The Warmth

I know Winter’s reign has ended, but here in Michigan Spring is still a weak young thing, and it’s cold and brown all around. So I’ve been wanting to snuggle up, and listen to the crackle of a fireplace. If “the hearth is the heart of the home,” then perhaps if I had hearths like these to work with then they’d also provide the pounding rhythm of a fascinating tale.

An incredible fireplace that evokes both fire and water in its wave of stone.  Created by Eckerman Studios

An incredible fireplace that evokes both fire and water in its wave of stone.
Created by Eckerman Studios

A rustic hearth awaits the return of the Hedge Witch. Photo from Panda Country Primitives

A rustic hearth awaits the return of the Hedge Witch.
Photo from Panda Country Primitives

Warm and cozy, awaiting a simple romance.

Warm and cozy, awaiting a simple romance.

Round and weighted, a warm fire for an old Magician.

Round and weighted, a warm fire for an old Magician. Created by Standout Fireplace Designs

Zen and organic. A Master will sit long and contemplate these mysteries. Photo via Fine Homebuilding

Zen and organic. A Master will sit long and contemplate these mysteries.
Photo via Fine Homebuilding

Published in: on March 24, 2015 at 11:45 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , ,

The Kitten Story of Kit Katticus the White Delight el Gordito

This is a true story, based on actual events, witnessed through a dream and a haze.

On the last night of winter, tipping into spring first thing in the morning, I cuddled into bed under my sheets and blankets and tucked my head gratefully onto the pillow. I was tired. The bed jostled mightily, and up strolled to my face our most fiesty kitty, Kit Kat White. He who has many names; Kit Kat, Katticus, Kit Kat White You Fuck!

Rescued four years ago, almost to this exact day, he has a secret side only Husbando or I ever witness. In bed, under cover of shadows and on the cusp of dreaming, Kit Kat is a stealth snuggler. And he purrs with the roar of a diesel engine.

And that was his mission on the Eve of Ostara, to cram his plump furry body against mine, tucked half under the blankets where he had wiggled himself in against my side, and demand in a mighty purr that I scratch just between his ears and along the side of his neck, but nowhere else on fear of biting and leaving indignantly. I chuckled sleepily and complied with his demands, and I was so content, in my deep fluffy blankets and spooning my warm rumbling cat.

This was all very normal of the evening, even though it was a closely guarded secret in the day. His dignity and reputation for grand trouble making couldn’t hold up in the daylight if anyone else knew his secret cuddle dalliances. But then it all got very weird.

Looking into half lidded slitted cat eyes, I felt like I began to drift away. Still petting the cat, still looking around the bedroom with a tiny sleepy smile, I began to hear and see something else. And so my most mischievous fur child revealed to me, in many fuzzy cottonball memories The Kitten Story of Kit Katticus the White Delight el Gordito.

It began with the milk scented dreams of Mother, and that was how we knew her because she smelled like Mothers should and we loved her the most in the whole world at that time. There was surely a Father, who had been there during her time of season, but we’d never met him and didn’t feel a care to.  Then there were memories of our first rivals, which were occasionally siblings when we were very tired and a little cold and wanted to cram into a pile for warmth, but mostly had to be pushed away from Mother so that we could have more milk. There were three, or six, or eight rivals, too many in any case because we wanted more of Mother to ourselves. Some were more adoring kittens, some more dignified, and one was a very timid and shy kitten, but we were a fiend. We grew and became rambunctious. We tumbled and grappled and had no qualms about biting and hissing. We were a tiny chubby terror, and we felt Mother’s distinct pleasure that we should be so; a very catty cat indeed. When she groomed us, which was wonderful and annoying all at once, she would purr in a bed shaking grumble that we would choose to imitate as we grew older, and we would feel her love of our antics. We could always detect upon her many whiskered face a clever cat grin, so pleased that she had spawned such a brat cat as us.

The final memory shared was a sad one, full of cold  and mistrust, as Kit Kat White was taken away from Mother, much too soon, and too little, despite how unruly and independent he may have behaved. Luckily cat sadness swiftly passes, since cat’s have better thoughts to be having. Many about eating and destroying.

But as I drifted just a little past the hazy half thoughts we were sharing into real sleep he sent one last contented memory feeling my way. That despite how he was in the daylight, the bane of our other two cat’s existence, sometimes when he was very tired and a little cold and wanted to cram into a pile for warmth, he loved us most in the whole world, and that right now I smelled just like Mothers should.

Keeping a sharp eye

Keeping a sharp eye

Published in: on March 22, 2015 at 9:08 am  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , , , ,

The Writing Device

This afternoon my Husbando witnessed my epic struggle to hold my writing pad up so that I could read it while I transcribed the story into my computer program. I’ve gone back to pen and paper writing because it removes all of the procrastination temptations of the computer, but it leaves me with the onerous job of re-writing everything in order to get it entered into the PC. I usually manage to convince myself that this is all for the best since it affords me an opportunity for passive editing as I’m entering in the initial rough draft.

But it was becoming increasingly frustrating, since I couldn’t find a way to keep the paper at an angle I could both read and type with.

Enter my clever Husbando’s portable writing transcribing device!




Why yes Madam, that is a fine use of our otherwise underutilized telescope!

Someone To Come Home To

So awhile back when  I was feeling really blue about life, and writing in particular, my wonderful Husbando took to using writing prompts as a way to cheer me up. They were very clever, and I’m pretty sure several of the story snippets they produced were entirely unlike whatever he may have expected from me. I’m going to share a couple of them in the next few posts, although  I promise the racy ones are going to stay just between he and I.

From December 14th, 2011 –

(The original prompt for the story is in italics.)

The first time I saw Betsy it was the spring of 1870. The war had taken my foot, but not my leg; and my pride but not my heart. My farm survived; the barn and house still standing save for a few bullet holes. I lived in  isolation for a long time nursing my wounded pride far more than I needed to nurse my wounded leg.

But Betsy would change everything.

It was a very mild May morning when I happened to screw up the courage to face the village folk and travel into town for some supplies. Despite the loss of my foot I still kept chickens and goats on the farm, but I’d sold my milk cows right after I’d returned from fighting. So now if I wanted milk or butter that wasn’t as gamey as that from the nanny goats I had to  get to town.

At the midday market I was standing in the farmer’s stall next to the baker’s and kitty corner the tanner’s when I saw her. Betsy. She wasn’t beautiful. Not then and not too soon after, but something about her caught and held my eye.

I left the farmers stand as quickly as I could and headed over to the tanner. At first I just stopped and took her in. Big brown eyes full of a woeful sadness, and skin much too tight on the bones. She looked to have been suffering a lean time of it lately. I couldn’t help myself, my hand halfway to her cheek before I stopped and stammered.

“Tanner, what’s your price on this heifer? I ain’t never see un like her.”

“She’s not for sale Rodney. I have her on to slaughter and prep the hide for ladies shoes.”

I gaped at him. “Surely not. Not a rare cow like dis.”

“Fraid so.  That light tan hide makes right fine shoes. Very delicate says the cobbler.”

“Now why would you use such a pretty milk cow so soon? Dem udders look like they be mighty productive once she calves!” I was looking for any excuse to keep the tanner from murdering my beloved new friend. By now not only had my one hand found its way onto her cheek, but the second was soothing up and down the soft warmth of her neck.

– Attempts at accents are always an interesting trick to me. I’m not sure I’ve gotten his right, but I love to read a character who has a distinct dialect or manner of speaking. Writing it may be tricky, but I think it can really pay off if the author gets it correct.

Published in: on March 18, 2015 at 11:04 am  Comments (2)  
Tags: , , , , ,

My Kind Adventure

I’m hoping for a kind adventure.

A grand adventure devours your life, wreaking havoc and leaving something utterly new in the after math.

I’m asking for a gentler adventure, one that just wants to borrow me for a bit. Go on a nice life vacation; laugh a bit, grow a little.

Nothing disastrous.

Published in: on March 14, 2015 at 3:41 pm  Leave a Comment  
Tags: , ,