutes of this activity, we finally heard the welcome answering call.

It seemed we were about a quarter mile above the lake, and they had been waiting for us to arrive for some time, with the older boy also anxious about sleeping and eating.  They actually DID have all the food, and we had the small tent in case of a sudden rain squall, which happens frequently at that elevation.  So we climbed (slid) down and they climbed up, and we set up camp for the first night in the Wilderness.

The rest of the week went well, and the rocks were bare of snow which made climbing easy.  The boys were delighted with the small alpine lakes where they could bathe and fish, and once they were convinced that no one else was there and could not see them, they stripped off their clothes and jumped in the icy water.

That trip took us to Dick’s Peak at 9600 feet, and was a great introduction to the pleasure of wilderness camping and gave them a good foundation for many years’  of enjoyment.

My  little trail partner has become a wildlife biologist, and his older brother has the  avocation of horses, fishing and hunting.