Spring Time

Spring Time

 “When its spring time in the Rockies I’ll be coming back to you, little sweet heart of the mountains with your bonnie eyes of blue.”

 Every day the familiar sound of an off-key whistler wakes my morning. I greet him with a kicker, knowing some fresh hay and a scratch is coming my way. Later he will take me from my stall, brush the dust from my hair, running his rough calloused hands down the full length of my body checking for sore spots. His voice is low and in a whisper.

 “It’s chilly out this morning he says.” I take in a deep breath pursing my lips... I let it out forcefully tossing my head. He smiles “Yep girl I hate it too, but its gotta be done.”

  When we were younger his step was sure, his movements were fast and unpredictable, but as with all things, time ages and we slow down. He’s not in as big of a rush to be anywhere special. His steps are laboured now, as are mine.

 The stall door seems to ache as do I this cold morning, its hinges creek and groan. “You haven’t eaten your drank.” He says as his head leans into my gut, his ear pressed tightly to my body. I turn my head and I meet his gaze. “Hang in there girl.” He says running his hand under my belly, “I’ll be right back.”

 Once again the hinges squeak. His shambling step quickens out of the barn. My legs are growing tired, my breaths are shallow. My thoughts wander back to a much more tranquil time, when the snow was on the mountain tops and we were in the sun drenched valley. Riding on the wind, I would feel the chill of the air nip at my nostrils I would be aware of his hips, shoulders and legs guiding me to our target. A small new born calf barely alive, he dismounts, kneels at its side, his hands feel for life. His knowledge of what to do is swift. He grabs the snout and places his mouth around it. He begins to take deep breaths giving the young one a few more moments of life. I see a trickle of water from the corner of his eye as he rises and approaches my side. “Don’t worry girl I just gotta bit of dust in my eye.” He says reaching for his gun. I startle from the blast but I’m stead fast for my human.

  We ride hard and fast to erase the memory of the morning checking the rest of the heard. Soon the cool morning air would heat from the sun and we stop by the creek. I will drink and graze and he pulls a slice of bread from his bags, he lies under a tree and in silence we drink in the beauty that has been provides for us. Soon I hear the rumbling snore as he takes his breath in sleep. I caulk my hind leg and I to close my eyes.

  Soon he wakes, and it’s time to go. With miles of fence line to check we amble through the jagged rocks of the foothills; one mile turns into another until he stops. Under his breath he mutters, “shit: we just fix that line yesterday.” For the next half hour I will stand for him swishing my tale to keep the flies from my back, I can graze and I watch his experienced hands twist the wire back into one and we move on to the next downed line. Our week is routine and almost boring, but it is where we are both free. For when the weekend comes is when this team rises to the challenge of a roping event showing off our skills. He is proud of me and a few well placed bets buy a round of drinks at his favourite watering hole.

  My legs are tired and my gut aches. I can no long stand and I fall to my front knees then to my side. I stretch my neck long trying to ease the pain, but it doesn’t come. His hurried footsteps reach the stall and again the hinges wines. “Awe girl don’t come on ya gotta get up.” He pulls and grunts. I hear the frustration in his voice. “Get up you stupid thing. Damn it get up.” I blow a breath as he slides his back down the wall. I feel his legs come under my head his hand runs the full length of my jaw.

“It’s ok girl.” He whispers. “I have some help coming, “just hold on.”

 My eyes meet his and the dust from the air is making both of his eyes water, and he begins to hum his song. He opens his mouth to sing the words and he chokes. “When it’s spring time in the Rockies I’ll be coming back to you.”

 I close my eye and the pain is gone.

Is He GoneYet

Is He Gone Yet?

By Janet Hall-Gilbert

Feb.8^th 2013-02-08

  Everyone at one time or another has had a person in their lives…. Well let’s just say you would rather be consumed by a boiling kettle of pig’s oil than to have to be in the same room with them. Other names come to mind such as wacko, monster in the closet, or Uncle Tom.

  I have changed the name to hide the identity of this person; (not). Uncle Tom was probably not a bad character and he likely had friends, or at least some people that would tolerate him long enough to say hello. Just not this person. (Which of course, means me :)

  It’s customary in all families to get together for annual fisticuffs. Mine was no different. The problem in my family is that my mother’s side just happened to have the most wackos. Not that they were murderers or child molesters… but few could have won an Oscar just for their costume design.

  Sundays would be the day that I was made to put on a smile, and wear that ugly dress that had so much lacy stuff and starch in it. That when I walked, I sounded like a hammer whacking a two by four when ever my knees hit the front of it.

  We would load up the car with some concoction that Mother had made for potluck at Granny’s. Then head out, pickup Uncle Tom, for a fun filled afternoon with the family. (God I hated those days.) One time I remember this very clearly because I received a red butt for it. Tom had decided to ride in the backseat with my brother and I. Of course there are four doors on a vehicle and he would have to pick mine. My mouth began to open in protest, when my eye caught the… don’t you dare say a word and move over look. His pants were caked with three weeks of dirt that had dried and cracked. So when he slid across the seat touching the over starched skirt, his pants split a hole in it from the waist to the hem. The rip was loud to the point of deafening my ears. Mother spun around in a complete circle, her eyes a bright red glow. I slunk down in my seat, thinking of the lash I would get once the car stopped. I hated that dress and she knew it. Oh how many times she had told me “Ladies don’t slide across their butts. They gently rise and skooch over keeping things neat and tidy as not to show off their knees. 

  Tom was always the center of attention at the supper table, not that he was a great conversationalist, because a well placed grunt was the most I ever heard him say and for this story’s sake let’s just say he lack a lot of social graces.

  His un-kempt waist long beard was a nest of hidden caverns of last week’s meals, a few drippings of chewing tobacco that the wind had carried back in his face. He could not grasp that spitting into the wind was not such a great idea. I often wondered if he peed into the wind as well or maybe he just didn’t change his underwear that often. For sometimes he had that outdoorsy bathroom smell.

  Well enough of his smell and back to his beard, I swear that on more than one occasion, something moved inside of there and I’m sure it was a mouse, maybe a rat, but I had been informed by my brother that we lived in a rat free province so my eyes were seeing an optical illusion, and if there was anything alive in there it would meet its demise once the hot ladle of gravy hit it.

  He never talked much, and understanding him was more of a lesson in learning a new language. Along with the language lesson was a course that was a mandatory requirement, you had to learn what I call the duck and wipe. For his toothless mouth had deadly accuracy, from fifty feet away he could launch a chunk of turnip into the pupil of your eye, followed by a barrage of spit that would sprinkle your face like a round of buck shot on a carefully aimed target. I should know. I had, on more than one occasion, been carefully placed across the table directly in the path of the volleying onslaught of food.

 “Take one for the team sis,” my brother would say.

  Mom would smile at me giving me a look of love, and sympathy, kissing me on the top of my head. Then looking my brother in the eye, taking a deep breath she would say. “For that comment my dear young man you just earned you a spot next to him at the table.”

  We all knew that meant you were heading into the Mustard Zone. A silent but deadly gas would fill the room at least once during the meal. I got good at reading his body. Calculating the time it would take to reach my side of the table by the way he would adjust himself on his chair. If he adjusted himself to the right, it would take two people to go through before it reached me, but if he lifted his left leg I would have time to call in the fan unit. That was Granny’s job. She had strategically placed it with in arms reach so when she switched it on high the gale force winds would carry the deadly gas into the direct path of my brother nailing him with both barrels so to speak.

  As I got older it wasn't a mandatory thing that we attend all the family gatherings and when I did, I would make sure I packed something that would resemble homework, and  would be excused from eating at the big table so I could spread my things out to study. For don’t you know an education was a highly valued thing and my parents should be proud that I would be such a diligent child with my studies. (I wish we had laptops and facebook back then.)

  By the time I had reached my twenties I was engulfed with my own path in life and Uncle Tom was but a memory. Until one day an urgent plea came from my Mother. Uncle Tom was succumbing to old age. Since Granny passed Sunday supper was not frequently celebrated, and Tom was placed in a home. She needed to be by his side…my father had become hermit or shell shocked by my mother’s family. He would hide in the bathroom grunting so loud that a neighbour had called the police thinking he was having a heart attack. When they arrived Mom told the officer that he was having a prostate problem and would be just fine as soon as he rubbed a bit off. I often wonder if she knew what she had told them. Anyway she needed a ride to the hospital to say her goodbyes. After a few long uncomfortable minutes of making excuses and feeling guilty I obliged.

 When I saw him for the first time I must say I was pretty impressed. I was looking for this frail old man, with sunken eyes fallen cheek bones, ya’ll know someone that looks like a good round of embalming fluid would do him some good. But he wasn't… his cheeks were full, his beard had been unmatted and as far as his eyes went I had never paid too much attention to them so I couldn't tell you if they were green, black or brown, but they were open staring at the ceiling moving side to side as if he were counting the holes in the tiles.

 I watched my mother take his hand. She nodded for me to come be by her side. Not the place I wanted to be, I was quite comfortable leaning up against the door frame. I was fine where I was.  Why is it that mothers can guilt you into do something just by looking at you? So I moved to the other side of the bed. Uncle Tom’s eyes zoned in on me, he smiled, his mouth moved to speak, I calculated which way to duck. Then I noticed the dentures.

 “Shit this is gonna hurt.” I thought. He drew in a deep breath, held it then letting it out slowly until nothing was left. With his mouth now an open cavern, as life crept away. The room eerily silent. My eyes fixated on his face. I watched the upper plate of his dentures slip slowly from his gums… clacking when it met the bottom plate, echoing throughout the room. I looked at my mother a tear trickled from the corner of her eye. I wrestled with my thoughts Then decided I to ask. “Is he gone yet?”