I recently learned of my youngest granddaughter's engagement. Now, ordinarily, this would be a momentous occasion, possibly even having the word of said engagement spread by way of an engagement party. Uh, well, no. Not in this case. Oh, not that my gradddaughter isn't fond of parties, she loves them... it's just that...well, it's like this: she announced her engagement to her family, including her grandparents, and to all her friends, and to the world at large by way of FaceBook.
I have to admit I was hurt. So was Grandpa. Probably the rest of the family, as well. But it got me to thinking: FaceBook, Twitter, all the other social media websites that I don't know about and sincerely hope I never have to, cell phones and texting, iPods, iPads, Droids, Smart Phones, iPhones...the whole world of electronics that we have today has taken over our lives, and with that, has pretty much destroyed what was once known as Human Interaction.
When was the last time you sent a long letter by regular mail? You know, the kind where you handwrite on a piece of paper known as "stationery", put it into an enclosure known as an envelope, put a little square thing called a stamp on it, and drove to a building called a "post office" to mail it? Be honest, now, how long has that been?
When was the last time you picked up a telephone and actually dialed a number and talked to a friend or family member? When was the last time that same phone rang, and a human voice was on the other end, rather than a computerized robot?
Have you looked at the so-called "handwriting" of your kids lately? Can you honestly read it? I sincerely doubt it. "Handwriting" as such long ago faded out of the educational environment, and children were pretty much on their own to learn cursive writing. Today, even kindergartners have computers, Kindles, and electronic calculators, so who has to hand write anything? It's the same with communication skills. Can your kids, especially your teenagers, carry on a conversation without throwing in a bunch of text words or using so much slang ( hopefully without the swear words) that you really can't understand or follow what they are saying?
In today's world, no one seems to have the time for Human Interaction. If you can't order it from Amazon, text it on your cell phone, email it from your computer or iPod, or shout it to the world on FaceBook, you are lost. And it doesn't seem to matter if you are 16 or 60, the Electronic Age has captured you, trained or retrained your brain and all your thought processes, and interacting with a real human being on any level is beyond your level of expertise.
Did you ever stop to wonder what this world will be like in 2050? Human Interaction will be a thing of the past, a dinosaur from just another Ice Age,
and if an engagement can be announced on FaceBook, I'd bet a marriage proposal will be, too.
Human Interaction is slowly dying. Oh, it may twitch a time or two, and try to come back to life, but the life blood is slowly but surely seeping out, and death is the only option left.
We send "cyberhugs" to our friends all the time. Do you suppose the time is coming when the only hugs and kisses between humans are those found in cyberspace?
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
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Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Saturday, December 15, 2012
...in so brave a world.
"And the world will still be imperfect, because men are imperfect. Good men will still be killed by bad, or sometimes by other good men, and there will still be pain and disease and famine, anger and hate. But if you work and care and are watchful, as we have tried to be for you, then in the long run the worse will never, ever, triumph over the better. And the gifts put into some men, that shine as brightly as Eirias the sword, shall light the dark corners of life for all the rest, in so brave a world."
Susan Cooper, SILVER
....The above passage was sent to me last summer by a friend who knew what a traumatic few months my family had been going through. She knew that we all felt that there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I put it on my bulletin board, and reread it many times over the last few months. It just seemed appropriate to include it here, today....
I woke up this morning with tears in my eyes and wondered why. Then I remembered the horrific events of yesterday, and knew why I cried in my sleep. All Americans cried yesterday, and most are still crying today as more and more of the details of the slaughter of twenty innocent children and six adults come to light.
I'm a teacher. I've been a teacher for most of my life, teaching in a variety of situations: horseback riding, painting, Sociology and Statistics, and the History of Musical Theatre. Yet today I ask myself, if I were a teacher at the elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut, would I have been one of those heros, one of the teachers who gave their lives to save their students? I can only hope I would have been that brave.
How are you feeling today? Me...I've been pacing, I can't focus on doing anything, like beginning my holiday baking that I promised myself I would start today. I feel angry, I want to cry...and I do cry for no reason, but yet, I know there is a reason. I just can't put it into words that do the emotion justice. Anger, sorrow, hatred of someone unknown to me, grief...what else can I feel? Where is the happiness, the wonderful spirit of the holidays, the joyousness of looking forward to Christmas? Well, it's gone. Vanished. And I don't know if it will come back any time soon. Is it just me? No, I don't think so.
Some will say, okay, you must put it behind you and move on. You can't spoil Christmas for everyone else. But you see, I am not the one spoiling Christmas. Nor do I think that "everyone else" feels differently from me. How do you put such a horrific crime behind you and move on, as though nothing tragic has happened? I don't think you do. I think this crime will linger in all our minds and memories for months, if not years, to come. I think every time we bring it to our consciousness, we will feel the same sorrow, the same anger, that we all feel now. I think we will still come to tears when we think of those twenty small children who were massacred, and the six adults who gave their lives trying to save the children and fight off the gunman.
We may not be able to put it behind us and move on in the way some would like us to. But we must learn how to heal ourselves, to find and to spread the light we each carry within us to light up all the dark corners of our world. In so doing, we will heal the wounds inside our hearts and minds that this madman and his vicious crime have put there. Do I speak only for myself? I don't think so. I hope it is not so.
Do what you have to do, whether it's to laugh or to cry, to pray in a quiet corner, to reach out and hug your wife or husband or children or other family members, to take a quiet walk all by yourself...or even, to sit down and write something. Anything. Do what you need to do for yourself, and in doing that, whatever it is, you will find that quiet light burning inside, and you will be one of those who will light up the shadows and conquer the dark.
For we, too, live in so brave a world.
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
Susan Cooper, SILVER
....The above passage was sent to me last summer by a friend who knew what a traumatic few months my family had been going through. She knew that we all felt that there was no light at the end of the tunnel. I put it on my bulletin board, and reread it many times over the last few months. It just seemed appropriate to include it here, today....
I woke up this morning with tears in my eyes and wondered why. Then I remembered the horrific events of yesterday, and knew why I cried in my sleep. All Americans cried yesterday, and most are still crying today as more and more of the details of the slaughter of twenty innocent children and six adults come to light.
I'm a teacher. I've been a teacher for most of my life, teaching in a variety of situations: horseback riding, painting, Sociology and Statistics, and the History of Musical Theatre. Yet today I ask myself, if I were a teacher at the elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut, would I have been one of those heros, one of the teachers who gave their lives to save their students? I can only hope I would have been that brave.
How are you feeling today? Me...I've been pacing, I can't focus on doing anything, like beginning my holiday baking that I promised myself I would start today. I feel angry, I want to cry...and I do cry for no reason, but yet, I know there is a reason. I just can't put it into words that do the emotion justice. Anger, sorrow, hatred of someone unknown to me, grief...what else can I feel? Where is the happiness, the wonderful spirit of the holidays, the joyousness of looking forward to Christmas? Well, it's gone. Vanished. And I don't know if it will come back any time soon. Is it just me? No, I don't think so.
Some will say, okay, you must put it behind you and move on. You can't spoil Christmas for everyone else. But you see, I am not the one spoiling Christmas. Nor do I think that "everyone else" feels differently from me. How do you put such a horrific crime behind you and move on, as though nothing tragic has happened? I don't think you do. I think this crime will linger in all our minds and memories for months, if not years, to come. I think every time we bring it to our consciousness, we will feel the same sorrow, the same anger, that we all feel now. I think we will still come to tears when we think of those twenty small children who were massacred, and the six adults who gave their lives trying to save the children and fight off the gunman.
We may not be able to put it behind us and move on in the way some would like us to. But we must learn how to heal ourselves, to find and to spread the light we each carry within us to light up all the dark corners of our world. In so doing, we will heal the wounds inside our hearts and minds that this madman and his vicious crime have put there. Do I speak only for myself? I don't think so. I hope it is not so.
Do what you have to do, whether it's to laugh or to cry, to pray in a quiet corner, to reach out and hug your wife or husband or children or other family members, to take a quiet walk all by yourself...or even, to sit down and write something. Anything. Do what you need to do for yourself, and in doing that, whatever it is, you will find that quiet light burning inside, and you will be one of those who will light up the shadows and conquer the dark.
For we, too, live in so brave a world.
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Getting to Know Your Characters
How do you know your characters? Do you think them out in your head before starting to write? Do you do a character profile, or a character analysis? Many writers do one or the other, and some do all of them.
That's all well and good, but what happens to these profiles and analyses when the characters take their lives into their own hands and decide to do or say something entirely out of character for them? I have many writer friends who often bemoan the fact that here they are, way past the middle of their story, and one or another of their characters are taking that story in an entirely different direction. My daughter, who writes for adults, says that in one of her mystery stories the villain popped up at very near to the end, and was someone she had not even thought of as being the murderer. That can make things very interesting! And very difficult to resolve in a timely and logical manner.
One of the things I've learned about characters is that they are most often far more complex than what I thought when I was developing them. After all, they come from my imagination, right? True, but that doesn't mean they are going to stay true to form...my form, that is. So how do I...and we...deal with those who decide to be independent and go their own way? Well, I have them sit down and write ME a letter, telling me all about themselves, what they want, how they plan to get it, and what they want ME to do with them. Sometimes those letters are short, sometimes they are 4 and 5 pages long, as was the case with my WIP's main character.
Below is an exerpt from one of the major antagonists in my paranormal novel. He wrote to me to explain why he was half human and half gargoyle. And why he might not be who I thought he was. The **** indicates other pasages I'm not quoting. See what you think.
*****************************************************************
My Mama and Papa were married very young, and according to Cajun traditions. Mama was very beautiful and many Young Bloods were after her, but the marriage was arranged by both parents. She was not happy and finally, she slipped away to New Orleans. There she met an older man who enticed her into an affair. She became pregnant, and this man wanted her to marry him. She refused and fled back to her husband, had me, and they both pretended everything was fine.
But, you see, nothing was fine.
The man who impregnated my mother was only half human. His other half was a
warlock. He was so angry he wanted to place a spell on my mother, but the
warlocks of his coven refused to allow him. When I was born, his son, his
hatred transferred to me, and he demanded to be allowed to put a spell on me.
The warlocks told him he could do so, but with two demands: one, I couldn’t be
made a warlock, and two, since this man was so angry, he would lose his life if
he put any kind of spell on me. He hated me and my mama so much he was willing
to die in order to put a spell on me. At the age of ten, I would become half
human and half gargoyle. He put this spell on me, and died within minutes
after.
There is only one problem. I
may be the killer.
That's all well and good, but what happens to these profiles and analyses when the characters take their lives into their own hands and decide to do or say something entirely out of character for them? I have many writer friends who often bemoan the fact that here they are, way past the middle of their story, and one or another of their characters are taking that story in an entirely different direction. My daughter, who writes for adults, says that in one of her mystery stories the villain popped up at very near to the end, and was someone she had not even thought of as being the murderer. That can make things very interesting! And very difficult to resolve in a timely and logical manner.
One of the things I've learned about characters is that they are most often far more complex than what I thought when I was developing them. After all, they come from my imagination, right? True, but that doesn't mean they are going to stay true to form...my form, that is. So how do I...and we...deal with those who decide to be independent and go their own way? Well, I have them sit down and write ME a letter, telling me all about themselves, what they want, how they plan to get it, and what they want ME to do with them. Sometimes those letters are short, sometimes they are 4 and 5 pages long, as was the case with my WIP's main character.
Below is an exerpt from one of the major antagonists in my paranormal novel. He wrote to me to explain why he was half human and half gargoyle. And why he might not be who I thought he was. The **** indicates other pasages I'm not quoting. See what you think.
*****************************************************************
My Mama and Papa were married very young, and according to Cajun traditions. Mama was very beautiful and many Young Bloods were after her, but the marriage was arranged by both parents. She was not happy and finally, she slipped away to New Orleans. There she met an older man who enticed her into an affair. She became pregnant, and this man wanted her to marry him. She refused and fled back to her husband, had me, and they both pretended everything was fine.
****************************************************************
You see, I don’t know if I am
evil or good. One of the gargoyles has more power over me than the others, and
she…yes, there are female gargoyles…is a bad one. No matter how hard I resist,
if she tells me to do something, I have no choice but to do it. There are times
when I do something she has told me to do, and I know it is wrong but I have to
do it, anyway. There are other times when she tells me something, and I don’t
remember doing it. But I know I did.
**********************************************************************
Now, when I help Gabriela find the killer, I will be helping myself by proving it wasn’t
me.
He was not who I had thought him out to be, nor did he fit the profile I had made of him. I was totally surprised by this letter. Perhaps, if your characters wrote letters to you, you would also be surprised by what you find out about them. Anyway, it's an interesting, fun, and for me, informative way to find out who your characters really are.
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Saturday's Six-Sentence Synopsis
Today is December 1st. Christmas is slightly more than 3 weeks off. I hope you're not like me, totally unprepared at this late date! Because I am totally unprepared...which means shopping has not begun, Christmas Day menu is not thought out, decorations have not been brought down from the attic, etc...I decided to do something different for my blog. At least for this week, since it's practically over and this is the first I've had time to think about blogging.
I'm going to give you a brief scenario, and ask you to give me a story synopsis in no less than three and no more than six sentences. Each sentence can be as long as you want, as long as it is grammatically correct, but there can be no more than six all together. Are you up for this?
She stood at the edge of the grass covered path, looking off into the distance. She was shrouded in mist, which played delicately among the trees like a fragile shawl beginning to slip away from one's shoulders. That mist, however, didn't cover the gun which hung from her left hand.
Who is she? Where is she going? What conflict does she face? Is the gun to aid in her conflict, to help her overcome an obstacle, or...is it for her?
I hope you'll take a few minutes and play along with me!
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
I'm going to give you a brief scenario, and ask you to give me a story synopsis in no less than three and no more than six sentences. Each sentence can be as long as you want, as long as it is grammatically correct, but there can be no more than six all together. Are you up for this?
She stood at the edge of the grass covered path, looking off into the distance. She was shrouded in mist, which played delicately among the trees like a fragile shawl beginning to slip away from one's shoulders. That mist, however, didn't cover the gun which hung from her left hand.
Who is she? Where is she going? What conflict does she face? Is the gun to aid in her conflict, to help her overcome an obstacle, or...is it for her?
I hope you'll take a few minutes and play along with me!
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Do We Stop Giving Thanks?
Thanksgiving is over, and I'm all for a day of rest. I imagine for most people, Thanksgiving Day was a rather ordinary day...ordinary only in that you gather family and close friends together and have the usual turkey, dressing, and cranberry sauce dinner, or whatever your personal traditional dinner is. You revel in the love you feel from every one around the dinner table. You treasure the time spent, when quite possibly "family" means pulling in relatives from all over the country and you know that doesn't happen often. It is, perhaps, the one day of the year that those you care about the most are all in one place at the same time, and you are right in the big middle.
For us, this Thanksgiving was very different. It is the first holiday since my son was diagnosed with a very rare form of dementia, and it was a day devoted to a multitude of feelings. Frustrations were high, with a little bit of anger underneath, love, disappointment, fear, surprise, tears, and not a little grief...all mixed up in such a way it was difficult to even sort them out. It was not our usual day, in any respect, and underlying everything was the thought in everyone's mind that this may well be the last Thanksgiving we have with my son.
We finished dinner, and continued our conversation without my son's interjections. I looked around the table and saw tears in my 21 year old grandson's eyes as he looked at his father. I knew what his thoughts were, and I knew they were the same in the minds of my husband, my wonderful daughter-in-law , and in the good friends who were present.
I started thinking about Thanksgiving, and what it was all about. I thought about the word itself...Thanks Giving...and how we should be giving thanks to our Lord for all of our blessings. And then I looked at my son, and I wondered: Do I stop 'giving thanks' when I feel right now like there is so little to be thankful for? Where are my blessings now?
Right there, sitting at the table. That's where my blessings were, except for my daughter and her family, who couldn't be with us. I could look at my son, and not see him as he is, but as he was...a wonderful boy who grew into a handsome, intelligent, responsible man, husband, and father. He was my blessing every day of his life, and will be until there is no more life. My husband, my daughter-in-law, my grandson, friends...all are blessings in a personal world turned upside down by life's quirks.
Do we stop giving thanks? For a while this summer, it would not have done to ask me that question, for I was too hurt and too angry at God to give a responsible answer. Now, I know the answer is No, we don't. We each have our own blessings to be thankful for, even if the world has given us a rotten shake. After all, we can always look around and see someone whose "shake" has been even more "rotten" than ours.
This Thanksgiving was very different, very hard. Nevertheless, most of my blessings were right there at the table with me. Even so, today I felt the need to put my feelings here, for those to read who wished to do so. I may not be "purged" so to speak, but now I can go on to the other blessings around me, and get back to writing.
Thank you for listening.
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
For us, this Thanksgiving was very different. It is the first holiday since my son was diagnosed with a very rare form of dementia, and it was a day devoted to a multitude of feelings. Frustrations were high, with a little bit of anger underneath, love, disappointment, fear, surprise, tears, and not a little grief...all mixed up in such a way it was difficult to even sort them out. It was not our usual day, in any respect, and underlying everything was the thought in everyone's mind that this may well be the last Thanksgiving we have with my son.
We finished dinner, and continued our conversation without my son's interjections. I looked around the table and saw tears in my 21 year old grandson's eyes as he looked at his father. I knew what his thoughts were, and I knew they were the same in the minds of my husband, my wonderful daughter-in-law , and in the good friends who were present.
I started thinking about Thanksgiving, and what it was all about. I thought about the word itself...Thanks Giving...and how we should be giving thanks to our Lord for all of our blessings. And then I looked at my son, and I wondered: Do I stop 'giving thanks' when I feel right now like there is so little to be thankful for? Where are my blessings now?
Right there, sitting at the table. That's where my blessings were, except for my daughter and her family, who couldn't be with us. I could look at my son, and not see him as he is, but as he was...a wonderful boy who grew into a handsome, intelligent, responsible man, husband, and father. He was my blessing every day of his life, and will be until there is no more life. My husband, my daughter-in-law, my grandson, friends...all are blessings in a personal world turned upside down by life's quirks.
Do we stop giving thanks? For a while this summer, it would not have done to ask me that question, for I was too hurt and too angry at God to give a responsible answer. Now, I know the answer is No, we don't. We each have our own blessings to be thankful for, even if the world has given us a rotten shake. After all, we can always look around and see someone whose "shake" has been even more "rotten" than ours.
This Thanksgiving was very different, very hard. Nevertheless, most of my blessings were right there at the table with me. Even so, today I felt the need to put my feelings here, for those to read who wished to do so. I may not be "purged" so to speak, but now I can go on to the other blessings around me, and get back to writing.
Thank you for listening.
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Photographs In My MInd
You've reached a point in your novel where you are stuck. Usually it's right around the 8th or 9th chapter, which is right about in the middle of the story. You like the first part of the story, and you've already figured out the ending, but now you have to get from the beginning to the end, and you're stuck.
What do you do when this happens? And don't fib, you know it happens to all of us! Do you get up and take the dog for a walk? Clean the kitchen? Do some much-needed laundry? Or perhaps you just sit and stare into space...or maybe, at your screen saver.
I'm at that point...9th chapter, right on schedule, now how the heck to I get to the ending I have all planned out? I sat without hitting a key for so long today that my screen saver came on, and I found myself staring at some really lovely pictures.
Now those photographs are carefully saved in the back of my mind, and everywhere I look, there they are...
...a beautiful field, heavily covered with delicate, fern-like grasses, deep green in color. Tracks cut through the field, narrow, the dark-brown-almost black color of rich dirt, curving and finally disappearing in the distance...
...two tall trees, standing so close together their long slender branches and pointed leaves mingle with one another. You can't see the bottoms of these trees, for a thick fog rises from the ground and distorts everything it touches...
...a long pier rises from out of nowhere, and stretches far out into the sapphire-blue ocean, ending is a small gazebo...
Photographs in my mind. What stories they can conjure up! Who was driving through that green field, and where were they going? The tracks were too narrow for a modern car, so it must have been in the early 1920's when automobiles were just coming into their own. A young couple, seeking some privacy so they could spoon awhile? A moonshiner sneaking out to his shack to see how many bottles he had stashed away that he could sell that night?
The thick fog rises from the ground to cover the bottoms of the trees, but what else does it cover? What secrets lie hidden beneath that seemingly benign element of weather? Will a runaway teen or an abused wife or a fleeing convict seek cover within that fog?
The long pier that seems to go on forever has its own secrets, as well. Who walked that endless length of wooden planks, only to stand beneath the gazebo and gaze out upon the water? Someone facing her own mortality, as an incurable disease wracks her body? A young teen who has been bullied to the point of considering self-destruction? A writer who seeks the peace and solitude offered by the quiet waters below?
Photographs in my mind. Or in yours? What do you see?
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
What do you do when this happens? And don't fib, you know it happens to all of us! Do you get up and take the dog for a walk? Clean the kitchen? Do some much-needed laundry? Or perhaps you just sit and stare into space...or maybe, at your screen saver.
I'm at that point...9th chapter, right on schedule, now how the heck to I get to the ending I have all planned out? I sat without hitting a key for so long today that my screen saver came on, and I found myself staring at some really lovely pictures.
Now those photographs are carefully saved in the back of my mind, and everywhere I look, there they are...
...a beautiful field, heavily covered with delicate, fern-like grasses, deep green in color. Tracks cut through the field, narrow, the dark-brown-almost black color of rich dirt, curving and finally disappearing in the distance...
...two tall trees, standing so close together their long slender branches and pointed leaves mingle with one another. You can't see the bottoms of these trees, for a thick fog rises from the ground and distorts everything it touches...
...a long pier rises from out of nowhere, and stretches far out into the sapphire-blue ocean, ending is a small gazebo...
Photographs in my mind. What stories they can conjure up! Who was driving through that green field, and where were they going? The tracks were too narrow for a modern car, so it must have been in the early 1920's when automobiles were just coming into their own. A young couple, seeking some privacy so they could spoon awhile? A moonshiner sneaking out to his shack to see how many bottles he had stashed away that he could sell that night?
The thick fog rises from the ground to cover the bottoms of the trees, but what else does it cover? What secrets lie hidden beneath that seemingly benign element of weather? Will a runaway teen or an abused wife or a fleeing convict seek cover within that fog?
The long pier that seems to go on forever has its own secrets, as well. Who walked that endless length of wooden planks, only to stand beneath the gazebo and gaze out upon the water? Someone facing her own mortality, as an incurable disease wracks her body? A young teen who has been bullied to the point of considering self-destruction? A writer who seeks the peace and solitude offered by the quiet waters below?
Photographs in my mind. Or in yours? What do you see?
Until next time,
That's a wrap.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
The Deer Who Loved a Dog
Gretchen was a Dachshund, not a Mini Dachshund, but smaller than normal for a registered Doxie. She loved the outdoors, particularly where she and her people had just moved to. A wide expanse of green lawn, held in by a short white picket fence, was all hers to roam, roll in, chase balls, and even to sit and gaze at the great forest beyond.
For the first few days, while the household was in the usual turmoil of moving in and getting settled, Gretchen would take her favorite toys outside and lie just inside the fence. The forest held many strange and wonderful smells for her to sniff, and perhaps, even to daydream a bit about where...or who...or what...those smells came from. Her tiny black nose would crinkle up and go a mile-a-minute, trying to track down and isolate each whiff that came to her.
Then one day, something more than a smell came up to the fence. Gretchen stood up and backed slowly away. She didn't bark. The something was large, very foreign to the little dog. She wasn't afraid, just wary. Her female person came out of the house, walked up to her, and said, "It's okay, Gretchen. It's just a deer, a doe, and she won't hurt you."
Her person picked Gretchen up and stood watching the doe watching Gretchen. The doe's nose twitched, she stretched her neck out over the fence and seemed to sniff the air. Satisfied that there was no danger on the other side of the fence, she turned and slowly moved away.
The next morning, Gretchen went out to lay in the sun on the deck. She had hardly laid down when something caused her hair to bristle. She growled low in her throat as she walked down the steps and over to the fence. She sat down, and stared at what was in front of her: 6 deer, 5 does and 1 buck. The buck reached over the fence as far as he could. Gretchen stood her ground. He st--re--t--ch--ed
over the fence a little bit further. Gretchen moved a couple of inches forward. The buck reached towards her with his long tongue, barely missing her twitching little nose. Gretchen moved again, and this time, the buck's tongue reached her nose. He swished his tongue around and around while Gretchen stood stock still. Then, the buck drew back across the fence and moved away. Each of the does came forward, stretched their necks across the fence and touched Gretchen's nose. When the last doe had touched her, the small herd moved back into the forest.
For the next several years, the same does and buck came every morning and evening to the fence, as Gretchen's people kept fresh hay for them to feed upon. Each year, one or more of the does brought their new born fawns to feed, and when they were old enough, they too reached over the fence to touch the little brown dog's cold, wet nose. Summer, winter, rain, shine, or snow, Gretchen went outside to spend time with the deer.
Then one day, Gretchen's life came to an end. She died peacefully in her persons' arms as they cried over her. They decided to bury her next to the place in the fence where the deer had come to visit, day and evening, year after year. They made a grave for her, and planted a small tree in the center. Then, they stood back and watched as the deer came to visit again. Only this time, there was no little dog to greet them.
The next morning, Gretchen's persons were standing on the deck when the deer came for their breakfast and their morning visit with Gretchen. Once again, she wasn't there. The buck walked over to the grave and sniffed around it. He leaned hard against the small picket fence. Again and again he pushed at the fence. One of the does came over to help him. They pushed. They pushed again. The fence gave way, and the two deer walked over it to reach the grave. They walked around and around the grave, while Gretchen's people watched in amazement. Then the rest of the small herd came over and walked around it. A moment more, and all of the deer laid down, surrounding the grave. They paid no attention to the humans watching them, stunned by what they were seeing.
After more than 1/2 hour, the deer finally rose, finished eating, and faded back into the forest. Evening came, and once again, the deer went to the grave, walked around it, and laid down in a circle.
For the next few months, day, evening, through hot sun, cold rain, and deep snow, the herd of deer went through the same routine, never missing a day. Then, sadly, Gretchen's people moved away, content only in knowing that their beloved companion was kept safe by the deer who loved her.
**********************************************************************
This is a true story, told to me only today by two of our best friends who came to visit and bring a new toy to our injured Corgi. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you felt the same awe ( and got the same goose bumps) as I did upon hearing it...the love of "wild" animals for one so small, not one of their own.
For the first few days, while the household was in the usual turmoil of moving in and getting settled, Gretchen would take her favorite toys outside and lie just inside the fence. The forest held many strange and wonderful smells for her to sniff, and perhaps, even to daydream a bit about where...or who...or what...those smells came from. Her tiny black nose would crinkle up and go a mile-a-minute, trying to track down and isolate each whiff that came to her.
Then one day, something more than a smell came up to the fence. Gretchen stood up and backed slowly away. She didn't bark. The something was large, very foreign to the little dog. She wasn't afraid, just wary. Her female person came out of the house, walked up to her, and said, "It's okay, Gretchen. It's just a deer, a doe, and she won't hurt you."
Her person picked Gretchen up and stood watching the doe watching Gretchen. The doe's nose twitched, she stretched her neck out over the fence and seemed to sniff the air. Satisfied that there was no danger on the other side of the fence, she turned and slowly moved away.
The next morning, Gretchen went out to lay in the sun on the deck. She had hardly laid down when something caused her hair to bristle. She growled low in her throat as she walked down the steps and over to the fence. She sat down, and stared at what was in front of her: 6 deer, 5 does and 1 buck. The buck reached over the fence as far as he could. Gretchen stood her ground. He st--re--t--ch--ed
over the fence a little bit further. Gretchen moved a couple of inches forward. The buck reached towards her with his long tongue, barely missing her twitching little nose. Gretchen moved again, and this time, the buck's tongue reached her nose. He swished his tongue around and around while Gretchen stood stock still. Then, the buck drew back across the fence and moved away. Each of the does came forward, stretched their necks across the fence and touched Gretchen's nose. When the last doe had touched her, the small herd moved back into the forest.
For the next several years, the same does and buck came every morning and evening to the fence, as Gretchen's people kept fresh hay for them to feed upon. Each year, one or more of the does brought their new born fawns to feed, and when they were old enough, they too reached over the fence to touch the little brown dog's cold, wet nose. Summer, winter, rain, shine, or snow, Gretchen went outside to spend time with the deer.
Then one day, Gretchen's life came to an end. She died peacefully in her persons' arms as they cried over her. They decided to bury her next to the place in the fence where the deer had come to visit, day and evening, year after year. They made a grave for her, and planted a small tree in the center. Then, they stood back and watched as the deer came to visit again. Only this time, there was no little dog to greet them.
The next morning, Gretchen's persons were standing on the deck when the deer came for their breakfast and their morning visit with Gretchen. Once again, she wasn't there. The buck walked over to the grave and sniffed around it. He leaned hard against the small picket fence. Again and again he pushed at the fence. One of the does came over to help him. They pushed. They pushed again. The fence gave way, and the two deer walked over it to reach the grave. They walked around and around the grave, while Gretchen's people watched in amazement. Then the rest of the small herd came over and walked around it. A moment more, and all of the deer laid down, surrounding the grave. They paid no attention to the humans watching them, stunned by what they were seeing.
After more than 1/2 hour, the deer finally rose, finished eating, and faded back into the forest. Evening came, and once again, the deer went to the grave, walked around it, and laid down in a circle.
For the next few months, day, evening, through hot sun, cold rain, and deep snow, the herd of deer went through the same routine, never missing a day. Then, sadly, Gretchen's people moved away, content only in knowing that their beloved companion was kept safe by the deer who loved her.
**********************************************************************
This is a true story, told to me only today by two of our best friends who came to visit and bring a new toy to our injured Corgi. I hope you enjoyed it, and I hope you felt the same awe ( and got the same goose bumps) as I did upon hearing it...the love of "wild" animals for one so small, not one of their own.
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