From Mary's Kitchen

BAKED SWISS STEAK

2010-09-25T15:48:00.000-07:00

When I was first married, I knew how to cook, but my skills were pretty much limited to half-a-dozen recipes. Fortunately, the women in my new family were great cooks, so I had plenty of mentors. My mom-in-law from the mid-west taught me things like how to make gravy. She also taught me how to make good coffee, tailor a blazer, and do bookkeeping the old-fashioned way, with a ledger. Mom has been gone for just over two years, and I still miss her like crazy.

Grandma taught me about pies and cobblers. She never took the bounty of the Pacific Northwest for granted, marveling that something as wonderful as a blackberry was free for the picking. If she saw a neglected orchard, she would stop and ask for ground fall. No one could make a fruit pie better , or more economically, than Grandm. Always remembering the Depression, she was a frugal shopper, and taught me by example.

Most importantly, they taught me not to be afraid of a recipe. To adapt, create, and alter. “They’re just guidelines,” Mom used to say.

It’s true, I’ve learned. Today I can say, without too much exaggeration, that “I’ve never met a recipe I didn’t change.”

So, in honor of her birthday tomorrow, here’s my version of Mom’s Swiss Steak.

BAKE SWISS STEAK
Heat oven to 350°

1 lb. top round or other thin steak
¼ cup flour
¼ tsp. each, salt and pepper
½ cup diced onion
2 tbsp. olive oil
1 - 8oz can tomato sauce
1 cup brown gravy (from a mix or leftover homemade)
1 bay leaf

Cut the steak into four equal pieces. Using a meat tenderizer, flatten the steaks to about ¼ inch, turning frequently. Mix flour with salt and pepper. Dredge steak pieces in seasoned flour, pressing it into the meat.

Heat the oil to medium-high in a Dutch oven. Brown the meat on both sides. Add onions and remove from heat. Mix tomato sauce and gravy. Pour over meat and onions. Stir to combine, turning steaks over to coat. Drop bay leaf into sauce.

Cover and bake at 350° for 60 minutes, or until meat is very tender.

THE SAGE SEED

2009-02-09T17:36:00.000-08:00

Joe was an outdoorsman, and always had been. Nothing made him happier than spending a weekend fishing or hunting with his brother or sons. Waterfowl and upland game birds were a particular passion. His wife, Frankie, had gotten used to being a “hunting widow.” It was ok with her. Her only complaint was the quantitiy of sage seeds and dust that inevitably came home from Eastern Oregon. At least bird season was shorter than football, and didn’t come into the living room, much.

A year earlier, while shopping at K-Mart, Joe fell in love. It was a Mossberg 12-gauge auto-loader . . . and it was on sale. It was the perfect shotgun for his annual bird hunt. He had wanted one like it for a long time, and they had a little extra cash. With a bit of persuasion, Frankie agreed that it was a great deal, and would never be any cheaper. “It can be my birthday and Christmas present,” Joe offered.

Frankie just smiled. Joe deserved a new one; she knew he planned to pass his old double barrel to their oldest son for his birthday…and it really was a good buy.

He purchased the shotgun, and the men went on their trip. Upon his return, he declared that it was the best firearm he’d ever used. The brace of chukkars and sage-hens he brought home proved it.

Fall gave way to winter, and January brought some of the worst storms in decades. Frigid arctic winds howled for days. Freezing rain created a world brittle as glass, snapping tree limbs and power lines alike. Western Oregon, unaccustomed to sub-zero temperatures, was paralyzed.

On Joe and Frankie’s little farm, the fields were reduced to little more than straw stubble. The wind had scoured and burned the grass, and the ice had finished it off. The livestock had been confined to the barn, where they could be cared for…and fed. Joe studied the dwindling stack of bales in the corner. It had been nearly three weeks. They had not been prepared for this. Even if the weather changed tomorrow, there was nothing left of the pasture. He would have to buy more hay, and this was definitely not in the family budget. He shook his head, knowing what he had to do.

“I’m going to sell the Mossberg,” he told Frankie that evening. “I barely fired it, only put about a dozen rounds through it. It’s just like a new gun.”

“Is that really necessary?” She asked, “I mean, there must be something else we can do.”

“It’s not like we can charge a ton of hay to a credit card,” Joe responded, always practical. “It’s okay, guns are a commodity. Buy in good times, sell in bad.”

Removing the shotgun from its case, he proceeded to wipe it down carefully, although it was already spotless. Returned to its manufacturer’s box, the 12 gauge really did look like new. A slip of paper caught his eye. It was the original receipt.

“Do you think I could just return it?” Joe mused. “I wonder what K-Mart’s policy is on stuff like that.”

An hour later, he emerged from the store with a cash refund in his pocket, enough to buy hay for the rest of the winter. Apparently, the customer is always right at the big red K.

Months went by and October bird season approached again. Nothing was said this year about a new shotgun. One day, Frankie was back at K-Mart, looking for gym bags for the boys. While shopping in sporting goods, she found herself in front of the gun counter, staring at a big red sign. CLEARANCE. She scanned the display case for a 12-gauge auto-loader. There it was, toward the end. Nearly half off, and significantly less than Joe had paid the previous year.

Immediately, she determined to buy it for her husband. It was still almost $200. Joe would notice if she spent that much money without accounting for it. She rang the bell for service.

“Can I put this on lay-away?” she asked, indicating the Mossberg behind the glass.

Christmas morning, Frankie was fairly twitching. They opened presents as they always did, youngest to oldest, with Joe being last. After the last bow was plucked off, and the last bit of colored paper hit the floor, Frankie reached behind the couch and pulled out another wrapped package. “I think Santa forgot to put this under the tree,” she smiled, handing it to Joe.

A look of incredulous joy crossed the man’s face as he tore the red and gold striped paper off the box. “Wow,” he grinned as he lifted the shotgun from its box and studied it, inside and out. “Oh, honey, I can’t believe it. How did you manage this?”

“Lay-away!” she laughed. “Is it the right one? I wasn’t sure of the model.”

Joe’s grin widened, and he handed her a tiny, round ball. “Not only is it the right one,” he told her, “I think it’s the same one.”

Frankie looked at the object in her hand. It was a sage seed, the kind found in the high deserts of eastern and central Oregon.

THE RECIPE THAT CHANGED MY LIFE

2008-08-25T19:21:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager I was heavily involved in 4-H with dogs, horses, textiles and food preparation. As a junior in high school, I lived for the summer activities of fairs and shows. My first venture into competitive cooking came when I was sixteen. My best friend and I decided we would enter not only the baked goods category, but also a class titled “Plan a Meal”. The object was to plan the menu for a nutritious dinner, including an appetizer course and dessert; create a table setting appropriate for the meal, complete with centerpiece; and last, but not least, actually prepare the entrée.

I had discovered a dish in one of my mother’s old cookbooks called Braised Pork Chops Creole. Having made it for my family several times, I decided that this would be my entry. The day of the competition, I got up early and prepared everything. It had occurred to me earlier that I would have to transport the saucy dish from home to the fairgrounds. Borrowing mom’s crock-pot seemed like a great way to keep the stuff hot.

I arrived at the fairgrounds purposely early. There would be plenty of time for everything to re-heat. Plugging in the crock-pot, I went on about my business. When it was time for judging, I returned to my station. My place setting had earned a blue ribbon (top 10% in the 4-H world) and my menu a red. Apparently, I went a little heavy on the starch, and a little light on the green leafy vegetables.

Now it was time for the judge to taste my dish. She sat across the table, a stack of small paper plates and plastic utensils at her side. An older lady, she had an air of friendly intimidation. Confidently, I lifted the lid to my creation. To my horror, the entire top was a pool of grease. Not knowing what else to do, I gulped and served up a portion, carefully trying to dip the sauce from the bottom. Thankfully, Madam Judge was kind. She rated the flavor of the meat as excellent, also the texture and tenderness. However, the sauce was ruined. She suggested that next time I remove the bone from the chops, and trim all possible fat.

I didn’t earn a ribbon, but I did learn something. I had not realized how much fat was hidden in the chops. I’d always served them right away, so the excess had stayed hidden within the meat. The additional heating time spent sitting in the crock-pot had released it into the sauce. Though a mildly embarrassing lesson, it was a valuable one. I have been diligent in my trimming, and always bone the chops in this dish.

Shortly thereafter, I met my future husband. One Saturday, when we had been dating for about three months, he came over to help my Dad build a fence. I cooked dinner that night, and made Pork Chops Creole. Years later, he said that was the night he knew he wanted to marry me someday. So even in the last quarter of the twentieth century, the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I imagine it still can be. Here it is, almost thirty years later, and it’s still a favorite.

For a really fabulous version, use smoked pork chops.

Creole Style Pork Chops (The one that started it all )
Serves 4

4 center-cut loin pork chops, boned and trimmed well
½ cup flour seasoned with pepper, onion powder, garlic powder and paprika
1 med. onion, thinly sliced
1 green bell pepper, cut into thin strips
2 stalks celery, thinly sliced, optional
1 - 15oz can diced tomatoes, with liquid
1 - 6oz can tomato paste
3 tbsp. olive oil

Combine tomatoes and tomato paste, and stir until well blended. Pour a little of the sauce in the bottom of a greased 2.5 liter casserole. Fold the vegetables into the rest. Add a little water if necessary. Set aside

Trim chops of all excess fat. Rinse and pat dry. Place seasoned flour in a plastic zipper bag. Shake chops in flour, one at a time.

Heat oil on medium high in heavy skillet. Brown floured chops until golden. Remove from heat. Lay browned chops on sauce in casserole dish. Pour vegetable-tomato mixture on top of the meat.

Bake at 350° for 1 hour, or until thickest part of chop reads 165°.
Serve on a bed of white/wild rice blend, with a green salad.

Variation:
Use 4 fully cooked, smoked pork chops. Remove the bone, if present, trim excess fat, and reduce the baking time to 45 minutes or until vegetables are tender.

SATURDAY NIGHT IN PARADISE - Grilled Leg of Lamb

2008-07-05T17:52:00.000-07:00

The backyard barbecue has always been a large part of summer for our family. Being natives of the rainy Pacific Northwest, we learned from an early age to take advantage of any sunny weekend. This made for some very spontaneous parties. Often put together on a whim, the menu varied incredibly. Sometimes, especially on a Friday evening after work, we would do a “bring your own” scenario. Whoever was hosting the event would provide condiments, chips, a side dish or two, and the barbeque to cook on. Friends and their kids would come over, and bring whatever grill-able meat they happened to have on hand. This ranged from hotdogs, burgers and brats to pork chops, ribs or steak. Strangely enough, chicken didn’t happen that often.

I admit, I have been known to buy “deli” potato salad and doctor it up to taste more like homemade. Just add a couple of chopped hardboiled eggs, some diced sweet or dill pickle, and a little extra mayo. I never tried to pass it off as my own, although I didn’t volunteer the information. If anyone asked, I copped to it.

When there was actual planning involved, our patio parties were even better. Sometimes a freshly caught salmon, or a couple of smoked chickens. A butterflied leg of lamb marinated for a couple of days and grilled to a medium-rare perfection, that’s my mother-in-law’s specialty. Pricey, it was a treat usually only she prepared. There would be fresh tossed salad from our garden, pineapple-baked beans, homemade pasta or potato salads. Beverages ranged from ice tea, soda and milk, to wine coolers and beer. The kids would play on the lawn as the sun went down and the citronella candles were lit. The pungent fragrance of the candles mingled with the aroma of briquettes and barbeque. Laughter, music and conversation drifted on the breeze, the sounds of Saturday night in paradise.

Grilled Leg of Lamb

1 leg of lamb, boned and butterflied (the meat cutter at your supermarket can do this)
2 cups Italian salad dressing
2 cloves garlic, peeled and crushed
1 package Béarnaise sauce mix, prepared

Trim the excess fat from the lamb, making sure to remove all the “silver skin”. Place in a shallow baking dish. Rub both sides with crushed garlic. Pour the dressing over the meat. Cover and marinate overnight.

Grill over hot coals or gas, turning several times until thickest part of roast is done to medium-rare. Rest for 10 minutes before cutting. Slice thinly across the grain.
Serve with Béarnaise sauce on the side.

SUMMERTIME, AND THE LIVING IS EASY

2008-07-03T19:18:00.000-07:00

When our kids were young, our favorite vacation destination was Detroit Lake, Oregon. The reservoir is large and deep, with incredible trout fishing. One year, at the last minute, we decided to spend Fourth of July weekend there. Not surprisingly, there was not a campsite to be found. Fortunately, there was a cancellation at the Lakeside Hotel, a tiny, mom and pop operation, just a stones throw from the marina. It was more like staying at someone's cabin than a hotel. The kitchenette was well equipped, with a full size fridge to hold the day's catch. Every morning, we found a fresh container of night crawlers on our doorstep, compliments of management.

Our boys each caught a nice rainbow trout their first time out. Dad showed them how to clean a fish, roll it in cornmeal and fry it in bacon grease. Beaming, they presented their catch at the dinner table, offering to share. We had a bite each and then left the boys to enjoy their feast. Our daughter thought the fish was delicious, but not worth the work of catching it. At eleven, she was just too grown up to handle worms. She preferred to spend her time sunbathing on the bow of the boat (with me, another confirmed non-worm person).

Just in case the fish weren't biting, we always brought something good for dinner. This recipe came from a friend that used to prepare it in the galley of a sailboat. A simple, tasty casserole, it travels well and reheats easily. The only catch is that you need an oven, at least the kind that sits on a camp stove.

Do-Ahead Chicken Pie
Heat to 350°, if using a real oven

1 box chicken flavor stuffing mix
2 cups cooked, cubed chicken (canned chunk chicken works fine)
1 can mushrooms, drained
1 can peas and carrots, or mixed vegies, drained
1 can cream of chicken soup
½ can water

Prepare stuffing per package directions. Set aside.

Combine the soup with water and mix well. Add chicken and vegetables. Mixture should be quite thick. Pour into a greased or non-stick 2-quart baking dish. (For camping, I use a small, enameled metal roaster. It's virtually indestructible and has a lid.)

Spread the stuffing evenly over the top to form a "crust". Cover. Heat slowly, 20-30 minutes or until hot.

FEEDING THE BEAR - Brownie comes home

2008-06-28T21:12:00.001-07:00

There have been feral cats in the San Juan Islands for as long as there have been people. They have adapted, become as much part of the environment as the squirrels. The population remains quite stable, and the cats are amazingly healthy. Most likely, that's because so many of us feed them. We also have a healthy population of juncos, finches and stellar jays. I have to refill birdfeeders daily in the winter. During parts of spring and summer, hummingbirds invade the deck like swarms of bees. It's hard to keep three bottles full of nectar. The cats don't seem to bother the birds. As an added bonus, don't have a rodent problem, either.

My husband and I refer to these felines as free-range. It seems so much kinder than feral. We had been told the old black-and-white Tom that "came with" our farmhouse was one of the founding fathers. He was long gone, but many of the cats that crossed our property bore his tuxedo markings. Not being cat people, we never paid much attention to them. Then one summer, our son found a tiny kitten, abandoned in my herb garden. He brought her inside, and Smokey became part of our family. She has not set a paw outdoors since.

Two years later, we were adopted by two of Smokey's siblings. There was dark grey JR, who looked very much like Smokey but with long hair, and golden Brownie. Both were friendly, with lots of personality. They had been living in our garden rockery since they were tiny, first with their mother, then on their own. We grew quite attached to them. As autumn approached, my husband built a shelter for them on our porch, and I started feeding them regularly. The young cats were sleek and fat. However, they were anything but tame.

That was the problem. When we decided to relocate last year, we didn't know what to do about JR and Brownie. We discussed and considered every option, from taking them to the local rescue shelter (where they would surely find homes), to taking them with us to our new location. Either way would involve actually catching the cats.

As moving day approached, I began putting their dinner in the laundry room, with the door open. Cautiously, the shy critters came in to eat, as long as no one was in there. My plan was to get them accustomed to being inside, gradually closing the door, until they would let me pick them up. After a couple of weeks, it became obvious that being tame housecats was not in these guy's plans. They would purr, and rub our legs, but would scurry away at any motion to touch them. We decided then that finding them a "new home" would do more harm than good. They had been born in the woods, had come from parents many generations free-range. My husband compared them to young raccoons.

We made the rather painful decision to leave the boys at the farm. I spoke to the new tenants, (who were happy to have resident rat-catchers), provided ten pounds of kibble to get them started, and waved a reluctant good-bye to JR and Brownie.

Smokey had lived exclusively indoors since she was four weeks old. The old house had been her whole universe. After watching her adjust to her new surroundings, I felt better about the choice we had made. She might as well have been on Mars. Fearfully, she stayed under our bed for hours at a time. At least the boys were in their familiar territory. They only "needed" us at feeding time.

I ran into the new people several times in the first month. Each time, I was told that the "little gray cat with the white boots" hung around the woodshed. They had been putting food out for him, trying to make friends. However, there had been no sign of Brownie. I toyed with the idea of making a poster to put down at the little store…just to see if there had been any sightings, but discarded the notion as rather silly. My husband and I were both certain he was alive. About 18 months old, he was sturdy and muscular. Brownie knew how to take care of himself.

Several more weeks went by, and life got back to normal. It had taken a few days for Smokey to discover the joys of wall-to-wall carpeting. After that, she was quite comfortable and happy. We were still on acreage, surrounded by forest. A herd of deer made daily foraging trips across our yard, and a flock of wild pigeons roosted in a large hawthorn tree. One afternoon, eleven of the neighbor's sheep found a break in the fence, and came over to visit us. Every so often, we would see cats near the edge of the meadow, hunting. One was a huge animal that could have passed for a bobcat, except for its distinctly domestic face.

On a sunny April morning, I was on my way to work when I saw a flash of ginger fur, just outside the door. The animal disappeared before I could get a good look at it. Over the next few days, we saw the orange cat several times, but always from a distance. Then there he was, close enough to see…the little scar on the pink nose…the kink in the tail…Brownie had found us!

Speaking softly and moving slowly, I approached the little cat. He backed off, but didn't run. His fur looked somewhat ragged and he had lost weight. I got a dish of cat food, set it on the step, and walked away, careful not to make eye contact. Brownie waited until I was in my car, then he attacked the food ravenously.

I drove to work with a smile on my face. I had really missed the little cat. Excited, I called my husband. Our new place was about a mile up the road by pavement, much less, as the cat scampers. In his cat-ly wanderings, he must have recognized our vehicles or the scents on them. It's very unlikely that Brownie had been looking for us, but I like to think he was glad, anyway. He was gone when I got home that night, and we didn't see him again for several days. Each evening I stood on the porch and called his name. I was nearly ready to give up, when one night I heard a soft meow in response. "Hey Brownie-boy," I coaxed. "Welcome home buddy. Come get some dinner."

Setting a dish of table scraps on the porch, I stepped back inside. Cautiously, the cat approached, his whiskers twitching, smelling the food. "It's ok, good fella," I crooned softly, "Come on, Brown-bear, that's for you."

Hunger finally won out over his fear. Nervously he stretched forward, grabbed a bite and darted away. I went inside, and slowly, Brownie came back to the dish to finish his meal. The shyer of the two kittens, he had always been very quiet, rarely making a sound. As I watched through the open window, I could hear him purring, the loudest purr I had ever heard.

It went on like this for several days. Every evening, Brownie would come a little closer. The day he actually started eating, before I backed away from the dish, it felt like a small victory. I had finally won a smidgen of his trust. I watched him, contentedly eating. The young cat was obviously thinner. He had been hunting mice, and eating garbage, and was probably infested with parasites. A dose of worm medicine, and some flea drops between his shoulder blades would take care of that problem.

Being on his own, away from JR, Brownie's personality began to shine through. Talkative and friendly, he was happy to rub his body on our legs, while purring and meowing softly. As spring turned to summer, he stayed near the house, sunning on the warm gravel, or curled up on the steps beside the door. He gained weight and filled out, growing into a compact cat, stocky and strong. He started to look like a little brown bear.

Over time, Brownie became quite approachable, by his standards. A good ear-scratching or back rub would earn much purring, as long as we didn't try to pick him up. We folded an old quilt into a thick pad, and placed it in the mud room, near his dish. That night at dinnertime, my husband and I watched through the window. After finishing his cat food, Brownie gave the blanket a cautious sniff, and lay down tentatively. From then on, he was very comfortable, eating and sleeping inside, as long as the door was ajar.

The first truly cold evening of autumn, I let Brownie in…and shut the door. Distracted by the dishing-up of dinner, he didn't notice at first. I set his bowl down, saw him start eating, and went into the house, leaving him alone in the mud room. Good, I thought, he doesn't mind. He'll be safe and warm, with a soft place to sleep.

"How's Brownie doing out there?" my husband asked an hour or so later.
I said I didn't know, and let's go check. Peering into the dim room, we fully expected to see the cat curled up, asleep. Instead, we didn't see him anywhere. Flipping on the light, I stepped into the mudroom and called his name. Instantly, I heard a low growl. Following my ear, I saw Brownie, crouched in the corner behind a stack of flowerpots, looking terrified.

"It's okay, fella," I said, feeling terrible, "I'm so sorry, boy, I didn't mean for you to be scared." Quickly, I crossed the room and opened the outside door. Brownie was through it in a flash of ginger fur. No amount of coaxing would bring him back in, that night.

By the next day, however, all was well again. We made sure the door remained open a bit. My husband stretched a mini-bungee from doorknob to doorframe, held in place by a coffee can doorstop. Brownie had made his wishes abundantly clear. No matter how much he trusts us, confinement is not his cup of tea. So, we do what we can by providing some food and shelter, and he does his part by keeping the rodents away.

The Brown Bear was born a free-range cat, and free-range he has chosen to remain….but he still enjoys his blanket.

SPRINGTIME, FRIENDS AND FOOD

2008-04-28T20:14:00.000-07:00

When I was a freshman in high school, my best friend, Julie and I spent spring break at her mother’s cabin near Mt. Hood. It was our first excursion without adults, although we learned later that the neighbors had been keeping a discreet eye on us. At fifteen, we considered ourselves quite self sufficient, and we really did pretty well. We hiked, shot pellet rifles, and rode our bicycles into the town of Rhododendron for breakfast one morning.

One unseasonably warm afternoon, the temperatures topped 70. We decided that it would be fun to go swimming. We dressed in some of Julie’s old cut-off shorts and t-shirts and headed for the creek. By the time we walked the mile or so, mostly uphill, to the swimming hole, we were really hot. The deep water of Still Creek looked inviting. After checking for submerged hazards by poking aroung with a long stick, Julie ran to the bank and jumped in. I was right behind her.

The cold shot through my body like an electric shock. My hands and feet were instanly numb. It had not occurred to us that it was only mid-March, and the creek was full of snow melt. (We were on the ascending slope of Mt. Hood, after all.) Our “swim” lasted approximately 15 seconds. Just long enough to get back out of the water. It had also not occurred to either of us to bring towels. Shivering, and on the verge of hypothermia, we made our way back through the very shady woods. Back at the cabin, Julie stoked the woodstove, the only source of heat. We were very glad that cooking required fire, and we had built one that morning to make coffee. Soon we were in warm, dry clothes and the pot was bubbling. Life was good again.

Julie and I, even as teenagers, enjoyed good food. Her mother was a gourmet cook, happy to cook for us, and teach us anything we wanted to know. My first taste of caviar was in her kitchen. We were both learning to cook, and found the woodstove at the cabin a lot of fun. Being true Oregon tomboys, we grew up with the lore of the pioneers, and wanted to learn all the skills. The week at the cabin was as close as we could come in the 70’s. And much of it revolved around food. We roasted a rabbit (that we brought from the butcher shop) on a spit in the fireplace, and baked potatoes in the coals. It took about five hours, and countless burnt fingers, but it was a delicious meal.

Coffee was in a stove top perculator, and not very good. We either used too much coffee, or let it perk too long. The pancakes we made on the cast iron stove top were another matter, and wonderful. Likewise the pepper-cured honey bacon that we found at the market in Rhododendron.

We lost touch after high school, but have recently re-established contact. Our lives have taken us to, quite literally, opposite ends of the country. Mine to the San Juan Islands of Washington State, hers to northern Maine. No surprise that we both live in the woods. We still both love the outdoors, and fantasize about pioneer living, although on a tamer scale. And we both still love to eat, and cook

Here in the Pacific Northwest, summer is time for fresh Dungeness crab, in my mind, far tastier than any lobster. Julie’s mother passed away a few years ago, but I asked if she would share her special crab soup recipe. I remembered it as her entry in one of the James Beard contests. I believe it won an award, but neither Julie or I can recollect the details. The original recipe was for twelve main course servings, and called for a total of four pounds of crab. I adaptation call for quantities of a more managable size, and the results are scrumptious.

Dungeness Crab Bisque
Serves 2 as a main course, 4 as an appetizer

½ lb. cooked crab meat
½ lb. cooked crab legs
1 to 1½ quart half & half
¼ lb. butter
¼ cup flour
1 tbsp. onion, grated
2 drops hot pepper sauce or ¼ tsp. cayenne pepper
½ cup heavy cream
1 tbsp. Scotch Whiskey (optional)
Salt, Pepper, Chopped parsley, Paprika

Melt butter in double boiler. Add Flour and onion and cook at least 20 minutes up to two hours (the longer, the better). Slowly add most of the half & half, stirring at low heat to keep from lumping. If too thick, add more half & half. Add a sprinkle of black pepper and the Tabasco Sauce. (Up to this point can be made ahead of time and allowed to cool).

An hour before serving, heat slowly to a simmer. Stir in whiskey and add the crab meat and legs, being careful not to break it up too much. Check for seasoning and add salt if needed (often, the crab is salty enough on its own).

To serve, pour the heavy cream into serving bowls and pour the soup over it. Sprinkle with finely chopped parsley and plenty of paprika.

DIRTY FINGERNAILS - a short essay

2008-04-07T18:28:00.000-07:00

There is a certain kind of spirituality I can only find by gardening. A special peace and solitude, a feeling of being one with the universe. The sun, warm on my back. The feel of soil, sifting through my gloveless fingers. The scent of earth and water. The songbird’s carefree melody. Tiny seeds carefully placed in pockets of moist compost, to emerge, days later as wee green leaves. Truly a rebirth each spring.

Optimism is indispensable to having a garden. There is trust that insects and critters will take no more than their share; and confidence that there will, indeed, be a harvest. Each seed and every transplant is a gesture of faith. I plant peas every spring, mainly because I can’t wait to get out there and dig. I have yet to harvest more than a few handfuls. The birds and worms frequently get more than we do. Even so, I will plant them again next year.

The joy I get from growing food for my family is immeasurable. I can think of no better feeling than serving a meal made with my own, fresh produce. When the children were small, we grew nearly all our vegetables and fruit. The garden was a quarter acre, with everything from asparagus to zucchini. There was always enough to preserve, to share with friends, even some to sell.

I garden on a smaller scale now that the kids are grown, but it’s in my blood. I await the first radish each year with the same eagerness I had as a child. The last tomato picked before frost always makes me a bit sad. I’ve spent many winter evenings engrossed in seed catalogs. My husband says I’m happiest with dirt under my fingernails. I must say, I believe he’s right.

A KITTEN FOR KELLY - a children's story

2008-03-30T15:24:00.000-07:00

Kelly lived with her parents and older brother in a little house overlooking the ocean. The house sat on the side of a granite hill surrounded by forest. Some of Kelly’s best friends were the animals that lived in those woods. Every morning before school, Kelly went outside to top-off the bird feeders, making sure they were full of seed. In the afternoon, she checked the old stump that held peanuts and sunflower seeds for the squirrels. She had named many of the bushy-tailed neighbors. On weekends, she would walk down to the beach and sit on the pier, watching the sea lions lazing on the rocks, or the sea otters playing in the surf.

Kelly loved the wild critters, but she had always wanted a cat. Her teenage brother, Mark, had a dog named Skipper. He was a black and tan mostly-German-shepherd, and followed the boy everywhere. Mark had found him by the road one day, scraggly and skinny, and brought him home. He had bathed and groomed him and fattened him up. Now he was a part of the family. He was friendly and sweet, but he was really Mark’s dog. Kelly was very envious.

"Mama," she would say, "Don’t you think I could have a kitten?"
Mama would reply with a smile, "You be patient, sweetie, the time will come."
So, Kelly tried to be patient, and made do with her wild friends.

Spring came to the forest and everything seemed to be growing. The leaves sprouted on the alders and the hummingbirds returned from their winter hide-away. The does appeared with tiny, white spotted fawns. They were so used to people that even Skipper did not bother them. Kelly’s dad had built a fence around the garden to keep the friendly deer out of his wife’s flowers and vegetables.

This garden was one of the little girl’s favorite places. She would stretch out on the grass under the apple tree and daydream, sure that fairies lived in the branches above. Sometimes she would set up her little farm with all its plastic cows, sheep and horses and play for hours. One day, just after lunch, Kelly was out in the garden when a huge, calico cat, appeared at the edge of the fence. Girl and cat stared at each other for a minute. The cat stretched lazily, and began washing her face with a forepaw. Kelly giggled. She reached out her hand. "Here kitty, kitty," she said softly.

The cat raised her head and looked, then casually turned and left the garden. Kelly was curious. She got up to follow. By the time she got through the gate, the cat was gone.

After that, Kelly saw the cat regularly. Sometimes it was in the garden, and sometimes sunning on a rock or crossing the drive, going toward the beach. Try as she might, she was never able to get near enough to touch it. Soon she started leaving a dish of food near the garden fence. Each morning the dish would be empty, but she was never sure if it was the cat, or some raccoons that were enjoying the feast.

Kelly decided to try again, "Daddy, could I have a kitten for my birthday? I’ll be eight this year. Isn’t that old enough?"

Her father tried to look gruff, "An animal is a lot of responsibility. Do you think you could remember to feed and take care of it?"

"Of course I could!" Kelly stated, indignantly. "I’d take the best care of it!"
"Well," He gave in, smiling, "We’ll see what we can do. But you better be extra good!"
Kelly was beaming. Surely she would have her very own kitten soon.

Spring wore on. The daffodils opened, wild all over the woods, and the tulips behind the fence raised their colorful heads. The herbs in mother’s garden had soft new growth and a lovely fragrance. The bushes were alive with birds of all kinds. And the calico cat kept visiting the little girl.

The day of Kelly’s birthday was sunny, warm for late May. It was a perfect day for a party. Her mother had set up cake and games on the front deck, and several friends were expected that afternoon. It was a wonderful birthday. The girls played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey and broke a piñata. After cake and ice cream, they played hide-and-seek in the woods. Kelly had a great time.

That evening after supper, the family gathered for their own little celebration. The hearth was stacked with birthday gifts. There was a big box from her father. She decided to save it for last. Some muffled noises seemed to be coming from it. There were the clothes from her mother, as usual, and a game from Mark. Finally, she tore the wrapping from the big box. Inside was a cage containing a small black and white rabbit. For just a moment, Kelly was disappointed. Then she reached in pulled the bunny into her arms. "Thank you, Daddy! I promise I’ll take good care of him!"

"I know that you will," Her father grinned. "I’m sorry that it’s not a kitten, but no one in the whole county had kittens yet. I guess it’s too early in the year."
"That’s ok," She grinned back. "This bunny is just as cuddly."

Kelly named the rabbit Hoppy, and played with him every day out in the yard. Sometimes the calico cat would watch them, probably hoping for a rabbit dinner, but she never came very close. The girl made sure Hoppy was safely tucked into his cage before she went in for the evening. She loved her bunny, but she still dreamed of a kitten curled up in her lap when she did her homework. Of course, she never told her parents. They had tried the best they could.

Spring turned into summer and school let out. The long lazy days stretched out in front of her. Playing in the woods and in the garden, going to the beach and fishing off the pier. She noticed that she hadn’t seen the big cat in quite a while.

One Saturday in early July, Kelly went to town to shop with her mother. They went to the mall and had lunch at a coffee shop. In late afternoon they drove back home, tired and happy. As they turned up the drive, Kelly spotted Mark on the front porch, grinning from ear to ear, waiting for them. What’s he up to? She wondered.

Mark came out to help unload the car. "Hurry up," He urged, "Dad has something to show you."

In the family room, Dad was stretched out in his favorite recliner. He put his fingers to his lips as he saw them come in. Lying on his chest, wrapped in a dishtowel, was a tiny kitten. It raised sleepy eyes and uttered a tiny meow. "Where did it come from?"

"It was the darndest thing," Mark piped up, "I heard Skipper barking by the garden fence, and he wouldn’t stop. So I went to see what was going on, and there was this kitty, lying in the herb garden under the apple tree."

"All by itself?"
"Uh huh, all alone. And look, it can hardly walk, it’s so little."

Kelly took the kitten from her Dad. He could hold it in the palm of one hand. It was black, with a white bib, white whiskers and white hind paws. Its eyes were still blue, only having been open a few days, at most. She held it up to her face. It smelled of lavender and sunshine.

"How did it get there?"
"All I can figure," her father answered, "is that she got separated from her mother. They’ll leave them sometimes, the littlest ones. But I haven’t seen any stray cats around here."
"I have," Kelly said, entranced, "A big black and orange one."
"I’ve seen that one too," Mark nodded. "Maybe that’s the mom."
"What are you going to do with it?" the girl was almost afraid to ask.
Her Dad smiled. "As I recall, I did promise someone a kitten."
"Really?" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "I can keep it? It’s so cute! Is it a boy or a girl?"
"Pretty sure it’s a girl. But we’ll have the vet check her all out anyway." Dad said, "I’ll bet she was born right around the time of your birthday."

Skipper came into the room. The tiny kitten arched her back and hissed at the huge dog. Skipper gave her a sniff, then with a slurp licked her from head to toe. Everyone laughed. "Well, I guess it’s official," Mom said, "That little thing is part of the family now."

Kelly went to bed happy that night, a basket full of kitten purring by her side. She was sure the old garden cat had not abandoned her baby, but had left the kitten just for her. Why else would she have been in the garden, under the magic apple tree?

AFTER THE STORM - Orcas Island, Feb. 2006

2008-01-29T19:26:00.000-08:00

The wind shrieked through Obstruction Pass, a driving rain crashing against the windows. Gale force winds roared like a monstrous freight train. The old farmhouse rattled and groaned, the gutters overflowing. Broken branches scurried across the deck. At some point, the wind chimes ceased to ring, they just got too tangled.

According to the radio, gusts in Seattle and Everett were around 55 mph....We knew they were much harder here, over 70 at times. A row of giant Douglas firs bent like reeds. The roar was regularly punctuated by the crack of a tortured limb, now amputated. Sound sleep was impossible, as the storm raged on through the night.

Daylight brought some relief. The ancient trees settled into a rhythmic dance. They had survived worse. Finally, by midday, the gusts stopped coming. Was it over? The wind had calmed considerably, the rain slowed to a drizzle.

With no small apprehension, we went outside to scope out the damage. A blanket of fir needles and twigs covered the gravel of our parking area. Several widow-maker limbs lay across the driveway, with some smaller boughs scattered randomly. On the front porch some planters had been knocked over. A branch the size of a small tree hung off the edge of the deck. In the back, a hundred foot alder went down, just tickling the edge of our roof with its top branches. Stunned by our good fortune, we couldn’t help but laugh. No real damage, just an enormous mess.

Critters of various kinds were out after the storm. Stiff from a night of huddling under cover, the farm cats emerged from their hut. A raccoon waddled out of a brush pile, looking bewildered. Nature’s hand had created shelter in some places, while destroying it in others. Small birds were on the ground, gleaning insects and seeds, enjoying the freshly fallen bounty. Always opportunistic, the deer took advantage of downed fences to feed from the neighbor’s succulent perennial garden.

Our power had not gone out. (We would later learn that our tiny area was the only part of Orcas that never lost it.) The morning newscast from Seattle was full of storm stories. The floating bridge was damaged and shut down. Power outages were massive. This was of great concern, and for more than just the obvious reasons: It was Super Bowl weekend. The first time in team history the Seahawks were in the big game. Over 100,000 homes with no electricity, no television!

A late afternoon trip to town showed us some of the destruction. As always after a big storm, there were changes in the scenery. Trees stood stark, stripped of all twigs and vines, leaning slightly, all in the same direction. The cattails lay neatly, looking like sheaves of harvested wheat. Several homes, previously screened, were now noticeable.

Amazingly, there were no trash cans, or trash can lids in the ditch. That was more common early in the storm season, when people were likely to be caught off guard. Most everyone battened down the hatches by October.

A whole row of recently planted poplars had snapped like twigs. An enormous alder had gone down next to the road. It was now stacked in cords of future firewood. In its place was an unobstructed view of Mt. Baker. At Buck Bay, the high water had re-sculpted the tidelands. In the park, huge trees were uprooted. A fair size limb dangled precariously over the middle of the road, just high enough to be completely out of reach.

An extreme high tide had combined with the winds to wreck havoc on the shoreline. Several private docks had been badly damaged. Crescent Beach, usually so calm, was devastated. What looked like a decade’s accumulation of driftwood had been hurled up onto the roadway. The beach looked scrubbed. The county crews had already bulldozed the wet mess back toward the waterline. The access path was buried under a pile of debris five feet high. White, sun-bleached logs stuck out at odd angles. The pavement had heaved and buckled in several places. A procession of orange cones marched along the broken asphalt edge.

In town, many businesses were closed. A pick-up truck in the parking lot had one side of the bed crushed down, obviously the victim of a fallen tree. There was more trash here. Remnants of flyers dotted the shrubs bordering the street. The banner announcing Orcas Center’s latest production was twisted around itself.

The market was running on emergency power. Minimal lighting cast an eerie glow across the aisles. We ran into friends, shared gossip. How are things on Buck Mountain? In Deer Harbor? At Rosario? Good news, no one was injured, no one’s boat sank, and no one’s roof blew away…at least not all of it. Bad news, a neighbor’s tractor had wound up on the beach in a mud slide. The linemen had been working non-stop for over twelve hours. “The worst blow in quite a while” was overheard more than once.

Electricity was restored all over the island by Saturday evening. The rain eventually stopped altogether. Sunday the sun came out, for a little while. By Monday, the tattered look had left the trees. The Seattle news reported thousands of homes still without power. And the Seahawks had lost the Super Bowl.

In the islands, life went on. Already the driftwood had begun to settle. Clean up would continue for weeks, storm repair for months, but for now we could relax. Take a deep breath and let it out. Smile and enjoy the brief calm between winter storms.

© February 5, 2006 - Mary Cibulka Brown

THE BEACH HOUSE - it's Great to be Eight!

2008-01-09T18:43:00.000-08:00

When I was in second grade, my parents and their best friends rented a cottage at the beach. The two families would spend spring vacation together in Lincoln City, Oregon.

There were four kids, including myself. This was thrilling to me, as an only child. Built-in playmates! Amy, the oldest, was my age. Her brothers, Andy and Paul, were slightly younger. I couldn’t wait!

We got to the cottage on a Saturday. The Johnson’s had arrived the night before. Amy ran out to meet me and show me around.

Leaning slightly, the cottage was wind-worn and faded. The clapboard siding had not seen a paint brush in years. The place was great, it looked like you couldn’t hurt anything if you tried. There was a big, open, kitchen and living room downstairs, and several bedrooms upstairs. Tough clean and neat, the place definitely had an air of casualness. The furniture was old and comfortable and nothing matched. There was a tire swing in the backyard, and the beach was across the street. The kids’ bedroom had two sets of bunk beds. Amy and I called “dibs” on the top bunks.

That night we had a bonfire on the beach. We ate Kentucky Fried Chicken and watched the sun go down over the Pacific. I remember dozing by the fire, lulled by the lapping of the waves.

Next thing I knew, I was waking up in my bunk to the smell bacon. After breakfast, we grabbed buckets and shovels and ran to the water. The day was foggy and cool, and the tide was way out. We were going clamming. With just a few tries, I got the hang of digging and flipping clams up onto the sand.

I remember the smell of salt air and seaweed on the spray, and the cries of the gulls, swooping overhead. It was a magical morning, mysterious and still. We pretended the clams were treasure, and that a pirate might appear from the mist at any time. We chased seagulls and played tag, and eventually brought the filled bucket of clams back to the house. There would be fritters or chowder for dinner that night.

By midday, the fog always burned off and the sun came out. Amy and I would roll up our jeans and wade in the tide pools, playing with the sea anemones. The wet sand squished between my wiggling toes. I wanted to bring a starfish home, as a pet, but my father explained that it couldn’t live without saltwater. Reluctantly, I put it back where I found it, to continue its starfish life.

One afternoon the four of us built a huge sandcastle, surrounded by a fence made of oyster shells. As we finished, we saw the tide had crept up, unnoticed. We dug moats to protect the castle, but quickly got overwhelmed. The water surged around our feet as we frantically scooped sand. In no time, we were soaked to the skin. When Paul fell, face first, into the rising water, we realized it was no use. Starting to shiver, we ran back to the cabin. In the morning there was nothing left to mark the spot but a few oyster shells from the fence.

There was no television at the cottage, and none of us missed it. We were seldom inside, anyway. There was always something to do. On our last day, it rained. After a morning of board games and puzzles, and watching it pour, our parents decided to reward our patience. We all piled into the station wagon and drove to town.

Lincoln City was a small, quiet town, home to fishermen and loggers. It was still a decade or more away from being discovered as prime vacation real estate. It drew its share of tourists, though, and did its best to offer things to entertain them.

At the Aquarium, we fed sardines to seals in the front lobby. Crossing through the turnstile into the main gallery was enchanting. Dimly lit, illuminated mostly by the glow from the tanks, the effect was of an undersea cave. Maritime objects decorated the spaces between displays. We saw fish of every size, shape and color. The center of the room was sunken, a wide pool, filled with creatures native to the northwest. An octopus drifted by, changing color as it went, blending in with its surroundings. Sea cucumbers and Dungeness crabs shared space with rock cod and flounder. It looked like an underwater anthill, there was so much activity.

When we were done with the tour, we made our way down the boardwalk. Andy and Paul wanted to ride the bumper cars. But when stood by the red line, they were not tall enough to ride alone. After just a tiny bit of pleading, our dads agreed to take all of us on the ride. Amy and I climbed in with my dad, while the boys got in with theirs. We giggled and squealed as the carts zipped around, bumping and whirling, in a crazy game. Our moms stood by, laughing and waving. On the way back, we had purple snow cones.

That night, Amy and I sorted our collection of shells and other treasures we’d found while beach combing. We stayed awake late, whispering in the dark. I watched the full moon outside the window, and wished our vacation didn’t have to end.

Although the adults talked about it, we never did get back to that cottage. A busy, happy summer came and went. The Johnsons moved away not long after school started, and Amy and I lost touch.

I thought of my old friend the other day, when I found a photograph taken during that long ago vacation. Two eight-year-old girls wearing toothless grins and dragging a massive piece of driftwood, on their way to a new adventure. It all came back in a flash, after more than thirty years. The wonderful week at the crooked old house in Lincoln City.

© 2005 Mary Cibulka Brown

A DRIVE TO REMEMBER

2008-01-01T18:15:00.000-08:00

Today, the radio said that Snoqualmie Pass was closed due to heavy snow, and Stevens Pass was requiring traction devices. Holiday travelers were told to expect delays. It reminded of a Thanksgiving trip we took in 1979. Newlyweds, my husband and I were living in Central Oregon, while our family all lived in Portland. That’s a trip of 180 miles or so, usually about 3 hours, if "obeying" the 55 mph speed limit.

It was Sunday. We had spent Thanksgiving Day with my in-laws, and Friday and Saturday visiting friends and family. That day, we had brunch with my mother before getting on the road back home. The forecast was calling for more snow in the mountains, with a traveler’s advisory for the Santiam Pass. Fretting as we prepared to leave, Mom fixed us a care package. “This is way too much food for me,” she said. “You kids take this home.”

Before we reached the highway, we heard that the Pass was closed. Pat had to be at work the next day, so we wanted to get home, if we could. We turned around and headed toward Mt. Hood. Up and over the mountains, then Highway 97 all the way home.

At the base of the mountain was a roadblock, traction devices required beyond that point. Fortunately, we had chains for our old, two-wheel-drive, pick-up. Unfortunately, the sheer number of vehicles chaining up created a massive bottleneck. A single lane of traffic was open in each direction. We started the up-hill climb, amidst hundreds of holiday travelers. Creeping slowly, bumper to bumper in driving snow, progress was minimal. About halfway to the summit, the line of eastbound cars ground to a halt. Minutes passed. The occasional O.D.O.T. truck or county vehicle would pass going the other way. Every so often, we would move a car length or so.

The snow continued to fall hard, the wind blowing. Time dragged on as we sat, trapped in an icy caravan. After four hours, we had yet to reach the summit. I was nine months pregnant with our first child, due any day. Cranky and uncomfortable, I was ready to be home. Pat was worried that I might go into labor, and I was trying not to think about it. He tried to keep the old Ford at a comfortable temperature, but it seemed we were always too cold, or too hot. A thermos of coffee helped, while it lasted.

Brunch was a long time ago, and we were getting hungry. We remembered mom’s care package. Inside was a piece of ham, a brick of Swiss cheese, and several ripe tomatoes. We had excellent sandwich fixings, with no bread or utensils. Laughing, we cut chunks of ham with Pat’s pocketknife, broke bits off the cheese, and ate tomatoes like apples. Food never tasted so good.

Inching along, we finally reached the summit of the pass, the marker barely visible through the snow. The downhill grade did nothing to speed things. As dusk fell, the snow and wind stopped simultaneously. We had been sitting in the truck for nearly seven hours. The line of vehicles stretched as far as we could see, both in front and behind. There seemed no logical explanation for the hold up. No emergency vehicles had gone by, in either direction. We realized that nothing at all had passed for hours.

Three cars ahead of us, a yellow International Scout suddenly put on his turn signal. He pulled into the available left lane, and started down the mountain, oncoming traffic be damned.

Pat looked over at me, “what do you think?”
“Go for it.” I was as sick of the mountain as he was. He pulled out, following the Scout.

The chains bit easily into the new snow, and we progressed steadily. Passing literally hundreds of cars, we encountered no obstacles. Eventually, we reached the front of the line. At its head was a small white sedan, traveling at a snail’s pace. Everyone else had apparently fallen in behind, dutifully staying in line, until it caused an eleven mile traffic jam.

Soon we were off the mountain. The snow behind, the road clear, Pat pulled over and removed the tire chains. Finally, we were able to make some time. The desert shimmered under a layer of frost as we drove through the moonlight. The road spun out before us, long and straight. A far-off flashing red light announced the turn to Warm Springs. Up ahead, we could see taillights. Probably Mr. Scout, we hadn’t seen any other cars. He reached the stoplight…and didn’t even slow down.

“Look at that crazy bastard!” Pat exclaimed. “He just ran right through that red light!”

A moment later, we came to the light…and slid right through it. The entire surface of Hwy. 97 was coated in black ice. We continued, slower and wiser.

Finally reaching Bend, we pulled into the Denney’s restaurant at the edge of town to thaw out, and eat. The place was packed. We got a small booth, and ordered soup and coffee. As we waited, we gazed idly out the window. There was plenty of snow here, and the road was hard packed, plowed. Just then, a huge Buick station wagon approached the diner. Trying to slow, the wagon slid, turning sideways across the four-lane road. We could clearly see the faces in the car. Dad was white-knuckled on the wheel and mom looked terrified, while the kids in the backseat laughed, waving at the people in the restaurant.

We waved back as Dad corrected the skid and continued down the street, completely unscathed. He’d had the entire block to himself

By the time we got home, we had been on the road for over ten hours. We were exhausted, and caught colds, but were otherwise fine. It was another two weeks before our daughter was born.

That was twenty-eight years ago, but when traveling on Thanksgiving, we always remember our first trip home over the mountain.

MEGAN'S MAGIC - a Christmas Story

2007-12-14T19:30:00.000-08:00

Ever since she could remember, ten-year-old Megan had wanted a horse. Growing up in rural Oregon, it was only natural. She was surrounded by horses, had ridden many times with the other kids in the neighborhood, she had even become friends with the ponies next door. But she had never had a horse to call her own.

One crisp, cold Christmas Eve, Megan was doing what she usually did: playing outside on her father’s small farm. Her adventures led her to the barn, where she found a litter of new baby rabbits in one of the hutches. She loved the barn. It was always cozy, smelling of alfalfa, molasses, and the friendly scent of warm cows. One of the barn cats yawned and stretched its way out of the nest it had built in the straw. It came over and rubbed its face against the girl’s leg. She scratched its head for a minute, then smiling, stepped back out into the cold dusk. Going around the corner to the chicken coop, she paused at the neighbor’s fence to feed a handful of grain to the ponies that waited for her. They were two aging geldings, black and white pintos, whose riders had long since grown up and gone off to college. They led a blissful life of retirement. “Merry Christmas, boys,” Megan said. “I’ve got to go get the eggs now, but I’ll bring you a treat tomorrow!”

As Megan emerged from the hen house with her bucket full of fresh brown eggs, she heard her mother’s voice calling from the house. “Coming!” She yelled.

“Where have you been?” Mom asked when Megan stumbled, breathless through the kitchen door.

“Just outside.” Megan answered, “Here are the eggs.”

“Hurry up and get changed,” her mother said, taking the bucket. “We’re going to be late for Grandma’s. And take a shower!” she called to her disappearing daughter.

Christmas Eve at Grandma’s house was a family tradition from time out of mind. Several generations would gather in the old farmhouse, which had been in the O’Brian family for nearly a hundred years. Megan always liked to spend time there, especially when all the aunts, uncles and cousins were present.

They arrived in time for dinner, in spite of mother’s concern. Megan was a little squirmy in her frilly, girly-girl Christmas dress. She would have been much more comfortable in her Levis and a flannel shirt, but mom insisted.

The house was brimming with Christmas cheer. The aroma of a ham baking and Wassail on the stovetop. The sounds of laughter, coming from the kitchen where the adults always seemed to gather. But, in the center of it all was the huge, sparkling, tinsel-covered tree that Grandpa had cut from the back field.

Megan heard her cousin, Jill, call from the den. All the cousins were playing Monopoly, and she went to join them. The game went on until grandma rang the bell for supper.

The center island in the kitchen groaned with food, to be served buffet style. Once everyone was seated, Grandpa said grace, and then it was okay to eat. Everything was delicious, as it always was at Grandma’s house.

After dinner, the whole family gathered in the living room, around the Christmas tree. Dad and Uncle Jim took out guitars and Aunt Judy sat at the piano. In the midst of the singing came the sound all the kids had been waiting for a jingle-jingle from outside. The younger ones, Megan included, rushed to the window, while those who were more “grown-up” grinned and kept their seats, not wanting to admit that they, too, really believed in Santa Claus. In a minute, the jingling had moved to the front door, and a highly anticipated knock followed. Grandma, as she did every year, grumbled as she went to the door, “Now who could be coming to call on Christmas Eve?”

“Merry Christmas!” exclaimed the red-suited figure, his presence filling the crowded room. “Are there any good children here tonight?”

The kids all rushed in at once, nearly bowling over the jolly visitor, who truth be told, held a striking resemblance to Uncle Joe wearing a false beard. Starting with the youngest, they took their turn sitting on Santa’s lap and expressing their wishes. There are no skeptics on the night before Christmas. Megan fell somewhere near the middle of the bunch. When it was her turn, she felt a little shy. She knew that things at the farm had been somewhat lean, as her father would say, and that gifts were not what the holiday was all about. Even so, maybe Santa could do something.

“Well, Megan,” Santa smiled, (he always knew the names of all the kids) “Have you been behaving yourself this year?”

“I think so,” she replied. “I’ve been remembering to do my chores without being told, most of the time.”

“Wonderful, wonderful! Now what would you like for Christmas this year?”

“Well, some new cowboy boots, a watercolor set, a copy of ‘My Friend Flicka’ and…” she hesitated, “and…maybe…a horse.” She finished almost in a whisper, as though speaking her wish would make it disappear.

“My, my, that’s quite a list.” Santa grinned. “That’s a pretty tall order. I don’t know about that last one. It would take a really special kind of magic, but I’ll see what I can do about the rest.”

Megan gave him a big hug, (he smelled very much like Uncle Joe) and scampered back across the room. She didn’t really have much hope, but at least now, it was on the record. She had never told anyone before.

The rest of the evening went fast. Shortly after Santa left, Uncle Joe joined them, complaining as he always did, that those darn cows took longer to feed every year. Grandpa settled into his favorite chair, and a hush came over the room. He lit his pipe, cleared his throat, and began, “’T’was the night before Christmas and all through the house…..”

Megan was warm, content and sleepy, when dad deposited her in her room at home. She dropped the velveteen dress at the foot of her bed, crawled under the covers and dreamed of horses.

She woke to a gentle snow falling against her window, and the sounds of breakfast cooking in the kitchen below. Remembering that it was Christmas, she bounded out of bed and into her jeans in one motion. She grabbed a warm sweatshirt and rushed down the stairs.

Mom was frying pancakes and Dad was sitting at the table with his morning coffee. “Good morning sleepyhead,” Dad grinned over his newspaper, “What took you so long? It’s almost 7:30!”

“Morning Mom, morning Dad,” she bubbled. “Merry Christmas! Is breakfast almost ready?” She knew no gifts would be opened until after they had eaten, and cleaned up.

“Almost,” said Mom, “but I need you to do me a favor, before we sit down. Please go out and check on that batch of bunnies. It got really cold last night, and I’d like you to put some extra straw in their hutch.”

Megan pulled on boots and a jacket and ran outside. She raced through the door into the barn and skidded to a halt, her mouth hanging open. There, in a previously unused box stall stood the most beautiful horse that Megan had ever seen. She was a smallish mare, barley larger than a pony, and a golden palomino in color. On her halter was a big, red bow, with a card attached to it. Megan approached softly, as she had been taught, and stroked the velvety muzzle.

“Well, what do you know about that?” Dad’s voice came from behind.

Megan turned; she had not heard her parents come in behind her. “Have you ever seen anything so pretty?” she breathed. “Where did she come from?”

“There’s something hanging from that bow,” Mom pointed out, smiling, “Why don’t you see what it says?”

Removing the card, Megan read aloud, “Merry Christmas, Megan. My name is Magic. Santa said you would take good care of me. I’ve come to live with you.”

The girl burrowed her face into the warm neck. “Hello, Magic. This has been the best Christmas ever.”

CHARLIE QUAIL - inspired by a true story

2007-11-01T19:23:00.000-07:00

The old man glanced across the pick-up seat at the little girl sitting beside him. She wore faded jeans, a red plaid flannel shirt, and Keds that had once been pink. She was eight years old, and the picture of her mother at that age. Blonde and tan, a tomboy from head to toe. In her lap she held a small, green plastic tackle box.

It was late summer in central Oregon. An excellent time to take his granddaughter fishing, Hank thought. The water level in the canal had been dropped for the season, leaving the trout trapped in isolated deep holes. It was, almost literally, catching fish in a barrel.

The pigtailed face turned toward him. “Papa, doesn’t it hurt the worms when you put them on the hook?”

“Well,” Hank hesitated, unsure what to say, “I don’t think they hurt the way we do. Their brains are too little”

“But can they swim? It must be scary if they can’t swim. Don’t they drown?”

“They can breathe in the water,” he explained patiently, having no idea whether a night crawler could swim or not. It hadn’t occurred to the girl that the worms would be eaten alive by a trout. He was deciding it would be better to use Powerbait.

He cranked the steering wheel hard left and turned onto the BLM right-of-way. It was a rutted, hard-packed dirt access road, which followed the canal out into the desert. “Look, Papa!” Lucy giggled, pointing, “Look at those birds!”

A family of Valley quail marched, single file across the road. Mama was in the lead, followed by a six adolescent chicks, with Daddy bringing up the rear. Lucy was delighted.

Hank slowed to an idle to let them pass. “They were most likely down at the water hole. Just up a bit is our spot.”

The old truck rumbled to a stop by the side of the road. There was a bend in the canal here, where the water widened and slowed. This was the fishing hole. Lucy jumped out and slammed the door. They settled down on a fallen log and grandpa set their lines. He fixed the girl up with a baited hook, making sure no worms were injured in the process.

“Hold down on this button,” he instructed, “then let go at the top of the cast.”
“I know.” She grinned confidently, “Daddy showed me how.” With a look of supreme concentration, she swung the pole through the air, the bobber landing with a plop. Hank nodded, proud of her. The child had been practicing.

They caught four nice pan fish within the first hour. It was the perfect amount for dinner.

The day warmed. Dragonflies floated on shimmering heat waves. Sometimes, a breeze rippled the water, or raised a dust-devil. Otherwise, all was still.

When the sun was straight overhead, they went back to the truck. Hank put the tailgate down, and spread the lunch Nan had packed. Lucy munched on her ham sandwich, asking questions about the desert animals between bites. Her grandpa had lived in the area all his life. He knew all about the wildlife, and loved to share his knowledge.

“Look at them whistle pigs,” he said, pointing to a prairie dog colony the size of a football field, a few yards across the road. “They dig holes to hide in, deep burrows, and then just stand there on the edge and watch. If a hawk flies by, they’re gone just like that.”

They decided it was getting too hot to fish, so they packed up the gear and started for home. As they bumped along the rutted road, a flurry of activity caught Lucy’s eye. Something had scattered a covey of quail, sending dust and feathers flying. Hank hit the brakes, swearing under his breath, as several birds erupted in front of the truck. They heard the thump of several bodies coming in contact with the vehicle. Lucy leapt out and ran onto the road. Most of the birds were across now, looking flustered. One, however, lay in the road, twitching.

“Oh, Papa,” the girl cried. “He’s hurt! Did we do that?”

“I think he ran into the truck in the dust cloud,” Hank answered. “We should put him down. He can’t survive if he can’t fly. He’d be someone’s supper before nightfall.” Damn birds, he thought could’ve cracked a windshield.

The bird’s wing was badly damaged. “Can’t we take him home? I could take care of him while he heals up.” The pleading dark eyes were hard to resist. He melted like the marshmallow that he was. He couldn’t deny that the bird was still alive, and didn’t seem to be suffering. He wrapped the wounded quail in a shop towel, laid him in an empty pail, and handed it to Lucy. “Gives a whole new meaning to a Bucket of Chicken.” He grinned.

“This is Charlie Quail,” she announced after a bit of thought. “He’ll heal up better if he knows his name.”

Grandpa nodded gravely, hiding a smile under his mustache.

Back at the house, Nan found a box for Charlie. They lined it with newspaper and set it in a warm corner of the kitchen. Lucy got a handful of chicken scratch from the henhouse, and the water dispenser they used for day-old chicks.

By the time she was through fussing over the injured quail, dinner was ready. They ate a fine meal of rainbow trout, baked potatoes, and corn, fresh from the garden. There was blackberry pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert. After dinner, the neighbor kids came to get Lucy for a game of flashlight tag. She brought them in, one at a time, very quietly, to see Charlie. She insisted on slow movements and low voices. The children were suitably respectful. They had all nursed wounded birds. Most had not survived the first night.

After the children had gone, Nan looked at the little quail. “What do you think his chances are, Hank?”

“Oh, I’d say about fifty-fifty. He hasn’t died of shock yet. He’s not hurt that bad, but the kid might love him to death.”

In the morning, Charlie was not only alive, but quite alert. He was up and pecking at the grain when Lucy came down for breakfast. His wing drooped, and he stood on one foot. Hank smiled, watching from behind his newspaper as his granddaughter painstakingly inspected the bird.

Days passed, and Charlie continued to improve. “He needs more space,” Lucy complained to her grandma. “How can his wing heal if he can’t stretch it out? I can’t turn him loose until he can take care of himself.”

Hank and Nan smiled at each other. At least she wasn’t planning on making the thing a pet, they both thought. “We could put him out with the chickens,” the old man offered. “He’d have room, and company, too.”

That was how Charlie Quail came to live with fifteen white hens. Within hours, he was swaggering around like he owned the place, apparently forgetting about his injured leg. It was clear he felt he was in charge.

Lucy looked after Charlie with tireless dedication. “For an animal that’s not a pet, he sure gets a lot of pampering,” Hank teased, “He’s getting fat on my chicken feed. You think he’ll be well soon?”

The little nurse looked thoughtful, “He’s pretty much healed,” she decided, “I think he’ll be ready for release soon.” Evidently, she had been watching Animal Planet.

The next afternoon Lucy confirmed that Charlie was ready to return to the wild. She put the now docile bird into a crate in her wagon and headed east. When she found a good field, she stopped and opened the box. After a wing-stretch and a feather ruffle, Charlie started pecking at sage seeds. Smiling with satisfaction, the girl returned to the farm.

In the morning, Nan went to gather eggs. From the porch she saw a small figure on the wrong side of the fence. Coming closer, she realized that it wasn’t a chicken. Charlie had returned.

Hank and Lucy decided they had released him too near the coop, and he was attracted back by the available food. This time they would go to the mill fields. There were other wild quail there. Two days went by, and there was no sign of the bird. Then, on the third evening, coincidentally at feeding time, Charlie came sauntering up to the henhouse.

“I think you’ve got yourself a pal,” Hank said to his granddaughter, “You better open the gate.”

Charlie went right in and made himself at home. Strutting along the fence, he inspected the boundary. He was a comic little figure, bopping around with the big white hens. When Nan fed the chickens, he joined right in. Evidently, he intended to stay.

Vacation ended and Lucy went home, but her grandparents promised to take care of Charlie. After all, the quail had chosen their chickens as his covey.

©2006 Mary Cibulka Brown

A DOG'S TALE - a true story

2007-10-25T18:18:00.000-07:00

April, 1973 Portland, Oregon

It was a typically cold, wet, early spring night in western Oregon. Inside, the tavern was dry and warm. Country music blared from the juke box, occasionally punctuated by the crack of pool balls or the clatter of beer bottles.

A bartender hoisted an empty beer keg to his shoulder and headed out the back door. He deposited the barrel next to several others, squinting briefly into the darkness. He went back inside never sparing a glance at the pup huddled miserably next to the dumpster.

This was life, as the pup knew it. He had a vague recollection of being inside, being fussed over. Unfortunately, the novelty of having a 12-week-old pup quickly wore off. Then he was tied out back. At first he had been able to crawl under the dumpster for shelter from the weather, but he had soon outgrown that space. Once in a while, someone would remember to feed him some kitchen scraps. He was much too thin, and always hungry.

Gradually the noise from inside subsided to the clatter of after hours clean up. Eventually, only the faint glow of security lights cast a dim glow out the back window. The pup was able to relax then, knowing he would be ignored the rest of the night. He curled into a tight ball and tried to sleep.

Meg was angry as she sat in the alley behind the tavern. The fact that anyone would treat a defenseless animal this way infuriated her. After years of working with the Animal Defenders League, she still couldn’t understand the mindset. A neighbor of the tavern owner had tried to intervene, even offered to buy the pup. When she was told to mind her own business, she called the A.D.L. That was where Meg came in: she would do whatever it took to rescue the dog.

The sound of the car door opening and closing did not disturb the miserable little creature, but the glow of the flashlight did. He jumped to his feet and cowered against the wall. He whimpered at the flash of a knife, not understanding that the blade would set him free. A soothing voice dispelled his fear. “It’s ok, little one. It’s ok.” A large, soft towel enveloped him as gentle hands lifted his emaciated body. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”

He found himself in the backseat of a station wagon that smelled faintly of dog. He was still nervous, but the warmth was irresistible. He burrowed into the towel and closed his eyes, the motion of the car rocking him to sleep. Meg drove home, as she had done many times before, giving an abused animal a chance to live.

Meg Hart operated a small kennel with her husband and daughters. She was a 4-H leader, was active in the PTA, and ran dispatch for the volunteer fire department. With her A.D.L. connections she could often get veterinary help for those who were unable to afford it.

That morning she inspected the pup closely for the first time. He was on a blanket in the corner, where she had left him the night before, but raised his head when she came in. Meg knelt on the floor and spoke quietly as she looked him over. The pup was an Australian Shepherd, about nine months old and quite obviously of good bloodlines. His coat was matted and dirty, but his large brown eyes shone with intelligence. No longer afraid, he gently wagged his stumpy tail.

The woman felt him all over for wounds or abnormalities, relieved when she found none. A vet-check would be in order, immunizations, and worming, but a flea bath was needed first. Even Meg had to admit that the dog stank. She carried him to the grooming room and set him in the tub, expecting the pup to throw a fit. He did not. After thirty minutes of shampoo, combing, cutting and blow-drying, he looked like a different animal. Thin as a rail, but that was easily fixed. She walked him out to the nearest run and opened the gate. “There you go, Buddy, nice and safe ‘til we find you a good home.”

The dog looked up at her and grinned, the first expression Meg had seen from him. She laughed. “Well, you’re welcome! I’ll bring you some breakfast in a minute.”

The next two weeks passed uneventfully. The young dog spent his time gaining weight and sleeping. Feeling comfortable and safe, he blossomed. He started to show interest in his surroundings. His coat, a rich grey, dappled with black, a color called blue merle, took on a naturally healthy sheen. He had a grin and a wiggle of his stubby tail for anyone that stopped by.

Meg had not tried to place him yet. She wanted him to be fit and healthy, and truth be told, was in no hurry to see him go. She chided herself for being silly. She tried not to bond with her rescued animals, but this one had captured her.

On Friday, Meg received a call from Jerry Adler, the local vet. “Just a heads up,” he told her, “I’ve got Annie Marek’s Lucky in here with distemper. I thought you might want to let your 4-H club know.”

“Annie left him at home this week,” Meg remembered. “Will he recover?”

Dr. Adler wouldn’t commit one way of the other, but hung up with a reminder to check all the immunization records.

Meg thought back to what recent months had held for 11-year-old Annie. In February, her old dog, Shamrock had passed away. Several weeks later, the other family dog, Suzy, had been hit by a car. In mid March, Annie and her dad had gone to the Animal Shelter and adopted “Lucky”. Now, barely three weeks later, he had a life threatening illness. Meg knew that Annie had the dog immunized, but distemper can lay dormant for a long time. She was sure that he’d already been infected. She was not surprised when Annie phoned the next day, saying they’d had Lucky put to sleep. The girl was in tears, and Meg’s heart broke for her. There was not much to say. It was a lot for a young animal lover to bear, losing three pets in such a short time.

Meg had an idea. She’d been looking for someone special.

The following week Meg took the Aussie for a final health screening. He’d already had his shots, as well as being wormed. Dr. Adler was impressed at the progress the young dog had made. He had gained enough weight to be nearly normal for his age, and had a spring in his step that had not been there before. The vet pronounced him ready for a new home.

On Saturday, Meg called Annie. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor?”
She asked. “I have a dog here that needs a foster home. Do you think your folks would mind if you did that for a while?”

She proceeded to tell the girl’s parents about the Australian shepherd, and how it had come to be in her care. They agreed to come down and see the dog, and think about taking it in.

As soon as girl and dog met, it was all over. Annie sat on the floor in the run and the dog immediately came to her. He sniffed her outstretched hand, then allowed her to scratch his ears. Within seconds, he was on her lap, nuzzling her neck. “What’s his name?” Annie asked, giggling.

“I don’t know,” Meg admitted, “I’ve just been calling him ‘Buddy’.”

Annie stood up, looking him over. “He has that beautiful silvery coat. I think I’ll call him Silver.”

The dog perked up his ears and cocked his head to one side. Annie giggled again.

“Are you sure you’re ready for another dog?” Mrs. Marek asked her daughter. “Do you really want to take this on already?”

“Yes, Mom, I’m sure,” Annie answered, her face snuggled into the neck of her new dog. “You know how empty the house has been. And besides, Silver needs us.”

Meg smiled. This would not be a foster home.

The family drove the mile or so to the Marek’s farm. When they got out of the truck, Mr. Marek said “Go ahead, Annie, turn him loose.”

She did. At first, Silver didn’t know what to do. He smelled the truck tires, lifting his leg on one of them. Then he went into the grass, scaring a sleeping cat. He jumped, startled. He had probably never seen a cat before. He stretched and sniffed the air. He trotted forward, immediately breaking into a flat-out run. He circled the yard a full three times, finally coming to rest in the middle of the lawn. He flopped down, then and looked up, grinning. The young dog knew he had come home.

(In Loving Memory of Chief Silver Comet, 1973 – 1983)
© 2005 Mary Cibulka Brown

10 Years of Music...on Orcas Island

2007-10-22T18:43:00.000-07:00

Ten years ago last August, we moved our family to Orcas Island. Having left his band, The Outsiders, back in Oregon, my husband Pat was itching to play music. We heard there was an open mic at Vern’s Bayside, and decided to drop in. Pat brought his guitar, just in case there was a chance to rock ‘n’ roll. That first night, we met drummer Marty Williams, who was in charge of hosting open mic back then, and bass player Tony Carpenter. They became our good friends. Within weeks, Pat, Marty and Tony formed a band, The Suspects. Soon they were joined by keyboardist Don Irwin. For the next seven years, they hosted open mics, and played at bars, dances, weddings and parties… playing mostly cover tunes, both on and off the island.

For the past couple of years, they’ve taken a break from performing live, planning to re-group with an all-original format. Pat has used the time to write and record two solo CDs, “Farewell Logic” and “My Brother’s Keeper”, and re-mix some great songs from earlier bands, for upcoming CD "Voice From the Past", all at his home studio on Orcas Island.

You can go to http://www.myspace/patbrownsongs to check out some of Pat’s original music. (You may have to copy and paste the link into your browser.)

THE APPLE GROVE - a short story

2007-10-16T19:31:00.000-07:00

At the west end of Springville road, two fields from the end, on a derelict farm, stood a grove of apple trees. There were a dozen or so, scattered in no apparent order across an acre of land. This was what remained of an orchard, devastated in the Columbus Day storm of 1962. The ripe apples were a pale gold, almost white, deliciously juicy, and sweet as honey. Neglected for years, they were there for the picking. It was one of our favorite places.

We were inseparable the summer we were ten, BeckySue and I. And, like many girls growing up in rural America in the mid-seventies, we spent most of our free time on horseback. Nearly every morning during summer vacation, I’d ride down to Becky’s house. We’d plan our day’s adventure while Becky saddled her pony. Sometimes we’d ride up the power company right-of-way, a steep climb of about three miles. From there, we’d follow old fire lanes back through Forest Park. Other days we might set up poles and barrels in the pasture, and practice our gaming. We dreamt of rodeo glory under arena lights. More often than not, we would just meander on down Springville to the old farm.

The road flowed gently west between orchards and grain fields, blackberry thickets and lone houses. At the edge of our apple grove there was an ancient fence. We’d turn and follow the fence line, past the abandoned farmhouse, between the apple trees. An old pole gate opened into a fifty-acre forest. We spent countless hours there, exploring the woods until we knew every inch, riding deer trails, or simply sitting on a fallen log and talking, sharing plans and dreams. The dimpled sunlight filtered through the branches, creating a fantasy world for make-believe. Our ponies would stand, contentedly nibbling the tall grass at the edge of the trees. Patiently, we watched the apples, waiting for them to ripen.

When we got tired of playing in the woods, we could ride through to the other side and take the tractor path across a wide field. Two roads crossed there, and an old country store sat at the intersection. We could usually scrape together enough change to get cokes, or a candy bar.

One July day, Becky and I pulled weeds for her grandma, and she paid us a dollar each. We felt rich when we entered the cool, dark of the store. We each got a grape soda, a pepperoni stick and a snickers bar. As we loitered outside, Becky noticed the flyer. The headline read:

NOTICE OF PROPOSED DEVELOPMENT

We knew what those words could mean for us. We had seen these signs before, when they built the Portland Community College campus. Three of “our” fields had gone away that time. We stared at the diagram, trying to make some sense of the map. It looked like the whole farm would be wiped out. We had not known the woods were part of the same property as the orchard. There were never any people around, so we just never thought about it. We were certain of one thing, though. We could not let this happen.

Within days, white-topped wooden markers appeared on the farm. This put us into a minor panic. The best plan our ten-year-old brains could come up with was to pull up those survey stakes. We tied our ponies and stealthily walked the property, pulling as we went. It hadn’t occurred to us that we were vandalizing someone’s property, never mind breaking the law. To us, the farm was a sacred thing, and we were stubbornly dedicated to saving it. How dare anyone try to bulldoze it! Feeling rather like crusaders, we hid the little pile of lumber, neatly stacked, inside a blackberry thicket.

When taller white stakes, flagged this time, replaced the missing ones, we pulled those, too. Amazingly, we never encountered a survey crew. It seemed that the flags grew of their own accord. After removing survey markers three times, and watching them reappear, we realized two things: the battle was futile, and we were running an increasing risk of being caught. Becky and I decided it was best to leave well enough alone. New notices were posted: construction of the Shopping Center would begin October first.

That gave us the rest of the summer, and we made the most of it. The grass in the rich soil of the apple grove grew thigh-high. Lush and green, the perfect place for picnics and secret forts. With the Montreal Olympics fresh in our minds, we used the pilfered survey stakes to build a cross-country jump course. Racing through the woods, the fern fronds whipping our ponies’ legs, we pretended to ride for team USA. Our miniature “hunters” sailed effortlessly over the eighteen inch “fences”. We dreamed of shining gold medals.

As summer waned, the apples ripened. White survey flags now fluttered undisturbed around the perimeter of the property. Labor Day came and went and school started. BeckySue and I didn’t get back to the farm for several weeks. On the last Saturday in September, we set out early. We knew it would be our last trip to the apple grove. It was a glorious fall day, the kind where the colors are so intense, they make your eyes hurt. Where you need a flannel shirt at eleven a.m., and regret wearing it by one.

Our orchard was absolutely golden, the trees dripping apples. We each carried an old pillowcase to hold the bounty. Gently we filled our bags, taking care to choose only un-bruised fruit. My mother had promised to make applesauce and bake pies. This final harvest would not go to waste.

When the pillowcases were full, we stashed them in a cool spot by the fence and rode to the little store. To make the ride last, we took the long way, following alongside the road. The smell of hot asphalt rippled on the heat waves, the ponies’ hooves raising puffs of dust with each step. Grasshoppers chirped and leapt out of the way. We were hot and thirsty when we reached the store. Sitting with our ponies in the shady grass, we ate a lunch of Dr. Pepper and Twinkies.

We decided to go back through the woods, completing the loop. As we crossed the field, Becky and I glanced at each other. We were approaching the opening to the deer trail. Almost in unison, we broke into a gallop, racing for the obstacle course. I took the lead by about a pony length. We zigzagged through the trees at full velocity, much too fast for the terrain. Rounding the last bend, I barely saw a large branch blocking the trail, about three feet above the ground. With nowhere else to go, we were immediately airborne. I grabbed for a handful of mane, and missed. My chin bounced on the pony’s head. Hanging with both arms around Frisky’s neck, I managed to yell, “Watch out!” to Becky.

Too late, she was already in mid-air. Landing hard, but essentially undamaged, we sat there giggling in amazed relief. “Now that’s a jump!” Becky declared. “But we both loose a couple of points for form!”

It was a fitting end to our excellent summer. Still laughing, we tied the bags of apples to our saddle horns, and turned for home.

The apple grove has since disappeared under a layer of progress; even Springville Road has changed its path. The wheat and barley fields have given way to suburban neighborhoods.

“That used to be a grove of apple trees…” I say to my children, waving a hand in the general direction. I start to describe it, and then stop. All they can see are acres of houses, and streets with street lamps. The trees are birch of identical size, perfectly spaced along the sidewalks. They can’t picture the farmland of the past. I smile as I remember. “And a long time ago, this all used to be a farm.”

©2006 Mary Cibulka Brown

WAITING FOR CHEESE - a tale of two kitties

2007-10-13T20:00:00.000-07:00

Our old farm house came with a cat. He was a big black and white tom, who according to legend, had been the resident mouser for well over a decade. His original owners had long since moved on, leaving him to fend for himself. Consecutive tenants had put food out for him, but he was no ones pet.

The farm sat near the end of the paved road, with forest on three sides. Wildlife was everywhere. We had deer, raccoons, squirrels, birds of all kinds. And cats, plenty of cats. Evidently, Blackie had done more than catch mice during his tenure at the farm. More than a few of our feline visitors bore a distinct resemblance to the old tom.

They were what we called free-range cats. We mostly saw them passing through, on their way to someplace else. Blackie came and went as he pleased, so it was a while before we noticed that he didn’t come home at all. I stopped filling his dish after it went untouched for a week.

The following spring a small calico-tabby set up house in our garden. There was a small “cave” in the rockery, and this was where she hid her kittens. Every day, Mama would stash the babies in the cave, and go hunt for supper. An hour or two later, she would return, collect her kittens, and go back to wherever they lived the rest of the time. They kept to the same routine for several weeks. Once the babies were weaned, the whole family moved on. Treating them as we would any wild creatures, we didn’t get involved.

This became an annual ritual. The third summer, a tiny kitten was left behind. Whether by accident or design remains a mystery. Our son found it and brought it into the house. She was solid grey, with a white bib, and fit into the palm of my husband’s hand. The vet estimated her age at 3½ to 4 weeks, barely weaned. We named her Smokey, and she became the first indoor cat we’d ever had.

The parade of free-range cats continued. Smokey would sit on the window sill and watch, showing no interest in going out. It was a big, scary world out there. The closest she came the great outdoors was catching spiders and moths when they got into the house.

Last spring, Mama again brought her brood. Our garden was a small, fully fenced enclosure that was attached to the house on two sides. This provided a relatively safe sanctuary for her offspring. She had three kittens this year. One was pure white, the second an orange tabby. The third looked very much like Smokey.

We started to call the garden the “playpen”. It was quite obvious that the cat was leaving her kids in daycare while she went hunting. One morning I stepped out onto the deck. We had just spread fresh straw mulch on all the beds. Mama, making use of the soft surface, was stretched out, nursing her babies in the shade of the rhubarb leaves. She raised her head to look at me, and I realized she had a pretty face. I had always thought of her as kind of homely, with her blotchy coloring. I slipped back in for my camera, but when I returned, she was already sitting up, bathing her kitties. I photographed her anyway.

I had been given a digital camera for Christmas, and I couldn’t resist using the cats as subjects. For the first few days, all we could see of the babies were faces peeking out of the rockery. Gradually, as they grew older and bolder, they ventured out of the den to romp among the flowers. Their scrawny little pooptails were carried straight up, like flags. My husband and I would watch them through the kitchen window, laughing at their antics. I started putting food scraps out for Mama a couple of times a week. We kept the dish away from the house, out by the woodshed. I hoped that would prevent her from becoming too dependant on us.

In conversation, we named the kittens: Whitey, Brownie and Smokey Junior, JR for short. Whitey was the smallest of the three, but also the most aggressive. He would pounce and growl at his larger siblings, trying to be assertive. Brownie was the prettiest, a lovely golden brown tiger, with a white chest and paws. JR, mostly grey and white was the only one with long hair.

I felt like a naturalist, studying a pride of miniature lions. Any chance I got, I spent time outside, watching the kittens and taking pictures. I had fun observing their behavior. It became apparent that JR was the alpha male. Brownie was his side kick, copying everything JR did. In my mind, that made him a male, too. We had no way of really knowing the sex of the kittens; it was just a poetic assumption.

Mama was leaving them alone more and more of the time. The three little kittens felt very secure in the playpen. We would see them, lined up like birds on a wire, sunning themselves on the logs bordering the flower beds. One warm, rainy night, we heard a tiny noise outside the screen door. A flip of the light switch revealed a pile of kittens huddled on the welcome mat. It would seem it was dryer there. They didn’t bother to run, they were just too comfortable.

Time went on and Mama stopped bringing her kids to the garden. I continued to put table scraps out by the barn, and the little family would come by every evening to eat. One afternoon, JR was early. Somehow he had gotten separated from his family. For several hours he paraded around the garden and the deck, mewling loudly. Smokey stood with her paws against the screen door, watching her sibling. The two came nose to nose through the screen, talking in short murps and purrs. We were just starting to consider the necessity of adopting another abandoned kitten when Mama, Whitey and Brownie showed up. JR’s relief was palpable. They gathered around him, and groomed each other vigorously.

The little family became part of our world. Sometimes they came in a group, sometimes from different directions, converging at the front of the shed. If we didn’t see any of them for a couple of days, we started to worry. It seems kind of funny. The area’s feral cat population had been living just fine without us for countless years. They didn’t bother anyone, and nobody bothered them. Somehow, this set of pooptails was different. They captured our hearts.

One evening, Mama was at the feed dish. The kits were sitting in their customary posture, all in a row, waiting their turn. We stood at the back door, watching them eat. My husband suddenly stiffened. “Get me the pellet gun, quick.”

I grabbed the small rifle and rushed back with it. Then I saw a large raccoon, edging up the hill toward the cats. The coon wanted the table scraps, but would gladly snatch a kitten, given the opportunity.

Mama saw it, and retreated protectively toward her kittens. My husband took aim and a pellet glanced off the shed wall. The intent was to frighten, not injure. The raccoon interrupted his feeding just long enough to raise his head and snarl. The next pellet bounced off his butt. That made the animal jump away from the dish. After the third shot, he waddled off into the woods. Mama and the kitties slowly emerged from under the motor home. She turned her pretty face toward us, and I swear she smiled.

It was mid August when Whitey stopped coming around. The kittens had been on their own for a couple of weeks. We saw less and less of Mama, but her three children continued to visit the playpen. And then there were two. We like to believe that a neighbor found and adopted the pretty kitten, but know that it’s unlikely. A pure white critter doesn’t have much benefit of camouflage.

My collection of cat photographs continued to grow. JR and Brownie were continually striking a pose, whether they knew it or not. They provided much entertainment, and I regularly watched them through the kitchen window while I cooked. I noticed that sometimes the two brothers would sit sphinx-like, and simply stare up at the sky.

“Look at those silly things! What do you suppose they’re up to?” I mused, not expecting an answer.

My husband’s eyes dropped sheepishly. “Cheese,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?” I thought I’d heard wrong.

“Cheese,” he repeated. “They’re waiting for cheese.”

He went on to explain that he had been tossing pieces of co-jack or cheddar out to the kittens every day.

“They can use the extra protein.” The avowed non-cat-person continued. “They’re too scrawny.”

I smiled and pulled out a block of cheese. “Show me.”

Very quietly, we crept out the back door. The kitties backed off a few feet. “I toss it up high, so they can’t tell it’s coming from me,” he whispered, arcing a cheese chunk.

It landed about a foot in front of JR. He pounced on it and zipped around the corner. The second piece fell inches from Brownie’s nose. He in turn snatched it up and scurried away. I giggled. “It’s raining cheese!”

“Manna from heaven!” We laughed together.

Wherever they thought their treat was coming from, the kittens thrived. They were healthy and fit. I put food out regularly now. JR, the larger of the two by about a third, always left the dish first. We surmised that he was the more successful hunter, and therefore less hungry. This allowed Brownie to eat more, he actually looked chubbier.

I worried about the coming winter. We had interfered with the natural balance, and now we felt responsible for the little critters. None of the kittens from previous years had stuck around. Never before giving it a thought, now we wondered if any had survived. We decided that since we had already meddled, we couldn’t stop now. We would make no attempt to tame the cats. We would however, move the feeder into the carport, and provide a box for shelter. The little animals could use it or not, as they chose.

Over the next week, I gradually moved their food closer to the house, until it was under the overhang, out of the weather.

My husband fixed a nice cat hut out of an old Styrofoam cooler and lined it with an old blanket. He set it up near the dish, and we retreated to the window. Brownie and JR approached cautiously, and sniffed. It took the half-grown kittens about a minute to decide that the box was not only safe, but fun to play in. I felt a sense of relief. We had done all we could do to insure the well being of our outside cats.

Now, every evening when I cook dinner, I look out the window and see the feline brothers. Sometimes they wrestle. Other times they doze in the sun. They have taken to sleeping in the hut, sometimes. And every night, they eventually end up sitting side by side, staring expectantly up at the sky . . . waiting for cheese.

©2005 Mary Cibulka Brown