Clean Water

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water board0001

Chris, me, Andrea

Sometimes I compare life to a book with a series of chapters. But sometimes it’s like a Christmas gift I got as a child. It was a small blackboard (chalk), on a kind of easel arrangement that folded out so that it stood on its own. Across the top was a canvas with pictures—heavy paper maybe–that moved as I turned a handle on one side. The handle was wooden and red. Sometimes life is like that. Things happen, people are involved, and life goes on. But years later that handle may bring back some of those events, some of those people, and you look and say thoughtfully, “hmmm, that was an interesting time.” And move on. It’s different than re-reading a chapter because you have some of the sequence

I was appointed to the Northcoast Regional Water Quality Control Board in 1976 and served seven years, my position being vacant the first year (1975). At the time I was a Republican (changed that when I moved to Oregon later on) and was appointed by Jerry Brown. I was not reappointed for a third term by Deukmejian, a Republican. This is a voluntary job with the only payment being the satisfaction of helping protect the waters of the state and a per deum for a room and food and/or gas mileage if taking one’s own car.

As the mother of three young children, ages about six to eleven, this appointment seemed like the best of all possible jobs for me at the time. It allowed me to do some traveling and to use my brain for a larger purpose, plus I was able to help take care of the all-important resource of water. What I didn’t realize when I started was that I would also make some lifelong friends. My mother-in-law, Florence Morris, and my children’s father, were both a big help in ensuring that I could make these two or three day trips once a month knowing my children were well taken care of and keeping me feeling relatively guilt free.

When I first got on the board, I was the only female but was soon joined by Chris and Andrea. We were all very different from each other but became good friends. The meetings alternated between Eureka and Santa Rosa, with usually one once a year in the Mendocino area. And I remember at least one being held in Weaverville and one in Smith River. Sometimes I would fly from Redding to San Francisco and take a commuter flight to Santa Rosa. More often I would meet Chris in Eureka and we’d rent a car and drive together. Chris lived in Gasquet, along the Smith River. She loved to fish and loved that river. I remember eating lunch that she had fixed, roast chicken and a small glass of white wine from her ice chest, as we sat along the edge of the Eel River. Andrea lived in the Arcata area although she was often attending classes in Berkeley. The board considers water-quality issues from the Russian River to the Oregon border and from the coast to the edge of the Central Valley. So I learned about things affecting the watershed basins of the Russian River, the Noyo, the Eel, Redwood Creek, the Trinity, the Klamath, the Smith, and even the Rogue and Winchuck at the edge of the Oregon border.

We’d receive a large packet of information in the mail that included the agenda and reams of information about topics that were going to be discussed, particularly detailed if a public hearing were scheduled. Lots of reading to do.

This was a great time to be involved because so many things, like erosion from timber operations, were just beginning to be considered. One time we walked into a logging operation and then were helicoptered out by the company, allowing a view from above. I think this was the company that had gone ahead and pushed a road in before submitting a plan and then told us after the fact. Redwood Creek, notorious for erosion problems, was another problem in which we were involved. But, over time, discord became less as agreements were hammered out.

Waste discharge was another big issue. Many small communities didn’t have the funds to build sewage treatment plants or had plants that were inadequate. Giving them cease-and-desist orders allowed them to apply for grants so that instead of being punitive it actually helped them. I remember one meeting where we were faced with a sewage treatment plant where the boss had told one of his employees to open up the valve in the middle of the night to discharge raw sewage before it overflowed.

Non-point sources like agriculture runoff were just beginning to be looked at.

During my second term was when the Arcata Marsh plan http://www2.humboldt.edu/arcatamarsh/overview html was being considered and our staff executive officer was having a difficult time supporting it. He felt there wasn’t enough evidence to show the waters were being protected from discharge. Of course today this area is considered a show-piece for use of wastewater where the marsh is also part of the treatment. The area where paths wind through the wildlife area is part of the tertiary treatment. Some is dechlorinated and goes into Humboldt Bay and some goes back into the tertiary enhancement marshes.

During one of my years as chair herbicides were a big issue. I was fairly supportive of the opponents in my heart but I also had a meeting to run. One night, when we had taken testimony for hours during the day, and it was time for the board to make a decision, the anti-herbicide folks started interrupting us. It must have been close to 10 p.m. Takes a lot to make me mad but I’d had more than enough and gaveled them down. As one of my co-board members muttered, “It’s about time.”

water board

2 members absent. Back row: Steve Norwick, Spud McNamara, Front row: Chris Souza, me, Andrea Tuttle

Of the board members I worked with I still communicate with Andrea Tuttle; Chris Sousa died of cancer in 1984; Steve Norwick, a professor at Sonoma State, who used to get in touch with all of us about once a year, was killed while riding his bicycle (I discovered this online a couple of years ago when I wondered why we hadn’t heard from him for some time). I was closest to these three. One other person from that original board (Gene Senestraro) is still living in the Eureka area. He had a dairy farm and his input was always useful. David Joseph, the executive staff officer, is gone. I always had a lot of respect for his knowledge and abilities. A trail in the redwoods has been named after him.

I came across these pictures recently when I was doing some sorting. It all seems so long ago and yet also as if it were yesterday. Interesting times.

Broken Top

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S. Sister from Broke

I moved to Oregon from Weaverville, California in March of 1989. It was not an easy transition going from the little mountain town where I knew most of the roads, numerous trails, and where I had a good many friendships made over 25 years. But I joined my soon-to-be husband here in Eugene and tried to get used to what I considered city living… and the rain. One thing that made me feel at home was the bird life among the conifers in our back yard on the lower slopes of Spencer Butte. And I BrokenTop trip creek where we got waterdiscovered that there were hiking trails not far away.

In August of that year my eldest brother and a friend came to visit and he wanted to take a backpack trip. His friend taught elementary school and he wanted to help her find a volcanic bomb to show her students. Volcanic bombs are sometimes formed when lava spews out of a volcano and its spinning forms an almost egg shape. They come in all sizes. When I worked at Crater Lake I once found a very small one, about the size of a potato, but my boss made me leave it there since no one can collect such things in a national park.

Oregon has many volcanoes so a logical place to go looking was in the Three Sisters Wilderness. I suppose it’s illegal to collect a volcanic bomb there too but maybe a picture would suffice. I gathered my gear and we drove the three hours to Green Lakes Trailhead, which follows up Fall Creek for several miles. There were lovely waterfalls and the weather wasNear S. Sister 1989 perfect. Green Lakes was heavily used even then so we headed off at the pass, slanting across Broken Top Mountain. My brother led the way and after some searching we found a place with a great view of the Three Sisters near a stream that ran down from above, pitched our tents, and ate dinner.

The next morning I was treated to a dramatic view of the South Sister out the front of my tent as the sun slid down her slopes. I hiked further up the hill for some early-morning photos. When we were ready to leave we hiked back to the trail and continued down to Green Lakes for a closer look and could see back up Broken Top to where we’d camped, then headed up the trail to return to our car. My brother, as part of his hiking ritual, liked to leave beer in a small ice chest in the car so that when he’d had a warm hike, he could refresh himself before heading home. We each had a beer, changed our shoes, and then drove back to Eugene.

A few days ago, an article in our local paper, The Register-Guard, by Bill Sullivan (a local hiking guru with vast and accurate knowledge of Oregon trails) noted that now the best time to go into that area is via snowshoes or skis when there is still snow on the ground. He noted that Green Lakes basin is so popular in the summer that people have to camp only at numbered sites. In Oregon, no campfires are allowed within 100 feet of any lake and campers are supposed to pitch tents back away from lakes, preferably screened by trees or shrubs, so that others may enjoy the scenery. This seems a good rule to me. I suspect Bill Sullivan may wish he’d not been quite so explicit about the good places to go hiking and camping. But who could have forecast that the town of Bend, a relatively short drive fromS. Sister from Broke0003 these Cascade trailheads, would grow so quickly.

About 15 years ago we discovered the same “camp in designated spots” rule when day-hiking at Mt. Rainier when we came across a backpackers’ campground with numbered posts. A backcountry ranger patrols to make sure this rule is enforced. To me this totally negates the backpacking experience. Being close to others is not why I used to backpack.

Oh, and we didn’t find any volcanic bombs.

Tai Chi Friends

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Joining an organization or taking a class may be just joining and organization or taking a class, but, given enough time, other events may take place. It’s hard to get enough time to get to know people but, after taking tai chi for five years (?), perhaps more, I’ve come to know a little more about my classmates, mostly by chatting during breaks. We are mostly women. One man comes consistently and two others occasionally. I’m guess our ages run from 55 to early 80s.

According to the Mayo Clinic website, “Tai chi helps reduce stress and anxiety. And it also helps increase flexibility and balance. Tai chi is an ancient Chinese tradition that, today, is practiced as a graceful form of exercise. It involves a series of movements performed in a slow, focused manner and accompanied by deep breathing.

Tai chi, also called tai chi chuan, is a noncompetitive, self-paced system of gentle physical exercise and stretching. Each posture flows into the next without pause, ensuring that your body is in constant motion.

Tai chi has many different styles. Each style may subtly emphasize various tai chi principles and methods. There are variations within each style. Some styles may focus on health maintenance, while others focus on the martial arts aspect of tai chi.”

Our instructor, Suman, is from Mongolia where most of his family still lives. He has an assistant, Marcia, who takes his place when he can’t participate due to travels or training sessions. I started out in the beginning class, which teaches eight moves. After taking this class for at least a year I opted to take the more advanced class, 24 moves, which I’m still taking today. Over time, we learn to refine our moves, but always there are the same basic formats and it becomes almost a meditation.

During these years several people have continued to be my classmates and we always are glad to see each other every week, part of the ritual I suppose. I know very little about the others, doing well just to try to remember names, although our class is usually only 15-18 people or fewer.

One woman, I think the only one older than I am, caught my interest from the beginning. She walks or rides her bike or takes public transportation, and has no car. She used to teach high school English in the Bay Area in northern California. We both go to the League of Women Voters program meetings once a month. I recently learned that she plays a bass clarinet in a local community band. Once E. talked to me about having participated in a march along the coast for the development of the coast trail. It turns out that she and her husband used to run a youth camp on Scott Mountain in Trinity County, Camp Unalayee, a camp that is still being used today. And one of their camp counselors used to work in the Weaverville area when I lived there. How likely is it that we would ever meet here in Eugene?

Another woman, younger than I am, takes the same line-dancing classes that I do. L. sometimes has grandchildren visiting her. She has beehives and also raises chickens. Three of the four chickens lay eggs. The 4th one doesn’t seem to be destined for the stew pot.

Another woman, who recently moved into the advanced class, has horses, which must be tended to every day. I must ask where she rides.

Brian Fullerton, who likes to hike with his wife, also writes. He has had an e-book for a while and recently published another one that I hadn’t been aware of. I don’t have Kindle ability so can’t read them but I read some of the sample pages (including a wonderful description inside a barn from the standpoint of a young boy)online from his first book, Cottonwood Wind, available through Amazon. His most recent book is entitled Song Across Water. Both book covers are illustrated by his wife, Margaret Hanson. You can read sample pages by accessing the books through Amazon.

Hezekiah-Conclusion

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On the island. May Malone 2nd from leftA few months ago I typed Hezekiah Malone into Google and what should pop up but his entire name: Hezekiah Pennington Malone. Someone, obviously a relative, had done a family history. Her name was Dorothy Malone Hamilton and her father was named Hezekiah Pennington Malone!

In 1944, Dorothy, a young girl at the time, went with her father to Ohio to meet his mother, who was 82. She had been married to William Malone, who died at age 48. Dorothy’s father had been only 10 years old when his father, William, had died. Dorothy’s grandmother was Josephine Malone whose last name had been Quinby.

After her marriage, Dorothy and her husband began doing some research and first went to Wilmington, Ohio where they stopped at the Historical Society. To their surprise the Historical Society had a file folder about the Malones. In this folder were newspaper articles, as well as letter written by a professor at Malone College. (This is the first I’ve ever heard about a Malone College). Her brother and his wife accompanied them. Her brother’s name is also Hezekiah Pennington Malone.

Her brother called the professor and soon they met him to continue the discussion.
My Hezekiah P. Malone was also the great-grandfather of Dorothy and her brother.

The Quaker farmers were John Carl and Mary Ann Pennington Malone. She said they had nine children, not eight, and named them: Hezekiah, Alice, Charles, Levi, Frances, Edwin, James, John and William. Her story pretty much matches my mother’s. Dorothy and her family were shocked to learn that the Malones were active in Dunedin, Florida because they live only a short distance from there.Camp Adamless Eden

When they got home they went to the Dunedin Historical Society and discovered a lot more information about the family. While my mother’s story was that Hezekiah was the first Commodore of the Yacht Club, Dorothy said it was Levi. Who knows? I don’t even know what a Yacht Club Commodore does!

Dorothy said the Historical Society has information about the family, the homes they owned, the activities they were involved in. She said two of the houses still remain. I think I have photos from my mother’s album of two houses there.

There is an island in Clearwater Bay called Malone Island. Apparently Levi Malone owned half of the island and they built shelters and had social gatherings there. I’m thinking this might be the island where my grandmother and her young women friends camped. I have photos taken there—cooking over a campfire, gathered in the shade of large tents. And they called their hideaway Camp Adamless Eden!

Dorothy said the family had a reunion in Dunedin in 2002 and she has met many cousins she didn’t know she had. Her grandfather and her great-grandmother (Emma Hart Malone)—mine as well– are buried in Dunedin.

A small picnic at Sharrer's. H.P. Malone, Mr. Sharrer & others

How to dress for a picnic on the island.

An addition to Dorothy’s article says that in 2013 and oak tree in the Dunedin Cemetery was dedicated to Hezekiah Pennington Malone I by Hezekiah Pennington Malone II.

Now I’m trying to contact the Dunedin Historical Society to see whether they have an address for Dorothy or are interested in copies of the photos. What an amazing trip this has been!

Courage (part of the Hezekiah story)

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I think that with all the current chaos and need for courage these times require, that it is an appropriate time to share a family story. My mother wrote this and I’m passing it on, just as she wrote it. The story shows how one person, long ago, made a difference. I can’t vouch for it’s truth.

Hezekiah’s parents (Hezekiah Malone being my great grandfather), as I have mentioned previously, were devout Quaker farmers in Ohio, raising eight children. My great-grandmother had been a Pennington. But on with the story.

“During the Civil War great-grandmother Malone is supposed to have had a tangle with the Southern guerrilla, Morgan and his Raiders. She and her daughter were along on the farm but when Morgan and his men swarmed thorough the place and beat on the door she faced them coolly enough. Morgan demanded food and stamped into the house, unshaven, travel-stained, his hat still on. Great-grandmother Malone said severely, “Wouldn’t thee take off thy hat in thy mother’s house?” and abashed, he did. –a look from him and so did the rest. “If thee’s hungry, I’ll give thee a meal,” she said, “but thee must wash first,” and she sent them outside to wash at the back door. Like good little boys they went, meekly, and she fed them. They might, as they did to so many others, have looted the farm of all the animals and produce, but they didn’t. They thanked her and rode away. “

Hezekiah continued

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H.P. Malone & granddaughter Mary Whitfield.-1911JPG

My mother on the lap of her grandfather, Hezekiah P. Malone 1910 or 1911

All the brothers apparently became quite successful. As my mother put it “stout, satisfied-looking business men. They looked like illustrations of the times—America booming, expanding, and they right along with it.” In 1925 she remembered visiting Walter Malone’s family in Dunedin, Florida (where many had summer homes) and said “all had the same apple-cheeked, fresh complexion he had.”

Louis, the youngest, was the problem child. “At various times Hezekiah sent one and then another brother to Mexico to manage the mines so each gained experience and knowledge and could make intelligent decisions from then on.” Hezekiah, being practical, had gone along with the custom at the time of paying off Mexican officials and handing out gifts when necessary. Louis refused and “imposed various restrictions and prohibitions and special taxes.” So the Mexicans confiscated one of the mines. This became known in the family as “Louis’s Million Dollar Mistake”.

My grandmother grew up in Cleveland but also lived in Montpelier, Indiana and in southern Ohio. In CMay Malone, my grandmother--Martha Washington outfit, Bradford Pa.leveland Hezekiah “built her a big playhouse with a real little stove, pots and pans and dishes and she had a Martha Washington costume, complete with cap, to wear in it to serve tea to her younger sister, her mother, or any visitors.” Her brother was quite a bit older than she was and her sister (Bess) three years younger.

She loved horses and always had her own. She rode bicycles and she and her sister were the scandal of Cleveland when they rode—in public!–in the first bloomers seen in the town. Grandmother had them made in New York of heavy velvet—yards and yards of material.”

Hezekiah “had trotting horses, which he raced all over the country. He had one of the first automobiles in Cleveland. The whole family traveled a great deal.”

Hezekiah and his brothers liked Dunedin, Florida and built several houses there. “They started the Dunedin Yacht Club and grandfather was the first commodore. They went to spend The Windward, Mom's boatwinters for many years and each person had his—or her—own sailboat, which he or she sailed around the bay and across to the island, and down the coastline.” My great-grandmother’s boat was the Albatross and my grandmother’s the Windward.

Apparently Hezekiah had respect for women’s intelligence and my grandmother and her sister were allowed to travel alone. He was a 32nd degree Mason and he had Masonic rings made for the girls so that if they ever needed help they could get help from a Mason.

I have no idea what happened to all that wealth in the intervening years but I’m glad my mother was able to write down her memories of the family history. to be continued

Hezekiah

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Hezekiah Malone in the CatskillsWhen she was young, my mother took the family Bible to school to share and somehow lost it. I think she felt guilty about this for the rest of her life. I felt a little bit like this when I realized that the photo album I’d placed her old family photos in had damaged some of them. It was one of those albums with a sticky backing and some of the stickiness bled through into some of the pictures. This fall I purchased a new album, with no stickiness. I paid a friend to copy and improve any of the pictures that he could and have placed them in the album, along with those he was unable to change. During this process I looked up one name on the Internet, just to be sure I was spelling it correctly. This was Hezekiah Pennington Malone, my great-grandfather.

My grandmother, on my mother’s side, was a Malone. I guess that Irish side is where my mother got her beautiful hair, dark brown, curling, with lots of red highlights.

In writing about family history my mother said that the Malones (her great- grandparents) were Quakers but originally the family came from North Ireland to the United States, settling first in Pennsylvania. Her great-grandmother had been a Pennington.

They were farmers and believed in hard work and “solid worth”. The women wore grays and blacks and dove colors but their clothes were of the best materials available—“woolens and heavy, durable silks”.

Her great-grandfather established a farm in Ohio. He and his wife were actually cousins. They had seven sons and one daughter. My great-grandfather, Hezekiah, was the eldest son. As with many farm children in those days, none wanted to work as hard as they had to on the property. When Hezekiah was 17 he ran away from home. Eventually he was able to make some money by taking part in some business opportunities (salt-bed oil wells, in Pennsylvania) and, as soon as he could afford it, he began to send for his brothers and to set them up in business. Nothing is said about what happened to the one sister.

Mr. & Mrs. H. P. Malone in Dunedin, FloridaHezekiah Malone married Emma Hart, who was not a Quaker, but became one when she married. “She was the daughter of the treasurer of the City of Cleveland” and her family at that time was “well-to-do”. My mother described Emma Hart as having a 17- inch waist and said that “she wore a hoop skirt, bodice with real lace, carried a little purse decorated with real lace. She wore shoes that were size one, high ones that laced up the sides, also white. “ This was on her wedding day from what I understand. Emma Hart was only 17 when Hezekiah decided she was the one for him. The information was somehow passed down through the family.

Here my mother mentions that Emma Hart’s father, a miller, was a direct descendent of John Hart, who signed the Declaration of Independence and states that “there were silver smiths some place in the family”. During the Civil War he ran n underground railway in his home for escaping slaves.” (My grandmother never told my grandfather about that. This is interesting to me because I didn’t know which of her parents had thought that owning slaves had been acceptable although I knew one had.).

Hezekiah Malone “made money and built a mansion right next door to the Harts”, and my mother’s two uncles, her mother and an aunt were born there in Cleveland. to be continued

 

Broken Crystal

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beautiful-streetWhen I was growing up at Castle Crags I used to enjoy walking the park roads after a big storm to see how high the streams were, listen to them roar, and see whether they were muddy, enjoying the power of nature.

ok-photoToday, following our two days of icy rain, I was anxious to do the same, to see the damage but to also appreciate the beauty. I could see some from our house but wanted to walk. The first thing I needed to do, though, was take my car to get the oil changed, tires rotated and balanced, etc. It was overdue. My husband had de-iced my car so the door would open and had warmed it up so the windshield was no longer covered with ice. It takes about 20 minutes to get to thetrees-on-sidewalk-glare shop but even though the sun was shining the trip didn’t melt any more ice. Two different people at the dealership spoke to me, with big smiles, about how they liked the ice on my car, particularly the icicles hanging from the mirrors and other edges. Obviously the temperatures were pretty cold this morning.

When I got back home I put on a down jacket and took my usual neighborhood walk, being carefufreshly-broken-treel to walk on the street when heavily laden trees seemed to bend too far over the sidewalks. Under the trees small chunks of melting ices clattered down. It was like walking through a world of crystal. Sunlight sparkled and glittered from grass, shrubs and trees. Now, at 3:30 in the afternoon, the Asian pear tree in our neighbor’s yard still glistens.

broken-treeThis beauty was a stark contrast to the evidence of damage from the weight of the ice. In many places it looks as if bombs have been dropped damaging, not the houses, but just the foliage.
Tree after tree has broken, with branches and trunks hanging over fences or blocking sidewalks. In some cases, a tree in one yard has fallen into their neighbor’s yard. When I was walking along one street three tree-company trucks, pulling trailers, drove the other direction.

icy-treesWe were so lucky to not lose power. Our lines are underground but power lines leading into town are above ground and many people have been without electricity for several days. All it
takes is for a tree in a wooded neighborhood to fall on the lines. One friend, who lives on a more rural edge of town, posted that the temperature in their house this morning was 39-degrees and they were going to a motel for abig-broken-tree couple of days, until their electricity is on again.

Oh, Deer

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Ranger families could not have dogs when we were growing up in California State Parks. We had one during the Second World War but the ruling must have come after that. At the time, we had an Irish Water Spaniel. She had nine pheidi-the-fawn0001uppies and we kept one. When we moved, we left the mother, Curly Locks, so that she could have a life as a hunting dog, for which she was trained before she ended up with us. Unfortunately, our little puppy ate some some salmon, got sick, and died before we moved from the coast to the mountains. So, no pets for us.

When we lived at Castle Crags we got lucky. A doe with a very young fawn was killed by a car and the Department of Fish and Game said we could raise the baby because we lived in the park. She was very young and needed to be bottle fed. My younger brother and I did most of the care although our mother probably started out with it. We named her Heidi. What an adorable animal! Wheidi-the-fawne had a leash for her and she loved taking walks with us. When we stopped for her to rest she would suck on our ear lobes! We kept her away from other people so she would not adapt to them, and might have a chance at being a wild deer when she grew up.

Heidi loved to be with us but we had to have her tied up part of the day; we couldn’t be with her conguy-the-fawnstantly. One day, when I was going to ride with my mother to the post office, I moved He
idi to a shaded spot by the little creek and tied her leash to a branch. Back at the house, ready to leave, I could see that the willow branches, which had been waving around from her efforts to follow, had stopped moving. I went down to do one last check on her and watched the light fading from her eyes as she died. Her collar was just a belt and the fastener had come loose as she leaped. She had choked to death.

We were devastated. This was a first loss of a much-loved pet. It took a long time for my brother and I to recuperate.

A few years later (1955) we ended up with another fawn, this one a little buck. His mother, too, had been hit by a car and died. He was so tiny our mother fed him with a straw, holding her thumb on one end to keep the milk in and then releasing it into his mouth. She did this oguy-the-fawn0002ff and on through a number of nights. When he got to where he could use a bottle my brother and I took care of him. He graduated from bottle to a bowl with a rubber glove in it so he could suck on our fingers as he ate. Pablum was added as he grew. This time our dad bought a little harness that went around his middle so there was no chance of another accident. He did wiggle out once though and, in the process, slit one ear about an inch. Our parents attached a large wool sock to the harness to make it tighter. When he got older and ran with other young deer we could recognize him from the split ear. This one we called Dear-deer and then, eventually, Guy. He was much more independent than the little doe had been, and not as affectionate. But he was a lovable handful.

As he grew, we stopped tying him up at night and he would join other deer but always came wheguy-the-fawn0001n we called if he knew food might be waiting. He was definitely a success story, gaining his independence and finding others with whom to roam. The last time we saw him he had a spike antler on each side. Guy ran up to my brother and reared up, striking out with his front feet as if to play. That showed us it was time to end the relationship. But what a wonderful experience! Every time we saw deer in the meadow or out in the woods we’d try to see whether one of them had a split ear.

Poetry Reading

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100_5770Yesterday afternoon I went to a poetry reading, in the Veneta area- west of Eugene, that was sponsored by Groundwaters Publishing http://groundwaterspublishing.com.

For 10 years Groundwaters published a quarterly literary magazine but now puts all the effort into a yearly edition, and this reading was a celebration of their 2nd Annual Issue. Their tagline is “Bubbling up in our own good time”.

The reading site was a Grange Hall/performing arts center at a former elementary school site. The little auditorium was perfect for this event and I’m sure everyone appreciated the tiers of seats that allowed all to see. And the use of a microphone is always appreciated. I didn’t read this year but enjoyed just listening to others.

Works are contributed by amateurs and professionals and include fiction, non-fiction, essays, poetry, artwork and photographs.

I have five pieces in this year’s publications, several poems and a short essay. The following is one of my poems.

Oxford Dictionary

Lest we lose our sense of belonging to
and coming from the land,
let us keep the words that name
what we love—the forests,
the meadows and streams,
the flowers and birds,
the echoes and sunbeams.

Let us drink deeply from snowbroth,
restore vigor to our jargogled brains,
and camp in a heather-filled mountain glade
To recuperate from a long hike.
let us prepare dinner at twitter-light
and plan tomorrow’s climb up the arête.

Afterwards, I want to go spangin’ along the trails,
collecting forgotten words.