The Making of a Once-Leaf

I am not sure where the clouds came from or when the weather changed. My drive home was blessedly shorter than usual, the sun bright over the mountains, the afternoon heat holding steady but somehow lovely blowing through my open windows. It was a leisurely drive and I was looking forward to getting home to Roo, to walk down The Wrangle to the small enclosed dog park at the end of the property. School has started and the Soccer Hoards have invaded our park again, which means no more chasing the ball until after the sun has set, quiet has reclaimed the land and they have retreated back into their caves. The Wrangle, though, is a quiet spot, small but shady, cool with long grass and well protected from the evening heat. We do not go there often, especially in the summer, when we have the wide open fields of the park to run across, so it's sometimes a treat to sit on the lone bench and watch Duncan be a dog without my interference.

On our way down the sloped hillside of The Wrangle, under the twisted pine which bends over the path, forming a sort of arched doorway, a sweet-smelling wind picked up, shaking the leaves of the Elms and Ash above us, obscuring the sky. The temperature dropped quickly and as the clouds moved in, the hillside turned dark, the kind of light that changes the world from color to black and white. The trees and shrubs and grass lost their green, became silhouettes of themselves against the grey above and behind them.

 

We stood a moment feeling as Dorothy must have after departing the dazzle of Oz and finding herself back in the black and white sepia of Kansas, all color gone, with only the safety of home and family to comfort her. And then a curious thing happened. A single shaft of brilliant gold penetrated the glade at the exact moment a lone and tumbling leaf toppled from a bough above. It had belonged to an elm, which are always the first to give in, changing and falling long before the others decide the time has come. As it spun earthward, its shape bending the air around it, fluttering and spinning as it went, the wind shifted direction and quieted, rose from below as if exhaled from the damp, dark earth, caught the leaf and suspended it mere feet from where I stood and watched. It hovered a moment then dropped suddenly, reeling in circles, then was lifted up again, bobbing before my eyes, a splendid nugget of color in the bland wash of evening. Duncan leapt up, pulling gently on his leash, his tail dancing behind him as he attempted to catch it. The breeze played with us, bouncing the leaf just above his nose and smiling face, pulling it up, up and out of his reach, then dropping it again. Duncan barked softly at it and chased it as the wind whipped it away, pulling it over the grassy slope, its fluttering gold fierce and defiant in the dimness around us, back under the bent pine and toward a narrow clearing where it hung a moment longer then dropped silently and without spectacle to the moist bed of grass below.

This is how Autumn begins. This is how Once-Leaves are born. It shone brightly a moment longer, and then as the sun was pulled behind the mountains, the gold of its life faded and silence claimed it. Roo sniffed at it once, pondered its sudden stillness and then moved on, pulling me after him.

Waiting in the Window

I cannot count the mornings I have kissed each of the children on the head before heading out the door and off to work. Typically Winnie sits perched on the sill looking out on the birds in the Linden while Pip and Olive stretch out on the big pillows thrown across the head of the bed. Duncan often lays in front of the door and looks dejected and sad, especially after a weekend of long walks in the park, early mornings playing in The Glen or exploring The Wrangle. After I am gone, locking the door and descending the thirty-seven steps to the parking lot I can find him in the window looking down on me, his eyebrows raised and his head cocked quizzically. Many times, with a paw resting against the glass, he looks so broken-hearted I've climbed the stairs and returned just to give him one extra hug and a pep talk to get him through the day, whispering promises of bunnies and games of fetch, treats and belly rubs when I return.

This morning while I poured a cup of tea in the kitchen I watched as Ken gathered his things and left for work, kissing each of the cats and pausing in the door to scratch Duncan's chin before he went. "You be good," he said and was gone. Duncan turned and wandered down the hall to the bedroom window where he stood in the morning sunshine and waited for his dad to appear at the bottom of the stairs. Ken, unaware that I was there, turned and looked up at the window, waved at Roo and climbed into his truck. Dunc's tail thumped happily three or four times while he waited for the truck to back out, drive down the parking lot and turn the corner. Once Ken was gone he sighed softly and climbed into his bed, his chin perched on the edge of his pillow, his eyes looking out on the sky on the other side of the glass, as though counting the minutes until the far side of this day when we'll both come back home to him.

Forgiveness

It was not a good night for Duncan and for most of it, after the terror that ignited his eyes and while I laid curled around him in his kennel, his heart beating rapidly and his whole body quivering, I felt like the worst papa in the world.

The City of Littleton has an odd way of celebrating Independence Day in that they never actually do it on July 4th. This year our festivities fell on the 1st, so around 8:30 I gave Duncan a dose of his Tranquility Blend calming drops and waited for them to kick in. After the sun had set and the last of the day's light turned into clear, cool darkness, I asked if he was ready to venture out. Several years ago, our first Fourth of July here, Melissa and Kona invited Roo and I to tag along to the park across the street where they shoot off the fireworks. Duncan did relatively well and I figured that this year would be the same. We crossed Bowles and trudged across the street, staying well away from the masses which had gathered on the upper level of the park overlooking the lake and the mountains. I told him, "Tell me when you want to leave, okay? No questions asked, we'll just go." So we found a nice quiet spot, hunkered down together, rolled in the grass and had a peaceful time laying near each other, the stars shining down, the air sweet with Lindens.

Until the first rocket went off.

Almost immediately he crawled into my lap, resting his head on my shoulder and panting in my ear. I patted his back like a parent burping a baby and whispered in his ear. A moment later the second rocket exploded, painting the night in orange and purple, reflecting off the faces of every person sitting around us. The boom that followed was tremendous. While everyone began to clap and children danced and shouted in delight, Duncan pressed his head against my chest, whined, and pressed harder, using his back legs to force himself against me, as though attempting to push himself into me, to crawl inside my body and hide. "Duncan," I said. "Do you want to go?"

It was all he needed. He bolted away, his leash yanking my arm up and back behind me, turning it brutally in its socket. Before I could climb to my feet he took off running, the force of his panic pulling me onto my back where he dragged me for ten feet. I scrambled to turn over and stand up but he kept running and running, the sound of his breath loud and deep, frantic and more than just startled but absolutely terrified. And he stayed that way as we ran together as fast as we could through the crowds to the edge of the park, across the street, through the parking-lot and up three flights of stairs. No sooner had I opened the door and removed his leash than he darted down the hall, into my room and into his kennel where he turned his back to the window and shook almost violently. But the rockets, which I could see through the window, were bright, illuminating the room, and loud enough that we both felt their concussions in our chests. On and on it went. Just before the grand finale I climbed all the way in with him, curled around him and rested my head against his, covered his ears with my hands and hummed to him softly, hoping the vibration of the sound in my chest would somehow soothe him. It took over an hour before his breathing slowed and calmed but he refused to leave the softness of his bed and the quilt my mother made for him for Christmas two years ago. I felt terrible and kept whispering in his ear, "I'm so sorry. I'll make it up to you. I'm so, so sorry, Roo. Please forgive me." He licked my face once then hid among the pillows again.

He was reluctant to venture out this morning on our first walk of the day. He was fine strolling through The Wrangle, but once we left its shaded path and crossed the street, he lowered his head and began to resist my pull on his leash. It was slow going, but with many treats and soft words, scritches behind his ears and determination we managed to get there. I removed his leash to let him run free but he stayed steadfastly by my side, not venturing far even when we approached the cool hillside where the bunnies herd up. He ambled along, looking up at me as though to make sure we were safe, and brushed against my calves almost constantly. And when it was finally time to turn back home for breakfast he was more than ready to go.

Ken was late getting out of bed but by the time he opened his eyes and lifted his head from the pillow I'd decided how to pull Duncan out of his funk. "Get up," I said. "We're taking Roo down to the river to swim." Not thirty minutes later we were packed and out the door, Duncan following close beside me. He'd lost a bit of his timidity and by the time we'd turned off the street and onto the side road, he was leaning a grinning face out the window and whining excitedly. Once the car was parked and we'd opened the doors, he practically dragged us down the path to the familiar beach where he and I have spent so many warm summer mornings and afternoons together.

It was Ken's first trip to the river with us and the morning could not have been more perfect. We followed the trail under the freeway and down into the cool shade of the forested riverbank, Duncan running far ahead of us through the tall, green reeds while Ken kept his eyes peeled for snakes. I marched happily along and a bit behind them, a smile spread across my face, thankful to be there, finally, with the two of them. 

We found our sandy shore and spent over an hour tossing the ball into the deep water for Roo to fetch. He soon forgot the trauma of the previous night and got lost in splashing and rolling in the sand, hiking his ball between his legs and behind him, and playing with the other dogs. And Ken quickly discovered the joy of Dunc refusing to shake the water off unless he's standing right next to someone, be it either us or a complete stranger. I was happy just to sit back and watch the two of them, the warm sun beating down on us, the birds singing from high above and all around.

Last night, falling asleep listening to the troubled breathing of my restless and nervous dog, I felt as though I had done irreparable harm to his spirit, that his trust and faith in me had diminished and that perhaps we would never be quite the same. I worried that there was nothing I could say, no words invented, that could restore the bond we had. This morning, watching the reflections of the river dapple off his incredible face while his dad looked on with a smile of contentment, I believe I did right by my dog, which is one of the most important things a man can do in this life.

The language of friendship is not words but meanings.

(Henry David Thoreau)

The Swarm

It started small, little more than a pancake-sized stain in the parking lot where Duncan and I walked this morning after a good game of fetch in the park. In fact, I didn't notice it until an hour later when I made a quick run to the market for milk for the blueberry pancakes I wanted to make for breakfast. By that time four big orange cones had been set up around it, which a small group of groundskeepers were redirecting traffic around. By then the pancake had grown bigger than a short-stack––beyond even a tall-stack. It no longer even resembled anything you could find on a breakfast plate. No, this was a tire-sized, undulating mass, brown and gold, and the air outside my window was filled with hovering bees, their gossamer wings translucent in the sun. By the time I returned ten minutes later there were two more equal-sized mounds on the pavement and the grounds crew had vanished entirely, leaving the bees and whomever happened by to fend for themselves.

With the exception of the swarms I saw on Creature Feature on Friday nights in my childhood, I have never seen so many bees in my life. I quickly rolled up my windows and slowed as I drove past, marveling at the size and sound and weight of the things. Like clouds the mounds continually changed shape, elongating into strange ovals, then growing taller, like an ant hill, then flattening back out into a thin, oil-stain shape. The air was thick with them and I could hear them bumping gently against the window and bouncing away.

Duncan and I stayed away for the remainder of the morning, but hours later, on our afternoon stroll down through The Wrangle, I paused, well out of the way, to investigate. There were no bees to be seen at all. The air was clear of those yellow-diamond wings, silent and still, and I worried that perhaps someone had called pest control and had them gassed. When I stopped by the leasing office to inquire, I was told they were honey bees which appeared out of nowhere and left as suddenly as they'd come. They'd been spotted down on the east end of the property last week and had vanished again. No exterminator had been summoned. Protected by law they'd been left alone, free to do as they wished. And this morning the only thing they wished to do was interrupt the flow of traffic out of our complex.

While many might see this as alarming, I take great comfort in it. On all my summer and spring walks with Duncan for the past two years I have seen hardy a bee, except for the wasps which sometimes lurk around my patio. This morning's display more than made up for it. It is a good thing that the bees have reappeared or recovered or returned or whatever it is they have done. They are a vital part of this world we live in and the disappearance of their colonies has been deeply troubling, not just to myself and the poets, but to scientists and farmers as well.

Their drone, muffled as it was behind the safety of my window, was music to my ears. This surely means there will be more flowers and fruit for our future walks, and magical yellow and black zeppelins whose work is a marvel and a mystery.

His labor is a chant,

his idleness a tune;

Oh, for a bee's experience

Of clovers and of noon!

(Emily Dickinson)

The Boy in the Window

Duncan and I were down on the far east side of the property, a shady, sloped place we haven't visited much in the three years we've lived here. 

 

It's a mostly quiet spot, protected from the noise of the traffic by an iron fence and a brick wall, a tall tree at its entrance that turns the color of fresh honey in October and not far past that a bent pine that arches over the path like a gate. I have dubbed it The Wrangle because when the grass is tall and wet walking through it can be like work, slipping and skidding down the hillside to the low shrubs that grow along the lower edge. The far end opens up on a small enclosed park where dogs can run and play and leave their markings on the Cottonwood and Linden trees which have grown up along the fence dividing our apartment complex from the golf course. Duncan loves it because there are more rabbits there than we can count. I love it because despite the concentration it takes to remain standing, especially in winter, it is blessedly free of dog poop. It is not a treacherous place but it is not easy to maneuver either.

Near the bottom, where the slope begins to level off and it's easier to walk, the path bends quite close to the apartments and quite often we can see into people's living rooms and bedrooms. In the evenings the smell of chicken and burgers grilling on the patios is carried on the breeze and sometimes the soft sound of music or TVs drift out the windows. The blinds are typically pulled shut during the day and we rarely see anyone.

This morning we worked our way down The Wrangle, Duncan pulling on his leash and sniffing out the bunnies. He pulled left, toward the apartments where he likes to stick his head under the shrubs into the darkness where the bunnies retreat when they spot him coming. It can take a long time to reach the park because the bunnies move through a bed of crisp, dried leaves, and their stirrings keep Dunc's attention firmly fixed on the shrubs rather than the park where he can play. So I tugged on his leash and coaxed him along with treats, keeping my eyes down low and away from windows in order to avoid violating the privacy of the tenants who reside mere feet away.

While standing and waiting for Roo, a movement from the corner of my eye caught my attention. When I looked up I found myself looking directly into the face of a small boy standing on the other side of a window pane not four feet from me. His skin was oddly pale, almost blue, and there was not a hair on his head. He wore a t-shirt and a blue hoodie zipped halfway up, his arms hanging limp at his sides. His eyes were dark with heavy circles under them but they did not move, remaining, instead, fixed on me. I smiled and pulled on Duncan's leash. When I looked back up half a second later the boy was gone. And even more strange was the fact that the apartment in which he'd been standing was completely empty, recently remodeled with the paint tape still fixed to the place where the walls and ceiling met. I blinked a couple of times and watched for signs of the child but saw no one. Goosebumps rose on my arms as I pulled Dunc away from the shrubs. The patio door blinds were open and even there I did not see the boy. He was gone, as though he'd never been there. Duncan looked inside, growled once as I pulled him away and turned back toward the park.

A half hour later we stopped by the leasing office where I talked with one of the women who works there.

"So... I think I saw something this morning in one of the apartments," I told her.

"In building number two?" she asked. When I nodded she smiled. "Yeah, we've heard that before. We've even called security because we heard there was a boy walking around in the apartment but there's no one there." My mind raced. I'd seen him, very clearly, as solid as Duncan who'd been at my feet. The woman went on. "We've heard it for a couple of years now and it's always the same little boy, bald and sickly. Is that what you saw?"

I nodded.

She smiled again, her eyes wide. "Happy Halloween is all I can say."