Nothing guaranteed to make me fractious like opening a virgin blog page and finding something ALREADY WRITTEN in this sacred space of dogs, morning and coffee? WP what’s UP with you? And what was written here “What are your two favorite things to wear?” Here’s a screenshot of the abomination… Did you get one of these too???
Kind of an interesting question from MY point of view, but who cares what I like to wear? In case you DO… I wear jeans every single day. For the fancy party, I got velvet jeans. Most of the people around me wear jeans. Different brands reflect different worlds, but I don’t care about that. I just found some jeans I like and that fit and I wear them and buy them again when a pair wears out. I also have 3 identical sweatshirts, zipped up hoodies from Life is Good. All of them are gray and all of them say “Stay True.” People might think I never change my sweatshirt, but I do. Otherwise, I have a Patagonia down sweater that says many wonderful things to me like, “Hey, Martha, it’s cold! Let’s go out with the dogs!” and “Remember the times we went Langlauf? Remember? Are we going to do it again?”
Yes, a talking jacket can be a little annoying, but not as annoying as finding a writing prompt RIGHT THERE on my empty blog post, and not as annoying as discovering I’m actually writing TO that uninvited prompt that left me wondering if I’d started a blog and saved it, but no. That’s not my kind of prompt. My kind of prompt is “fractious”. I mean that, literally, it’s my prompt.
When I got the honor of posting prompts for Rag Tag Daily Prompt it was a VERY windy day here in the Bark of Beyond. I didn’t see much was likely to happen, so I sat down and came up with six months of prompts, 26 in alphabetical order. That was the first time I realized our alphabet has half a year of letters in it; 26 letters, 26 weeks, half a year. Whoa. I gave a micron of thought to it and decided it had no mystical meaning (because I could judge THAT, right?), it was just a coincidence, an irrelevant coincidence.
Too much stuff going on in my world at the moment, but sweet things happen, too. Yesterday the dogs and I went to see the vet. It was for the dogs, not me. Ha ha. I got the very last appointment of the day, when all the other customers could be counted on to be gone so I could take both dogs. I learned a lot from the appointment. My first thought was to take Teddy in and leave Bear in the car. That didn’t work. Teddy was WAY over the top excited and difficult to handle. SO I went back out to the car and got Bear who instantly calmed down that hyper little demon from the netherworld.
We have a new vet — a young woman with an Irish last name. Speaking of jeans, she was wearing Wranglers and square toed boots made by Ariat or Frye. That means “I’m a ranch person.” The vet checked over Bear and Teddy and said they are both in great shape. Then she asked what animals Bear guarded making me wonder if somehow I passed as a rancher. I don’t think so. I’d be honored if I did, but, for one thing, wrong shoes.
“Bear’s a rescue,” I said, “she didn’t get that chance. She guards Teddy and me.”
At that VERY moment, Bear had me pinned in the corner. She was guarding. She stood between me and this very friendly, gentle, and kind young vet. Why? Because that young woman had just stuck something sharp into Teddy and then into Bear. By god that woman wasn’t getting near me, not if Bear could help it.
The vet treated Teddy like a pet and talked to Bear like a person. The VERY young assistant just stood there scratching Bear’s back.
Something else, something that might have been totally trivial in 2019… After I paid my bill I hung out. There was once a man working at my vet that I liked very very much. Native American/Hispanic, a giant guy with a heart as big as he was. I asked about him and the news was sad. I said, “I’m sorry. I liked him very much. Besides, he was the only person in Monte Vista who spoke Spanish with me.”
Debbie, the office manager, with whom I’ve shared some OTHER experiences — we had PT after hip surgery together said, “Really?”
“Yeah, no one speaks Spanish with me here.” I have found that strange, but the racial demarcations in this place are pretty firm. In California they were much more fluid and that was good for me because THAT culture feels more like home than my OWN culture, whatever that is. I took the dogs out to the car and when I came back the Hispanic tech was waiting, Mike. He greeted me in Spanish. I was taken back. They’d talked about it. So we spoke in Spanish a little, but after 8 years of almost NEVER speaking Spanish I’m very rusty. I write to “the man” in Italian and that’s another problem with my Spanish now. Suddenly we were all sharing stories from our lives and laughing. My God. So rare in my life now. I felt my cheeks reddening (I’m that kind of person) and I felt happy. My Spanish got a little better, and as I left I was able to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. Somehow saying “Feliz Navidad” and hearing “Igualmente!” warmed my soul.
I’ve spoken Spanish since I was a kid. I grew up with love for the language and the culture. In California I taught at an extension of Southwestern College on the border to people who came up from Tijuana for school. My first students EVER at the Adult Education Tutorial Program in Denver were Mexicans who spoke no English. My neighbors in San Diego were Mexican and when I moved up to the mountains, it was the same, only more. My neighbors and I formed a little family, a situation that doesn’t happen often with Anglos. It isn’t just the language; it’s the culture. Languages don’t exist in a vacuum. In real life, people use them and want to understand each other meaning there’s a lot more to it than grammar. I felt so happy. Nothing here is “just” what it is. I felt — for the first time in a long while — the family that is a small town.