Tag Archives: Native American

BACKLASH, BK 4, COMING SOON!

BACKLASH!

Chapter 1

On the day that Ellen Delaney’s carefully constructed world shattered, she crossed December first off the desktop calendar, signed off her laptop and placed it in its black leather satchel. With the satchel set to one side, she removed the Gucci handbag from the deep drawer on the right side and pulled a small hand mirror and a tube of mauve lipstick out of the makeup tote.

Lipstick carefully applied, she dropped the tube back in the tote. The reflection staring back from the mirror showed dove gray eyes looking back from a heart-shaped face. For a woman staring at forty, she had aged well. A few light laugh lines at the corners of her eyes and a few silver strands threaded among the fall of midnight wavy hair. Her five-foot-five slender body moved with grace and style, whether clad in business suits, workout clothes or designer jeans.

A chill rain tapped lightly at the office window as she put the mirror away. A glance at the diamond-studded wrist watch had her slipping into the suit jacket hanging on the high back of the deep-red leather office chair. A quick look around assured her that everything was tidy.

The obsession with tidiness grew from the untidy things that had happened to her; the same things that had made her choose a career in Women’s Law. Such things happened to women all the time. The law could be used to tidy up a woman’s life; to make it easier; safer.

Purse and laptop satchel shouldered, her heels clicked a staccato beat across the high gloss floor. Keys jangled in one hand though a keycard worked the lock on the office suite. She strode across the carpeted reception area, stepped out of the beveled glass door. An alarm keypad hung unobtrusively on the wall to the left of the door. Code punched in, the green light flashed.

Redundant locks–the office suite, the elevator stop on the sixth floor, the exterior door to the building and the security guard at the gated garage entrance–enhanced a feeling of safety. During this past year, a sense of safety had become critical.

The law had a few drawbacks; some shortcomings. It could only function within a set parameter of evidence and argument. If only she could obtain incontrovertible proof….

The rustle of her suit and the tap of heels on the hall tiles echoed in the silence of the sixth floor at six p.m. This close to the Christmas holidays the occupants of the other offices in the ten-story Bell Town building had left earlier than normal.

The elevator hummed to a halt and its doors swished quietly open. She stepped inside the glass and chrome box and fed the keycard into the slot then hit P1 for the parking area.

Keys in hand, finger on the button of a canister of pepper spray, Ellen left the confines of the elevator and started across the well-lit parking garage. A couple of feet from her Cadillac ESL she thumbed the key fob. Headlights blinked signaling that the doors had unlocked. She swung open the driver’s door, set the laptop satchel and purse on the passenger seat, slid in quickly, clicked the seat belt and drove to the exit.

Since she owned the building, she’d set up the security routine. The high-risk occupants of the offices–wildly successful attorneys who landed on hardcore hate lists, a hard-hitting journalist whose name had made the drug cartels hit list and others whose careers increased their jeopardy–appreciated the extra layer of safety.

Simon Getting, retired Marine sergeant, walked around her car, shining a light in the back seat and peering in the front. Finally, he stepped to the driver’s side rear quarter panel and waited for the trunk lid to be opened. He inspected the trunk, slammed the lid and walked back to the security booth. “Have a nice evening, Ms. Delaney.”

She eased out of the gate and onto the street. Tonight a drive to Olympia and a late dinner at the Governor’s Mansion with Governor Andrea Marleton. A smile crossed her lips. Governor Marleton–she’d been so proud when Andrea took the Governor’s Mansion.

Andrea’s insistence on meeting tonight had impinged on other plans, but it had been for the best. What had she been thinking? It was dangerous enough that he knew about her friendship with the governor; that had been inevitable. At least, a circle of protection surrounded Andrea.

No one else’s life could be put in jeopardy. Dinner with Andrea to discuss the Notable Women in Law Award that she’d won made a good excuse to break the date with Celeste. Tomorrow the next step–dropping her gym membership.

At a time when she should be reveling in her achievements, planning future successes, she knew there would never be any future successes. Not unless she found a way to stop him.

Bittersweet that her greatest achievement had so enraged him. She’d never dreamed of winning such an prestigious award; a white trash girl from the wilds of Montana. No one would ever know that part, though. Those Libby, Montana roots had been deeply beneath stories of a head-on collision that allegedly–and conveniently–killed her parents right after she graduated high school.

They remained deceased to everyone, including herself, except for one day each year. One day that she drove hours to experience. What would happen if she failed to show this year? She forced the troubling thought away.

The mansion would be decorated for the holidays. She enjoyed that sort of thing, but had no desire to do it. For a moment, she wondered why Andrea had never married. Must not have found that special someone.

She’d given up on finding a special someone; accepted that one-night stands would fill the years. A short, bitter laugh burst out. Two years ago, everything she’d ever dreamed of had been within her grasp. Within months the dream had been shattered. She’d had a taste, though; enough to feel the ache of losing it.

Several times she’d come close to confiding in Andrea. Each time some hand of caution had clamped across her lips. Too bad that same caution hadn’t been there with Celeste. Determinedly, she locked away those melancholic thoughts. I will savor these hours with my best friend. I will not think sad thoughts.

Two point three miles from home while she hummed along with the haunting sound of Enya, a dark van shot out of Kelly Road, one lane of hard-packed dirt that served two houses back in the hill. It smashed into the back quarter panel of her car. Airbags deployed as the car spun. The steering wheel whipped in her hands as she fought it and the airbag. The front tires left the asphalt and bit into the soft side of the ditch, wrenching the wheel free from her white-knuckled grip. For a moment, her heart pounded with hope as the car teetered on the edge of the ditch. Then the wall of dirt gave way and the car slid sideways. It came to rest tilted nearly perpendicular to the roadway above. Groggy from being hit by the air bag and jerked this way and that way, she reached up and touched her forehead. She pulled her hand down in front of her eyes and stared blankly at the slick red on her fingertips. Her mind felt as sluggish as molasses on a bitter winter’s morning.

Blindly patting the passenger seat, she searched for her handbag and cell phone. The driver’s side window burst inward, sprayed her with rounded bits of shatterproof glass. An arm reached in and clamped a stinking rag across her face.


Ellen rolled to one side just in time to heave. Yellow bile spilled in a small puddle on the rough plank floor. Eyes cracked open a slit, the dull daylight caused her head to pound. She squinted her eyes and tried to scan her surroundings. None of it made sense.

She inventoried herself: black ski jacket, faded blue flannel shirt, no bra, black ski pants with a rip in the right knee where blue denim showed through. A faded black sleeping bag lay beneath her. She wiggled her toes. Felt like they were encased in wool socks within the heavy leather boots that had cracks across the toes. A little bit itchy, but she felt grateful to have the socks. Her breath clouded in front of her.

Then she saw the shackle. A dull steel chain anchored to the floor snaked across the sleeping bag and latched onto the dull steel cuff snapped around one leg just above the top of the boot. Where the hell am I?

Heart pounding, she forced herself to scan the space around her, though spears of pain shot through her head. A room. Not a very large room. Some kind of opaque white material over the only window. Light seeped through, but no way to see through it. No furniture. What the hell happened?

The last memory was… a truck of some kind roaring out of Kelly’s Road. Then… bile rose up the back of her throat. She swallowed hard. Black, someone all in black. Couldn’t see anything, except his light colored eyes. Oh, God! What kind of maniac has me?

Chamberlain, it had to be Chamberlain. Nothing else made sense. Why didn’t I see this coming? Should’ve known he’d pull something like this. There had been plenty of warnings. Why didn’t I pay more attention? Why didn’t I do something! For Christ’s sake, why didn’t I simply leave? I had the money to leave, to start over, but no, my stupid pride refused to let him chase me away from my home, my practice. Now look where I am.

Her stomach heaved again and she barely cleared the sleeping bag before the bitter bile spewed out. Flopped back on the sleeping bag, arm over her eyes, tears leaked down the sides of her face, leaving icy tracks.

None of it had mattered. None of her work had made any difference at all. She’d gone full circle. Back to what she had fled.

 

See all of the Special Crimes Team books at http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

Check out places mentioned in the books at http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

4 Ways Journaling Heals

light in darkness

With the first anniversary of the Highway 530 Mudslide looming ever closer, emotions are intense.

Words are powerful and can help us deal with emotions. This is why keeping a journal can be a healing process. By writing down the feelings we are experiencing, we can begin to deal with them rather than allowing them to eat away at us on the inside.

This can be especially true of grief. In your journal:

  1. Write a story about the person you lost
  2. Describe a happy memory with that person
  3. Write a conversation you wish you could have with that person. Try to include what you think they would tell you
  4. Describe your feelings
  5. List two ways you can honor the memory of your loved one

No matter how dark

Another way journaling can help us heal is to reduce negative self-talk, increase positive self-talk and help us recognize achievements.

  1. Write down the negative self-talk. (ie: I’m not pretty enough, I’m not smart enough, and so on)
  2. Now write down five positive things about yourself ( ie: I’m a good person, I help others, I do my job well, Yesterday I phoned my parents because they like hearing from me, I like my hair (or whatever physical attribute you think is positive) and so on.
  3. Write down two ways you will use to improve yourself. Make these very specific and have a deadline for implementing or achieving. Do not use such things as I will lose ten pounds this month. Instead list it like this: I will make three healthy dinners this week. I will not eat bread for five days. I will read one book every month.
  4. On a clean page, at the end of the deadline, write down what you achieved, why you didn’t achieve the entire goal and how you intend to approach it now. BE SURE to INCLUDE ANY progress toward your goal, such as: I fixed two healthy dinners this week. I failed to schedule in enough time to fix the third dinner. This week I will write up my menu for three healthy dinners, go shopping for the ingredients at least the day before the dinner, and I will put the dinners on my daily schedule.

Memories capture moments in our hearts. By briefly recalling a memory, we can help heal ourselves.  When you journal, you can capture your impression of the moment. The way your heart lifted when you watched the sunset; the way the brownie your sister made melted on your tongue; the sweet chocolate taste that flooded your mouth; or the warmth you felt when your spouse embraced you. Life can be rough at times and being able to return to a journal, leaf through it and recall these moments in poignant detail has the ability to pull our souls up from the darkest times, if only for a moment. Just remember:

imagequote sunsets prepare for new day

Journaling helps in the healing process.

  1. We can capture a moment in time; how we saw and felt at that moment
  2. We can release negative emotions in a healthy manner and brainstorm better ways to handle situations
  3. We can increase positive emotions on a daily basis or whenever we need to
  4. We can accept our grief, validate our feeling of grief, and begin the process of healing.

One last word: I am NOT a psychiatrist, psychologist, therapist, medical doctor or other professional helper. This article is NOT medical advice or even professional advice. I am an author and have found ways to use writing to deal with emotion.

If you are feeling angry, depressed, unable to motivate, suicidal, or any strong negative emotion that lingers, PLEASE contact a professional. Depression is a common illness. It appears in many disguises such as a shortness of temper, a feeling of not wanting to get out of bed, a feeling that life isn’t worth it, not having an appetite, wanting to sleep a lot. It comes to all of us, just like the flu, at various times in our lives. It is a normal feeling, just like when a cold attacks you. However if it won’t go away, just like if that cold or flu lingers, you need professional help to rid yourself of the illness. DO NOT hesitate.

One of my favorite actors was Robyn Williams. But, Robyn Williams was unable to seek help to get through a particularly rough spot in his life, and a bright light left our world with his suicide. Do not remove your bright light. Believe me, you DESERVE help, even if you don’t think so right now.

Are you depressed?

If you identify with several of the following signs and symptoms, and they just won’t go away, you may be suffering from clinical depression.

  • you can’t sleep or you sleep too much
  • you can’t concentrate or find that previously easy tasks are now difficult
  • you feel hopeless and helpless
  • you can’t control your negative thoughts, no matter how much you try
  • you have lost your appetite or you can’t stop eating
  • you are much more irritable, short-tempered, or aggressive than usual
  • you’re consuming more alcohol than normal or engaging in other reckless behavior
  • you have thoughts that life is not worth living (seek help immediately if this is the case)

To read more about depression:  http://www.theguardian.com/science/brain-flapping/2014/aug/12/robin-williams-suicide-and-depression-are-not-selfish

 

4 Lessons From A Child

All too frequently those who are charged with keeping young girls, especially troubled young girls, safe, become the predators that damage them the most.

Hard Road Home Front Cover

A classic example is the foster father who rapes the young girl placed in his home because her home is not a safe place to live. Instead of finding acceptance, safety and an adult to help her understand and overcome her past experiences, she is faced with another rapist/child molester.

The young girl is already feeling as if she is somehow broken; that it is somehow her fault that her father/mother beat her or sexually molested her. Now, another adult is repeating the same crimes against her. This serves to confirm that whatever bad thing has happened, and is happening, to her is her own fault. She brought it upon herself because she acted provocatively; dressed provocatively; said the wrong thing; led him on; asked for it; and any number of incorrect beliefs.

If the girl is “groomed” by the predator–this is often done by pretending to love the victim, giving small gifts, seduction rather than use of force–she may come to believe that no one else will ever understand her the way “he does” and when she is no longer of interest to the predator, she will become depressed and feel heart broken. Some of these young women commit suicide. At the very least, she will never be able to truly realize that she was a victim, rather than a participant, and her chance to heal will suffer.

Unfortunately, in either case–groomed to be a sexual object or raped forcibly–she will then subconsciously act in ways that mark her as a victim. And the cycle repeats itself, over and over.

Even after she ages out of the social services system, these beliefs continue to impact her for the rest of her life. She becomes unable to value herself and so she often fails or drops out of school. Unable to support herself becomes one more pressure that forces her into unhealthy relationships and makes it nearly impossible for her to leave them; she frequently becomes addicted to alcohol and drugs in order to numb her feelings of inadequacy and in the end confirms her own worthlessness; she will sometimes enter the sex trades because she doesn’t believe she has any other value and she doesn’t believe she is intelligent enough for any other type of work. She is the woman who inevitably seeks out domestically violent partners who further degrade her.

She lives what she has been taught over and over by authority figures: her value lies in sexually pleasing and being sexually available. If a person is not sexually interested in her, she believes they would not want to be around her; to be her friend. Her internal motto is: if he/she doesn’t want me sexually, why would he/she want me at all? She is unable to form healthy friendships with either gender as she doesn’t have the self-esteem necessary. Without those healthy relationships, she has no place to learn that she has value that is unrelated to her sexuality.

Many girls die trapped in this cycle of never-ending abuse.

In Hard Road Home I explore the dynamics that place young girls in such an untenable life. If I stopped at that point, it would be a heartbreaking story, although well worth the time to read and understand it. But I go farther and explore how a young girl might find the strength to refuse her victimhood and how that might play out in her future.

It is my hope that when people read Casanita Redner’s story four things will remain with my readers:

  1. This story is based upon facts, though I have fictionalized the account to be able to concentrate on clarifying the message. There are young women who have found the strength to fight free of childhood sexual abuse.
  2. There are ways that adults can help lay a foundation that will allow such a young girl to fight free of her victimhood. In fact, Cas is blessed by these building blocks given to her by her grandfather, her grandmother and other healthy adults that appear in her life.
  3. It is each adult’s responsibility to become aware of this type of victimization and to work in whatever capacity that they can to see that it ends. As an author, writing is the tool I use to assume my part of this responsibility.
  4. If you have been a child victim, know that you are not responsible for the crimes against you; you are worthy of true friendships and healthy relationships; you can break free and build a good life for yourself. Believe in yourself! You are worth it!

To read about recent cases:

http://www.seattlepi.com/local/article/Lawsuit-State-failed-sexually-abused-girl-at-3-5393881.php

“…..The two foster fathers caught abusing the girl received suspended prison sentences – at least initially – after Pierce County judges opted to use a sentencing scheme available to sex offenders who abuse children they’re close to.

Had she not been living with the men, both would have faced years behind bars; instead, they were able to avoid prison time entirely through Washington’s Special Sex Offender Sentencing Alternative law.

http://www.courts.wa.gov/content/manuals/SexualOffense/chapter8.pdf

……She was first placed with Jose Miranda and his wife, Juanita. Jose Miranda would later become infamous for the sexual abuse he perpetrated on children during the nine years he was a foster father.The Mirandas were licensed as foster parents even though Juanita Miranda’s own children had been taken from her while she was living in California. Having been convicted of crimes in Washington, Oregon and California, Juanita Miranda also tested positive for opiates while she was pregnant six years before the girl was placed with the couple.

According to the lawsuit, Juanita Miranda was under Department of Corrections supervision for a felony theft when she and her husband were approved as foster parents. Both lied to DSHS on questionnaires meant to prevent convicts, addicts and people too sick to care for children from becoming foster parents….” All material bracketed by these quote marks was taken directly from the Seattle PI article, link above.

Another case, this one in Oregon:

http://www.oregonlive.com/portland/index.ssf/2014/12/portland_jury_awards_biggest_s.html

 

JUST FOR YOU!

I love to read. Of course I would love to read…after all, I am a writer. What I love even more than reading is to share stories.

Give you a little background:

Both my mother and grandmother were oral storytellers. I spent hours at their feet listening as they transported all of us to another time and place.

At age fourteen, I had my first brush with being published. A well-respected newspaper in my area accepted my heavily researched, five part series on racism in America. At age eighteen, a different well-respected newspaper published my researched, six part series on the child welfare system.

Since then I have written articles, short stories, poems, non-fiction self-help manuals, an award-winning literary novel (Good Intentions), and two internationally-selling crime fiction books (Sketch of a Murder and Street Harvest).

What does this have to do with you?

December 1 I will launch a brand new enterprise: a monthly newsletter. In this newsletter I will share special offers, announcements of upcoming events and books, inspirational images; and stories, poetry, character back stories, the motivation behind writing some of my novels, and glimpses into my personal journey as a writer.

I invite you to share in this new enterprise. Simply go to the book image beneath the heading JUST FOR YOU NEWSLETTER and click. Enter your email address and follow the steps to opt-in to my newsletter. Once you’ve signed up, you will receive a PDF of Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, Special Crimes Team series. This offer is only good from NOW through the month of December! Sign up now and get your FREE PDF of Sketch of a Murder!

Opt-in and enjoy the benefits of JUST FOR YOU NEWSLETTER.  Remember, you have to enter your email address for the newsletter. Entering your email address to follow my blog will not put you on the newsletter mailing list.

If you already follow my blog, be sure to get on the mailing list for JUST FOR YOU NEWSLETTER! I don’t want you to miss out on some good deals and wonderful content.

If you haven’t already joined my blog, NOW would be a great time to do so! Just CLICK and FOLLOW!

To see all my books, go to http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

To learn more about my characters, check out Pinterest.  http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

12 REASONS FOR STRONG FEMALE CHARACTERS

Words are powerful. We ingest words like air, almost unconsciously. And, like air they wend their way deep inside of us, carried into our brains just like oxygen.

What happens if you are a young girl and all the words that feed your brain tell you things like:

1.  Girls can’t do science (check out my pinterest board about #GREATWOMEN

2.  Girls should have babies and stay at home  (IF this is what a woman wants then it is an appropriate career, and a tough one. But, not all women want to have children–in our overcrowded world–and many want to have a career outside of the home.  #womenshould do whatever their talents and desires lead them to do)

3.  Girls can’t be athletes  (Girls, and women, can be and do whatever they choose. There are many outstanding #womenathletes )

4.  Girls don’t do math (I refer the reader to my pinterest board GREAT WOMEN)

5.  Only lesbians want to be independent women (This one is too silly to even answer)

6.  Lesbians are women who are too ugly to find a man (Personally, I think Portia is very stunning. Ask #ellendegenres I bet she would agree)

7.  “There is no such thing as rape” (This statement shows that there are people who are dangerously ill-informed, or there is no such thing as a brain among the people who say this!)

8.  “Rape is just a snuggle with a struggle” (on a t-shirt that was being sold in a mall in the Phillipines!) (This one is extremely dangerous and goes along with “there is no such thing as rape”. Until we understand that rape is violent assault with the same objective as a perp tying up and beating another person–which is to control and terrorize that person– we will not be able to understand the full extent of this horrendous crime. That the perp uses sex–what is normally considered a tool of intimacy–to control and terrorize is part of what makes this crime so devastating. )

9.  If you would use a little makeup, you’d be pretty (and if you don’t use makeup, obviously you are ugly) (Cosmetics are a huge industry and it behooves that industry to spend billions of dollars every year to convince women of this fallacy. This is pretty egotistical. These people are claiming that they know what beauty is better than Creator/God/Goddess and they are willing to help the Dieties/Diety make their creations beautiful! YOU are BEAUTIFUL just as you are!)

10.  Honey, you’d look so much nicer if you lost a few pounds (translation: if you don’t loose a few pounds, you’re el blimpo) (Women and girls come in all shapes and sizes. All of them are beautiful. The only time a person should worry about their weight is if it is adversely affecting their health, by THEIR standards.)

11.  Women are weaker than men; they can’t fight back (hmm, there are undoubtedly a few men out there who wish they hadn’t believed that one!)

12.  #Feminists are women who hate men (how about Feminists are women who want the best for women and men?)

These 12 statements are why we need to have novels which paint a true picture of the diversity, the strength and the courage of women. Girls, and women, need to hear positives; need to see role models of women who confront all sorts of evils and obstacles and triumph on television, in songs and in novels.  There are many wonderful pinterest boards about #remarkablewomen

We do not need more Manic Pixie Dream Girls who only exist to help the boy fulfill his destiny! We do not need more damsels in distress feeding the idea that girls and women are helpless without a man/boy to rescue them. Women, and girls, often rescue others and this needs to be celebrated in literature.

Don’t miss future posts. CLICK and FOLLOW!

To join in the conversation, friend Aya on Facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

To read books with remarkable, strong female characters visit Aya at http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar

 

 

MEET THREE REMARKABLE WOMEN

I have known many remarkable women in my life, starting with my mother and grandmother. Grandmother was a spiritual woman who reached out and touched lives; my mother rescued animals. As an author, I write about remarkable women.

These past few months, I have had the privilege to work with three women much like my grandmother and my mother: my adopted sister, Lois, a very spiritual Native American woman; and Shari Bond and Jackie Glover of Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue. Lois was friends with an 84-year-old man, Walter, who had 58 alpacas when he went into the hospital. Since Walter didn’t have any family close-by, Lois became his patient advocate as well as cooking him meals as he couldn’t always eat the hospital food, and taking over the care of his 58 alpacas. At 76-years old, my sister is a tiny woman, barely five-foot tall and weighing around a hundred pounds. loisThe schedule she took on was grueling.

One afternoon when my wife, Deva, and I had gone to Sedro Woolley to visit Lois we finally realized the extent of the project she had taken upon herself:

Walter was not coming home. Ever. His alpacas had not been sheared in two years; DSC01136(note the excessively heavy fiber on this animal. Poor animal had no way to cool off and the excess fiber hid the fact that they had been starving) they had not been getting enough to eat; and they had several other health issues. And they all needed rehomed ASAP! As Lois researched finding homes she met despair. The alpaca industry in the United States was in a many-years-long slump; alpacas flooded the market; there were no homes available. Several people suggested that she load the animals up and truck them to auction to be sold off as dog food on the hoof. DSC01105 (note the bare pasture. All that grew there was inedible weeds) Other people suggested that she have all of the animals euthanized. My sister was devastated. And exhausted from months of caring for the animals and months of running back and forth to help feed and take care of her friend, Walter.

Lois was so busy giving that she forgot to ask others for help. Fortunately, when Deva understood the overwhelming scope of the project, she volunteered to help with the animals. That night, Deva went online and found the Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue.  http://www.facebook.com/foralpacas  She immediately contacted Shari Bond. Shari quickly responded. So began Deva and my months’ long journey in helping Lois and the alpacas.

At first, Walter’s son–a grown man who lives out of state–blocked all attempts to rehome the alpacas, mistakenly believing that each animal was worth thousands of dollars. Lois finally found a way around that. First big hurdle in the way of rehoming the alpacas had been crossed!

The next issue: the alpacas, which had been badly neglected and starved until my sister took over their care, and some had health issues, could not be transported before they were sheared or the combination of poor condition and heat while un-sheared could kill them.

Anyone who meets Lois recognizes the goodness within her. Andre, who had been friends with Walter and knew Lois stepped in and paid for the shearing. 140525_0001  (these wonderful men knew Lois and came to help. Andre paid for the shearing–in blue shirt–as well as physically helped during the shearing. Note the gentleness of the man kneeling on the floor, comforting the baby alpaca during its first shearing) 140525_0009One more hurdle crossed!

If you have ever tried to place even one animal in an ethical manner, you know that the long process of finding potential homes, screening potential adopters and finalizing the adoption can take weeks. With an animal species that is over-abundant this process can take months of hard work.

Shari and her business partner, Jackie Glover, began the process of finding suitable placements. Some of those who came forward–good people wanting to help–didn’t know anything about alpacas and their needs. Many had inappropriate fencing, such as barbed wire; others wanted to run alpacas and inappropriate livestock together which can result in the alpacas being seriously injured. Others simply didn’t know what they would be getting into until Shari and Jackie explained about the needs and requirements for alpacas. The pool of potential homes shrunk quickly.  DSC01109

Meanwhile, back at the ranch….

Working herself into exhaustion and with limited income of her own, Lois searched for ways to pay people to help with the physical care of the animals; pay vet bills, and buy good hay. None of which comes cheap. She found some help she could afford by having garage sales and selling other items.

Deva and I began purchasing good hay from Dayville Hay in Snohomish and transporting it to the ranch. A small item off Lois’ list.

Next hurdle….

Intact male alpacas, unless they are intended for breeding purposes, are trouble. They argue and sometimes injure each other, and, in general, are more difficult to manage. In a poor alpaca economy intact males were definitely not a moving item. Gelding would cost $200 per animal. There was no money for gelding.

Shari and Jackie, got busy. They contacted Chuckanut Vet Hospital in Mount Vernon and found a compassionate vet who offered his services for the price of the supplies needed for each gelding. With 18 males the cost was still significant. Shari and Jackie got busy fundraising.

Meanwhile back at the ranch…..

Walter died. The ranch, which had been up for sale, now faced either a quick sale or a foreclosure. The animals had to be moved, and moved soon!

The gelding took place, but people who wanted alpacas were still scarce. One alpaca, Sammi, died after the gelding from pneumonia.

The alpacas were down to mere days before they had to be vacated.

Commitments made months earlier, before their involvement with these alpacas, claimed large portions of Shari and Jackie’s time. Tensions rose. Two of the placed alpacas literally dropped dead in their new home. All placements had to be put on hold until a necropsy could determine why these alpacas died.

The clock ticked inexorably forward, greedily consuming the hours, the days left.

The necropsy exposed disturbing medical facts. Blood tests had to be performed on all the alpacas at the ranch. Again, Shari contracted with the vet and Oregon State University to have blood drawn and tested. Days ticked by as we waited for the results.

Finally, the results green flagged the rehoming project. Another hurdle faced and overcome!DSC01128  (I only have photos of the alpacas before shearing. Isn’t this one a beauty?)

At last, we were down to eleven males and six females. But we only had days left. Shari and Jackie hustled. They shuffled the alpacas at their ranch, and at foster placements. They found new foster homes. And they decided that the three elderly (18-year-old) females would come home to live with them for the remainder of their lives. Lady Jane and her two cronies would not have to move ever again.

Shari and Jackie’s truck couldn’t haul their large trailer full of alpacas a hundred and fifty miles.

The hard deadline of Monday evening loomed ahead of us. Deva phoned Shari and volunteered to use our diesel truck to pull the large trailer.

Friday came. Deva finished work, went to a physical therapy appointment, we filled our cooler with juices and waters, and started south to pick up the big trailer at Cross Creek Ranch.

Friday night, Interstate 5 traffic between Darrington, Washington and Tenino, Washington sucks rotten lemons! We finally arrived and hooked up the trailer. Last minute discussions about meeting times concluded, we headed home.

Meanwhile back at the ranch….

The 13-year-old male, Leonardo, who had been a bag of walking bones, went down and wouldn’t stand up. Frantic phone calls ensued. Shari arranged an emergency call to the vet to see Leonardo.

Saturday morning. We arrive at the ranch. Leonardo is down in the pasture. Shari, Deva and I go over to see him. He finally gets up, one hind foot not touching the ground, back legs trembly weak, spine hunched in pain, eyes sunk from dehydration. It looks like we’ll lose Leonardo. A pall hangs over us as we wait with Lois for the vet to arrive.

The vet arrives. Checks Leonardo’s heart, lungs, gut sounds. Stands up and gives us the news: Leonardo can be saved!

A shot of Banamine for pain and instructions to Shari for rehydration, thiamine shots, internal parasite eradication, pain management and further care. Great news, but now we have to regroup.

Santiago DSC01121 (lush grass outside the fence next to the busy road shows how barren the pasture is), one of the eleven males, cannot be with the other males as he attacks them. The plan had been for Shari to haul Santiago on her smaller trailer while Deva hauled the other ten males on the large trailer. Now, Leonardo needs to be hauled on the smaller trailer.

It wouldn’t be so difficult, but Shari had months ago arranged for a gelding clinic at OSU for fifteen alpacas that she committed to hauling to the clinic. They have to arrive early morning on Tuesday. She has to pick them up at various locations around the state, and get them there. She had planned to use Sunday and Monday to gather the alpacas. Now, she had to adjust her extremely tight schedule. Leonardo needed her help.

Deva and Shari decided on a plan: Leonardo would ride in Shari’s trailer and Deva would haul the other nine males. Sunday Shari would return to pick up Santiago and Deva would haul the six females.

Night had fallen by the time, Deva drove into Centralia and the home for the last of the five males on the trailer. Shari, Jackie and a man with a headlamp met us at the driveway and directed us into a dark pasture. In an adjoining pasture, horses pressed against the fence, curious about the commotion in the field next to them. We unloaded the animals and headed out, leaving Shari and Jackie still talking to the man about the alpacas.

One in the morning, we arrived home. Our dogs tell us just what they think about our hauling in so late at night. I wonder as I toss and turn how Shari and Jackie do this day after day. How do they drive for hours on traffic clogged roads, deal with sick, neglected and sometimes brutalized animals; and drop into bed only to do it again and again? I can’t help but admire them.

Sunday morning arrived with brilliant blue skies and a friendly sun smiling upon us. Shari phoned. Leonardo had not pooped yet that morning. She could not leave until he did. Leonardo had been so dehydrated that one of the concerns was that his intestines would be clogged and that he could bloat. Pooping was an important medical sign…for better or for worse. Finally, Leonardo pooped, and we all rejoiced! Funny how something like that can bring such happiness.

Accidents all over the place on I-5 between Tenino and Bow, Washington, but Shari finally drove in through the ranch gates. Great news as she steps from her truck: Leonardo is doing well, eating, drinking, relaxing in the sun with his new bud next door.

The six females ran into the big trailer like they knew they were heading some place good. Shari haltered and led Santiago into her trailer. Good-byes were said. Lois, after caring for the alpacas for so long had a few tears in her eyes, but they were happy tears. The animals were finally safe.

If you would like to donate to a wonderful cause and help animals that desperately need you, contact Shari Bond at Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue.

FRIEND the alpacas! https://www.facebook.com/foralpacas

For VENDOR space at the Cross Creek Alpaca Rescue Bazaar contact Shari at ccar.crosscreek@gmail.com

Or, attend the bazaar, enjoy touring the rescue ranch while drinking cider and munching homemade treats! 10:00-4:00pm, Saturday, October 25th, 4225 Military Rd SE, Tenino, WA

To learn more about these wonderful people and their adorable rescued alpacas, go to http://www.crosscreekalpacarescue.org

A few more photos (pre-shearing. For more recent photos, visit Shari Bond’s facebook site: https://www.facebook.com/foralpacas) DSC01149  Many of these animals had been award-winning fiber producers.    DSC01120  Franz, the last baby born before the rescue.                                           DSC01107 Note the uncomfortably thick fiber on this poor animal. And the weather was in the 80 to 90 degree range!

DSC01108  They need YOUR help! Will you help them? If you can help in any way–providing a permanent home, providing foster care, sending the money to feed one of them for six months or a year–please do so! Contact Shari Bond  ccar.crosscreek@gmail.com

Don’t miss future posts. CLICK and FOLLOW!

To connect with Aya, FRIEND her on facebook:  http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

 

 

MAKA INA (MOTHER EARTH)

I am going on a much needed vacation, but wanted to leave something for all of my wonderful readers. I will return in a couple of weeks. Until then, enjoy this story.

“Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it.

Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves.

All things are bound together. All things connect.

–Chief Seattle

MAKA INA (MOTHER EARTH)

June 25

I have to get back to the ranch. Grandmother is probably worried sick. Two weeks ago–it doesn’t seem that long–mom and grandmother sent me here to Bald Peak. “I have watched you,” grandmother said, “for many days. You’re here. You’re there. You can’t sit still. You don’t sleep well.”

When I looked at her, startled, she nodded. “Yes, I awakened a number of nights  when I heard something disturbing the horses. I watched from the window until you returned.”

“I don’t know what it is , grandmother. These dreams, I can’t recall except to feel there’s  something I have to do.” I glanced away from her black eyes, staring out towards the mountains  that rose up from the back of our pasture and towered above the small patch of woods.

Mom walked into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down. She waited quietly to see if grandmother had anything to say. While the quiet stretched on, we all  sipped our coffee.

This was how I’d grown up. My friends thought we were weird. Whenever  their parents were quiet they were either mad or ignoring the kids. Only Angie, my Quaker  friend, understood the concept of waiting for the spirit to speak.

Finally mom spoke. “The  ancestor whose name you carry was very traditional. As a young person she spent many days in the mountains, fasting and praying, looking for her spirit help.”

Downing the last dregs of coffee, I studied the grounds at the bottom of the cup. My  heart pounded from excitement or fear or maybe a bit of both. “ I ‘ll be ready to leave in the  morning.”

The next morning as I finished cinching up Star Dancer’s saddle, grandmother handed me  her eagle prayer feather. “It is good you are following the path of our ancestors, but there is a sadness in me. Last night I dreamed.”

“What did you dream, Grandmother?”

“You called to me. I could see you and hear you, yet when I spoke to you, you did not  see me nor did you hear my voice. I wanted to reach out and let you know I was there, but  something was between us. I couldn’t touch you.” Grandmother shook her head as if to shake the dream from her mind. “Remember, little one, no matter where you are, I am with you.”

Putting my arms around her thin shoulders, I was poignantly aware of grandmother’s  eighty-five years. “I will remember.”

Mom hugged me. Holding my shoulders, she stared into my eyes. “We are proud of you. Your father, I am sure, smiles from the Other Side. Even though he was white, he understood the ways of our people and honored them.”

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. Turning from them, I swung up into the saddle.

Ten days into the fast, my prayers were answered. I didn’t understand the vision, but then I didn’t expect to. Like the stories of our people, there were layers of understandings which could take years to realize. On the eleventh day, I rested and ate. On that night the quakes began.

***

Today is the fifth day from the start of the quakes and the first day that the only thing shaking is my hands. I am scribbling this all down in my dairy. Coming from an oral tradition, I wonder why I have such a compulsion to write. Grandmother said writing is just another canoe to carry important things forward into the future.

Star Dancer is saddled up. As soon as full daylight comes, I’ll douse this campfire and head home. I pray mom and grandmother are alright.

June 27

This is the second night I have been forced to make camp. Large sections of the trail have vanished beneath rock slides; chasms have opened up where once there was solid ground. Huge trees resemble a handful of toothpicks tossed down by some giant. .

I guess we were lucky to escape the chain of worldwide natural catastrophes for as long as we did. For the past year, seems like every time we turned on the news, there was another earthquake or volcano or tidal wave wiping out entire cities.

June 30

I almost wish Star Dancer and I had not made it home. It has taken all day to dig mom and grandmother from the ruins of the house. They must have been singing as they crossed over to the Other Side. Their hands still held their drums.

Tomorrow I will bury them beneath the arms of the old cedar. Grandmother told me Grandmother Cedar is over a thousand years old, according to the history handed down from her great-grandmother. How it managed to stay rooted amid all of this devastation is beyond my understanding. But then how the old cedar managed to evade the logger’s chainsaws that clear-cut so much of this area has always seemed a mystery and a miracle to me, too.

June 31

It is finished. I pray I did the ceremony right. Every time I faltered, I heard grandmother, “When you do ceremony with a good heart, the spirits can forgive mistakes.” They must because my Spirit Helper stayed with me from just before dawn when I began digging the graves until I placed the last shovelful of dirt on the mound above mom. Later this summer, I’ll ask one of our medicine people to come and make things right.

Lying here, staring up at that sky full of stars, I hear mom and grandmother singing their songs. It’s been there all day, at the edge of my hearing. Tonight, with a coyote’s song echoing from the hills every now and then, their drumming and their voices sound clearer.

July 1

The radio is smashed beyond use. Mom and grandmother’s songs have left. Even the wind has deserted this place.

Far Runner, grandmother’s Indian pony, returned early this morning. Except for a few scratches, she’s fine. With some tugging and sweating I cleared enough of the tack shop rubble to get to another saddle and some saddlebags. With enough salvageable supplies to last a couple of weeks, I’ll head out to the Rez. It’s only twenty miles, but who knows what condition the roads are in. Mom’s cousin Annie will want to know what’s happened.

Today, for the first time that I can ever recall, I found myself wishing we had some neighbors closer than the Rez. Everything I think seems to lead to thoughts of mom or grandmother. Like the neighbor thing: soon as I thought it’d be nice to have nearer ones, I remembered grandmother saying, “I’m glad the folks nearest us is our own people. I sure dread the day this land gets crowded and white folks are sitting on our doorstep. “ She’d shaken her head at her self. “ I try not to feel so. Meetin’ your father helped me to see white folks in a different way. But, them boardin’ school teachers poundin’ on us Indian children for speakin’ our own language…” Her voice had trailed off.

July 5

They’re gone! I can’t believe everyone on the Rez is gone. Granted it is–was a small reservation, but everyone, dead!   Their bodies look like they have lain out in the summer sun for months. My Spirit Helper led me to Cousin Annie. If I hadn’t known her so well, I would not have recognized her body.

I don’t get it. Oh, there seems to be logical explanations for everyone who is dead–trees and houses falling down; cars crumpled together, obviously thrown out of control by the quake; explosions from ruptured propane tanks; fires. But how can a whole place be wiped out like this?

Was this then the meaning behind the raging fires in my vision? In part of the vision, there was an emptiness on the land and fires everywhere. Was that great emptiness this loss of family and friends?

I buried Cousin Annie. The rest of them, I prayed for and left where they lay. I sang for Cousin Annie then I sang for the rest of the Rez. I can’t do any more. Perhaps their spirits will still be able to find rest.

My heart is so heavy I want to lay down with Cousin Annie, but my Spirit Helper is nipping at me, refusing to let me even stop here for the night.  The full moon casts a shimmering, magical light over the devastated land. As I mount up to leave, beauty and sorrow envelope me as fog envelopes the marshlands.

July 18

Been moving steadily since I left the Rez. Have yet to encounter another living two-legged though I have spotted a hawk, a pair of eagles and a wolf. The wolf  must have come down from Canada.

I feel so tired yet each time I consider lying down to let my soul wander away, my Spirit Helper nips me as a sheepdog might nip its’ charges to force them to keep moving. I’d think I was dreaming such attacks except for the red marks on the back of my legs and sometimes on my arms. Grandmother never warned me that spirit helpers could be so downright annoying.

August 1

Today I crossed what was left of Snoqualamie Pass on the remnants of I-90. I left Far Runner’s tack lying next to the remains of a farm house. She continues to follow as closely as if she were still tied to us. I don’t blame her. If it weren’t for my Spirit Helper, the aloneness would probably immobilize me. Towns, suburbs, houses out in the middle of farmland shaken into rubble. Roadways crumpled like discarded paper balls. Not a living two-legged in sight. Why was I spared?

I’ll head for Seattle. Surely out of all of those thousands, there will be living people there.

August 6

If anyone had told me last summer that it would take five days to make one day’s mileage from the summit of the Pass to Seattle, I would have laughed. Star Dancer and I have been known to easily make twice that distance in a day’s ride.

Last summer seems a century away. Craters, mud slides, rock avalanches, patches of forest still smoldering from fires. Now this. A huge wave must have come in and slapped Seattle like some monstrous hand, carelessly sweeping large parts of it out to sea. Is anyone alive besides me?

August 12

Scavenging has become a way of life and ignoring dead bodies, a habit. At last I know with certainty that it was not metaphorical fires of which my vision spoke. It was this. Seattle’s skyline is bright not with neon but with orange-red-blue flames shooting two to three stories high from busted gas lines. Safe up here on this hill looking down on the city from beneath a surviving magnolia and several short-needled pines, I feel a profound sense of loneliness.

Today would have been grandmother’s eighty-sixth birthday. Taking out my hand drum I couldn’t decide whether to sing sorrow or celebration. Surely, mom and grandmother are better off not seeing this. I sang both.

September 5

In some ways I dread continuing this journey. I don’t know exactly where I am going. Just a generally southern direction. I dread the full understanding of my vision that I fear awaits me further on this sojourn. Yet there is a part of me that can’t forget the memory of hope I felt during my vision. There was that terrible sorrow binding my heart as I first came back into myself up there on Bald Peak , my face awash with my tears; but, there was also a lifting of my heart, a sense of wonder and a –joy–for lack of a better word. I must go on. Even if I would stop, Spirit Helper would not allow it. To what tomorrow is she guiding me?

September 9

Seattle was a graveyard. Portland, or what was left of it, wasn’t any better. Fact is, this is the best I’ve seen since leaving Bald Peak. Southern Oregon has always been a beautiful place, except of course, for the highways and cities. Well, it doesn’t seem like human ugliness is going to be a problem for long.

I passed a Fred Meyers. Grass and dandelions have already pushed up through the asphalt of the parking lot. Part of the outside walls have tumbled down, not really noteworthy except for the amount of moss covering the bricks left standing and the sapling already twelve or more feet high and easily several inches in diameter growing on the inside of what had once been the bakery.

Brush and saplings seem to be sprouting up overnight, growing at an amazing pace. It’s like Mother Earth is in a hurry to reclaim her body. Farmlands have become semi-wilderness. I wonder what’s happened to the livestock and domestic animals? Come to think of it: I haven’t seen many animal corpses. Mostly dogs with their people or animals trapped in man-made structures.

September 15

Using the binoculars I scavenged from REI in Seattle, over the past few days I’ve spotted several horses, a couple of domestic cats near the rubble of an apartment complex, cougar sign, a glimpse of a black bear and some raccoons sleeping in a cedar tree. Funny, I don’t feel quite so alone now.

October 2

Hello world! This is the day of my birth nineteen years ago. I feel like I’m thirty! The weather is a bit warmer than usual for this time of year, but then maybe it’s just one of those years. The earth seems to have settled back down. Since Bald Peak, I have not encountered any more natural disasters.

Of course, I don’t know what’s happening anywhere else. None of the radios I’ve found work. As for humans, forget it. All the ones I’ve met look like they’ve been dead fifteen or twenty years. Bones in clothes or at best, mummified skin and rotted rags. Cities overrun by trees and brush; grass and weed shattered sidewalks.   I don’t get this. It feels like that old sci-fi show the “Twilight Zone”. If it wasn’t for this diary and my vision on Bald Peak, I would think I was crazy and all of this happened years instead of months ago.

November 1

Crescent City, California looks nothing like it did when mom brought me here for my fifteenth birthday. Back then we camped among the redwoods for two weeks. We stopped at the Safeway I’m sitting here looking at now.

***

Had to pull blackberry vines off the front so I could enter. Lined up on the shelves, canned food sported discolored labels. Some crumbled away as I touched them, like really old paper.

Found an intact mirror in what used to be an employee’s lounge. Now, I know. I don’t understand. But I know. Took the picture of mom I snapped on her thirty-second birthday from my wallet. It felt old, fragile. Holding it next to my face, I stared in the mirror. Everyone used to tell me I was the spitting image of mom. With crow’s feet around my eyes and that grey streak like mom had running down the middle of my head, I can clearly see mom in my face.

In a crazy way, it’s beginning to make sense. Mom used to always kid me about wearing clothes and shoes out overnight. Maybe that’s partly the reason it never occurred to me before now how often I’ve had to replace the man-made materials I’m wearing while the natural cotton and leather items are still okay.

Manmade–that seems to be the key.

December 30

I loved the redwoods from the moment I first saw them with mom. Grandmother said my great-great grandmother had some California Indian–Klamath–in her and that’s why I felt so at home among these giants.

I continue to age quickly. Star Dancer and Far Runner have matured to the five-year olds that they are. From all appearances, it is only humankind and their constructions that age rapidly in this new world. Even the trees and vines that are taking over the cities, though they grow very fast, they don’t seem old.

January 3

I’ve made my last camp here on this bluff overlooking the steel blue Pacific foaming against the black grained sands below. Redwoods tower above and around me, embracing me. The mild weather continues. I enjoy the seals barking from the island that stands out a bit from the shore. Seagulls glide and argue. Their raucous voices harmonize well with the ocean. Deer slip through the early evening shadows, barely cracking a twig. The birds keep the days from being silent.

My Spirit Helper has led me here to this place in my vision.

I don’t know if there are people anywhere any longer, but it’s nice to know that the wild ones and at least some of the domestic four-leggeds have survived. A semi-feral orange tabby followed me from the old camp near the remains of a ranger station to this camp. When I catch fish, I throw the heads back away from the fire. I sit quietly when she darts out and snatches them. I know it’s a she since I’ve seen a couple of half-grown kittens with her. When she gets the food far enough away, they come out and help her eat it.

Last night I returned to camp late. South of me is an area that has returned to lush grassland. Star Dancer and Far Runner run free in that grassland now. I had to let them go. The sunset of my life is upon me.

I carefully wrap my diary in oiled leather and stash it within a hole in  Grandmother Redwood. Settled with my back against the rough bark of the ancient Redwood, I pick up my hand drum, the one Grandmother helped me make. As I stroke it, I wonder if anyone else is alive, and if someone, someday, might find my words.

The End

If you enjoyed this short story, be sure to CLICK and FOLLOW !

Drop by Facebook and say hello:  http://www.facebook.com/aya.walksfar

Check out some cool photos at http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar

STORYTIME FRIDAY: CHANGE THE THINGS WE CAN

CHANGE THE THINGS WE CAN

On a drizzly September mornin’, James McMurphy, alcohol and drug rehab counselor, was found face down on his desk, dead. The tip of his finger-pointin’ finger was glued precisely at the end of the last sentence of the last entry of Irma Nelson’s file. Like a period.

Two weeks before, Irma had brought homemade oatmeal cookies to our therapy group. McMurphy went right off the Richter Scale. Ranted that Irma took care of other folks so she wouldn’t have to deal with her own problems. My opinion–McMurphy didn’t have no call to be lookin’ at none of us, ‘specially Irma. Not when he brushed at imaginary dust and refused to shake our hands, pullin’ back like we might contaminate him. ‘Course, who’s gonna listen to Sally–call me Sal–Whitewater, half-breed Indian?

A week later, Irma OD’d on booze and pills.

That evening our group bunched together for smoke break exactly the required twenty-five feet from the back door. Georges had measured the distance for us the last time McMurphy pitched a hissy fit ‘bout us bein’ too close to the door. Carol Johnson said, “Somebody should use McMurphy for target practice!”

Ray Perazon, the only other felon in the group besides me and Georges, chuckled. “You bring that gun you have, I’ll bring the red paint to draw the bull’s eye.”

Rita Anders piped up, “Her gun makes too much noise. Besides, it’s registered.” She batted her eyes at Ray. “Bet your gun’s quieter.”

Ray’s eyes shifted away as he forced a chuckle. When he looked back, his lips curled into a suggestive grin. “My gun’s quiet, but fully loaded, babe. If you want quiet, someone could take a pillow and stuff it over Mr.-Don’t-Touch-Me’s face. That’s quiet. You could even embroider a cute lil’ saying on it.”

Rita tapped a cherry red lip with a hot red painted fingernail. “Well, darlin’, what would I embroider?”

Ray chuckled again, this time sounding natural. “I’m sure you’d think of something.”

“Courage to change the things we can,” Jeff Georges’ muttered from beside me.

I shot him a glance, but he had on his ‘inscrutable Indian’ face.

“This is no joking matter.” Richard Semafore sniffed. “Irma was a good woman and McMurphy kept at her until he pushed her over the edge. He killed her as surely as if he’d poured the booze and pills in her.”

Me and Georges shifted to look at the mousy, little tax man. Everything about Semafore drooped, like a newspaper left out in the rain. He pinched a piece of lint from the lapel of his suit jacket. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he rolled it into a tiny ball which he pocketed.

Carol laced an arm through Semafore’s. “Maybe someone’ll give McMurphy what he deserves.” Rita agreed with a vigorous nod as we headed back into therapy group.

Three days later, Detective Simons pounded on my door. He looked down his long thin nose at me like I was some kinda bug he was thinkin’ of squishin’.

“Yeah?” I’d never liked Simons. It hadn’t made things any better between us when he copped a feel during an  interrogation a coupla years ago and I’d decked him. I got an extra thirty days in lockup; he still got razzed by the boys in blue. I figgered I won that round.

“I’d like to come in a moment and ask you a few questions.”

“You can like anything you want, but the hallway’s good enough.” I folded my arms across my chest and leaned a shoulder into the doorjamb.

He glared at me. I didn’t shift a foot. Finally, he growled, “Why’d you drop out of your group?”

My lip curled. “What’s it to you?”

His pasty-white face turned red. “You can answer my questions or I can get you a ride to the station.”

“And, I can sit down there, yelling for an attorney.” I waited a long moment then shrugged with one shoulder. “But hey, I ain’t fond of cop shops, so I’ll tell you. Judge only sentenced me to four months.”

Flipping open his notebook, he pretended to read. He shoulda known better than to try that routine. I’d grown up with silence.

He slapped his notebook closed and shoved it in his shirt pocket. “A week after you entered McMurphy’s group you threatened him. Said if he didn’t back off, he ‘might become one of the ghosts of the past’. What did you mean?”

The lids of my eyes dropped to half-mast to hide the anger in their dark depths. “Maybe I meant I was gonna drop his group.”

“Yeah, right.” He scowled like that was gonna make me give up the truth or somethin’.

“What’re you hasslin’ me for? You ain’t my probation officer.”

“James McMurphy was found dead this morning.”

“Ain’t like I’m gonna cry for the bastard.”

His pudgy face squinched up until he resembled a pissed off pig. “Where were you from nine last night to five this morning?”

“In bed. Asleep. By myself.”

He stared at me as he said, “We found the weapon.”

“Wasn’t mine.”

I almost grinned. He’d honed in on that like flies on shit. His piggy eyes narrowed. “You’re a felon. What’re you doing with a weapon?”

I did let my grin out then. “Who said I had one?” I let visions of my twenty-two and my .45, safely stashed where cops would never find them, dance in my head.

“We found a throw pillow with McMurphy’s blood on it.” His mean little eyes latched onto my face. “In a dumpster two streets from here.”

“Maybe you’d better find out who’s missin’ a throw pillow and a gun.” I pushed off the wall and stood up straight. “Go talk to people who like throw pillows and little guns.”

“I never said anything about the caliber of the gun.” He pounced on my words.

“No, you didn’t. So arrest me or get off my doorstep.”

“I’ve been lookin’ at your rap sheet.” He stared hard at me. “Yours and your friend, Georges.” He shoved his face toward me. “I don’t like felons.”

I waved a hand between us as I wrinkled my nose. “Eww, man, you gotta get some Listerine, or Scope or maybe bleach water.” I cocked my head. “You forgot to mention Ray Perazon. Is that cause he’s white?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” He puffed up like a ticked off cat.

“That an’ a coupla bucks might get you a cheap cup of coffee.” I studied him. “You been hasslin’ Georges?”

“I’ll ask the questions.”

“Why you messin’ with me?” I tried a different tact.

“A woman took McMurphy down.”

“Seriously? Where’dja get your crystal ball? Might wanna think ‘bout returnin’ it.”

The vein in his forehead popped up and throbbed. Like it had that day I’d decked him and he’d come after me. I’d been lucky we’d been at the cop shop. “I don’t think Perazon and Georges fingers would fit in the trigger guard.” He snorted. “Besides, everything at the scene was very tidy. Even the way the killer laid the tube of superglue right above the file folder. Let’s face it, men aren’t that neat.”

Thinkin’ about my apartment, I swallowed hard to keep from laughin’. I’ve been accused of lots of stuff in my life, but neat ain’t one of them. “You’re fishin’.”

He opened his mouth just as his radio crackled. Most folks don’t understand that garbled junk, but I’ve listened often enough to get it as good as the cops do.

He mumbled into the radio then turned back to me. “That’s all for now, but I’ll be back. When I return, I’ll have a set of handcuffs with your name on them.”

“Seriously? Hallucinate much?”

His jaw tightened so hard I thought he was gonna bust a tooth then he spun and hurried down the stairs.

Georges and me had dinner at his house that night. I told him about Simon’s visit.

“Hmmph!” Georges grunted at me. “He was over here earlier. Told me he heard I’d threatened McMurphy.” Georges wiped the clean stove top for the fifth time. “I told him threats go with the territory.” Neatly foldin’ the dish towel into three perfect sections, he hung it over the towel rack next to the cupboards.

***

It’d been a year since Irma’s dyin’. Word on the street had it that the police stuck McMurphy’s murder in the unsolved files along with a jillion others.

The day I heard that, me and Georges went over to Italio Ristorante. It’s got good food and decent prices. Irma’d brought me and Georges here when me and him hit thirty days sober. I could still see Irma’s big smile.

Now, we toasted Irma’s life with a couple of pots of coffee, the way most sober drunks celebrate. In the candlelight, I looked across at the man who’d took me in off the cold streets of Seattle back when I was a skinny twelve-year old kid. “Georges?”

“Hmm?” He replied as he refolded the linen napkin, placing it precisely next to his empty plate.

“You figgered out McMurphy’s murder?”

He shrugged. “Can’t resist a puzzle.”

“Can’t be a private dick, but it don’t stop you from pokin’ and pryin’.” I sighed and leaned back in my chair. “Okay. Who did it?”

A slow smile spread across Georges’ lips. “Who do you think?”

I pursed my lips. “We all hated the bastard. Wasn’t me. Don’t think you would’ve done it either. Might’ve wanted to, but since it wouldn’t bring Irma back, you wouldn’t.

“Carol was pretty friendly with Irma, and if she used a pillow to muffled the report of the gun…” I snuck a look from beneath my lidded eyes. Not too many folks could read Georges, but I knew from the smug look on his face that I hadn’t hit it even close. Tossing my napkin on the table beside my cup, I crossed my arms and stared over at Georges. “Don’t tell me Ray did somethin’ for someone besides himself.”

“No. Ray Perazon loves Ray Perazon too much to risk a prison sentence for an old woman, even if she did treat him like a normal person instead of like the slime he is.”

“That just leaves Rita Anders and that little tax man…what was his name, again?”

“Richard Semafore.”

“Rita’s too tiny and there’s no way mouse man would take on a rat, especially not one who could ruin him like McMurphy could. Hell, he hardly spoke a word during group.”

Georges tilted his big head, his long single braid swaying to one side. “Funny how love can give a mouse great courage.”

“Seriously? No way. He hardly looked at Irma during group. I’d think a man who was in love with a woman would at least steal a glance or two.”

“He wasn’t in love with Irma.”

Brows wrinkled, I took a long drink of coffee. “If he wasn’t in love with Irma, where does love come into this?”

“There are a lot of different kinds of love, Sal,” he reminded me quietly.

Heat flooded my cheeks. I hated talkin’ ‘bout love. The closest I’d ever come to talkin’ ‘bout it was when I got drunk one night and tried to jump Georges’ bones. He’d gently pushed me away and made me suffer through a talk ‘bout how he didn’t love me like that, but like a brother. Like a brother….

I raised my eyes to Georges’ black ones as Irma’s smiling face rushed into my mind and the mouse man’s slowly came into focus next to Irma’s. “No way. They would never have put a brother and sister in the same group.” I shook my head. “Even if they did, no way mouse man had a gun, much less knew what to do with one. He was white collar DUI.”

“He didn’t own a gun, but Perazon owned an untraceable belly gun.”

A belly gun, or better known as a .22 two-shot derringer. “You just said Perazon didn’t kill McMurphy. He sure as hell wouldn’t have loaned the mouse his pistol.”

“Not knowingly.”

“Then how did mouse man get it?” I leaned forward, forearms propped on the white linen tablecloth, voice lowered.

“Carol lifted it.”

“Uh-uh. Ain’t buyin’ that. Perazon didn’t like Carol well enough to have her over at his house and she ain’t the B & E type.”

“But she is the party type.” A hint of a grin twitched the corners of Georges’ mouth.

“Why would Perazon be partyin’ with Carol? For god’s sake, she’s lesbian.”

“Rita is straight.”

I drummed my fingers on the table as I stared at him. “Are you sayin’ Rita got Carol the invite to a party at Perazon’s place?”

“Bingo.” He pointed a finger my way.

“So in the middle of a party, Carol walks out with the gun? How’d she know where it was? And where’d she get the tits to be that bold?”

“Rita and Perazon had a thing going.”

“You sayin’ Rita told her and then distracted Perazon so Carol could get it?”

When Georges didn’t say nothin’ I knew I was close, but no gold ring yet. “What am I missin’?”

“Just because Carol stole the gun, doesn’t necessarily make her culpable of murder.”

I huffed a breath and threw my hands up. “First you make me think Carol shot the bastard and now you’re sayin’ she didn’t. You’re insistin’ mouse man did it.”

“I’m saying that Richard Semafore pulled the trigger, but was he solely responsible for the murder?”

I frowned. “If he pulled the trigger, sure.”

“What about the pillow?”

I shrugged Georges question away. “He needed to keep the noise down, so he grabbed a throw pillow and….” There hadn’t been no throw pillows in McMurphy’s office.

“I talked to a friend in the Department.”

“Only you would have a cop for a friend,” I snorted. “What did your friend tell you?”

“She said that the throw pillow was embroidered with part of the Serenity Prayer.”

“So? That prayer’s smeared across everything from coffee cups to bed sheets.”

“Want to hear what part of it was embroidered on that pillow?”

Something in Georges’ voice perked my ears right up. “Yeah.”

“Courage to change the things we can.”

My jaw dropped a bit before I recovered my cool. “That’s what you said that day….the day right after Irma died.”

Georges’ deep chuckle rippled across the table. “No, I didn’t off McMurphy.”

I let the impossible thoughts roiling in my mind like a pot on full boil simmer down. “Perazon’s gun. Rita’s pillow?”

“Good.”

“How does mouse man fit in this picture?”

He picked up the fragile china cup in his big hand and took a dainty sip then carefully replaced it on the saucer. “I wondered about that, too.”

“And?” I nearly shouted with impatience, but at the last minute shifted in my chair instead.

“Some skills learned as a young man come in quite handy, especially for solving puzzles.”

“You didn’t!” I felt a bit sick to my stomach. “You made me promise not to B & E!”

“Your path is different than mine, Sal.” He gave me a tiny grin. “Besides, I only use my special skills for special cases. Even working as an investigator for a private dick now there aren’t too many special cases, but Irma was our friend.”

Georges didn’t never let his friends down.  I swallowed my fear for him. Person couldn’t live worryin’ ‘bout what might happen. “What did you find?”

“Old school papers. Pictures of a boy and a girl. Neither of them changed very much over the years. The girl was a few years older than the boy.” He dropped his eyes, carefully centered his cup on its saucer though it was already perfectly centered.

Brows wrinkled, I tried to make sense of what he was sayin’. Finally, I shook my head. “Sorry, but I seem to be kinda dense.”

“I found Irma’s diary as well as her photo album. Semafore was Irma’s half-brother. When their parents died, she was nine and he was seven. They were sent to different foster homes. After a while, Irma lost track of Semafore. They only rediscovered each other in treatment.”

“Why didn’t the cops find Irma’s diary?”

“You know how cops are–always a day late.” Georges gave me a long look.

The End

Did you enjoy this story? Would love to hear. Don’t miss future stories and other interesting posts. CLICK and FOLLOW. Be sure to drop by facebook and say hello, browse through the many interesting posts there. https://www.facebook.com/aya.walksfar   Aya’s fan page has the latest updates on current and future novels: https://www.facebook.com/AyaWalksfarAuthor   Drop a LIKE and become a FAN. Look forward to seeing you there!

 

WHAT WERE THE CHILDREN DOING?

WHAT WERE THE CHILDREN DOING?

During most disasters children are secluded from the harsh realities as well as possible.

On March 22, 2014, 10:47 a.m., the Highway 530 Mudslide swallowed the tiny community of Hazel.

Shortly after the slide hit, those people living EAST of the slide responded.

During the grueling day as hope flared then dwindled, the people from the small town of Darrington and the surrounding area east of the mudslide, labored to rescue those trapped.

What were the children doing?

Whatever was needed! Our young people immediately responded to the disaster.

Some joined the adults on the debris field, rescuing survivors.

Some worked at the Community Center preparing a hot meal for those slogging through the mud slurry and for the stunned and devastated city of Darrington and the surrounding area.

The next day and for many days thereafter, our youth continued their heroic efforts:

They packed lunches, sometimes hundreds of lunches

Helped prepare meals and then helped to serve them

Wrapped utensils to be used during meals

Worked on the debris field

Did welfare checks on older citizens

Cleaned houses for volunteers and displaced families to stay in

Unloaded trucks of donations

Shelved those donations

Delivered food and other necessities to families

Swept floors

Helped affected families move into temporary homes

Raised money and donated it to the victims

Washed fire trucks

Helped with animal care and animal food distribution

Wrote and performed a song of hope and strength for the people of Darrington

Drummed and “laid a blanket” ( a Native American ceremony performed by the Sauk-Suiattle People) for donations for the affected families

Did whatever was asked of them without complaint

How do I know this? I was the Darrington Volunteer Registrar during the disaster. Some of our youth worked as many as 15 hours a day, day-after-day. In the end, our young people donated over 3,000 hours of effort. And these are only the youth I know about! Many others worked but never registered with me.

Are we proud of our youth?

You betcha!

Our young people, ranging in age from Cub Scouts to seniors in high school, ARE the

DARRINGTON DO-ERS!

Thanks to all of them the recovery efforts were supported. Tired and disheartened and grief-stricken people received food, shelter, and other types of assistance as well as a renewal of hope.

These young people rock!

Do you have a story of young people who rock? Would love to hear it! Leave a comment!

Click and follow so you don’t miss future posts!

 

 

 

AN UNEXPECTED HONOR

The Lighthouse Award

I’d like to thank #AllisonBruning at  http://www.allisonbruning.blogspot.com for nominating me for The Lighthouse Award. Never heard of it, but love what it stands for: #bloggers who like to help people! It always feels so good to be recognized.

There are gifts given to every person. How we use those gifts determines what kind of human we become. Writing is one of my gifts. For me, writing is about helping others: it provides mental relaxation, adds to knowledge, highlights important issues, provides role models and most of all, gives us hope.

Another gift is my love for Mother Earth. In 1996, my wife and I purchased 12 acres of abused farmland that we named Wild Haven. What had once been forested wetlands had fifty or so years before been logged, the pathways of water changed and made into farmland. The farmland was then abused by overuse and negligence. By the time we bought it invasive weeds controlled eleven acres of the 12. Bodies of dead animals and birds lay scattered like discarded rubbish. The people that had owned it loved to kill, not to eat but to destroy. Not even a bird flew over the land until our medicine man came and cleansed it. The first bird to return was a hummingbird. Now we host 68 different species of birds over the course of a year’s time as well as a number of mammals such as coyote, fox, rabbit, possum, raccoon, deer, an occasional cougar, and a black bear who loves our fall apples. Three species of salmon now call our creek a pathway to spawning grounds. In 2001 the National Wildlife Federation certified our farm was Wildlife Habitat. In 2002, we have won a county award for Wildlife Farm of the Year. In 2003, we won the Washington State Award for #Wildlife Small Farm of the Year. #Conservation is the gift we give to the generations yet to come. What kind of world will we hand on?

Gnarly apple tree To see more photos of Wild Haven, go to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar  Look at Jaz Wheeler’s Farm board.

The third gift I have been graced with is the ability to look at writing of others and see where I can suggest changes that will make it stronger, clearer. I don’t do the polish editing like my wonderful editor, Lee Hargroder Porche, but what I call developmental editing. I help clarify timelines, pick up on dialog that isn’t realistic and other details that can make an author’s work a bit more real.

The Lighthouse Award requires that a blogger:

• Display the Award Certificate on your blog.
• Write a post and link back to the blogger that nominated you.
• Inform your nominees of their award nominations.
• Share three ways that you like to help others.
• Nominate as many bloggers as you like.
When I think about all the people who #blog and who make helping others a large part of their lives, there are too many to list. But here are some that I nominate for The Lighthouse Award:
#RubyStandingDeer at http://www.rubystandingdeer.com  whose Native American series is a spiritual journey
#ErikaSzabo at  http://www.authorerikamszabo.com who tirelessly worked to bring to us the Read for Animals book and event
#WiseandWildWomen at http://wildandwisewomen.com whose entire goal is the uplifting of women
#JenWilliams at with http://myraysoflight.wordpress.com who constantly brings forth issues we need to consider
#JumbledWriter at  http://www.jumbledwriter.com whose blog and subjects are all about conversations that help people consider timely issues
Please visit these wonderful blogs. You’ll be glad that you did! Be sure to CLICK and FOLLOW so you don’t miss new posts!
To share in the conversations, join Aya on http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar
To check out Aya’s latest works go to http://www.facebook.com/AyaWalksfarAuthor
To see some really cool photos click over to http://www.pinterest.com/ayawalksfar