Where the Cottonwoods Grow

I tell myself it was werely a freak accident--one in one hundred chance that they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but was it, really? Was it irony that they died within 24 hours of each other, hit by a car on the same road, within a few yards of each other? My Dad suspects that they were after the mice-abundant fields on the other side (they were ardent hunters, having enacted a massacre of voles on our own lawn). Still, I like to think Carmen went looking for her sister the night after she didn't come home. I was worried about how Carmen would fair without her sister, her constant companion and playmate. We thought she'd be so lonely and bored.

I told myself, as I let her out for the night, since she was just dying to go--that it was highly improbable that they would both be hit on the road--it was a stroke of bad luck for poor Rizka. And Carmen wasn't as sporadic as Rizka, and more brave, less easily spooked. Did chance really take them away so suddenly? I feel like I'm reenacting Where The Red Fern Grows. I think of Lucky, how I consider his long, slow decline to be a blessing in disguise for me. One that taught me the skills of caring for the ill, as well as a chance to say a long goodbye, tocome to terms with something I dreaded for years. I guess these are all fishes in the air, but I do want to say this. These two cats were not equal to Lucky in my heart. When he died, I went into my room and cried. I sobbed. My heart caved; there was an enormous chunk just and nothing could really fill it up. I talked to him as Dr. Waddups inserted the needle and I carried his body--for he, I knew, had already moved on; I could tell the moment his spirit left--all the way to the cottonwood trees between our garden and pond. Many an afternoon, he and I went out there. The last time we went was a few days ago when I carried him out in a blanket and let him rest on my lap in the shade of the cottonwoods and lone Pine tree (for a stroke had paralyzed his hind legs and was slowly consuming the rest of him). He used to like to wander around the willows there and through the raspberry bushes in the garden while I helped to harvest and weed. I knew it was a secluded place, protected by trees, where it was unlikely that his body would be affected by any renovators who bought the house from my parents after they decide to sell it when I leave the nest. And it was pretty there, in the shade, and I thought it suited his laid-back, simplistic disposition.

Sunny, our "demonic" cockatiel died a few weeks ago of blood feathers (as we assume) after a run in with the afore mentioned playful sisters. I figured that there should be no better place than near Lucky's body, so I choose to have her buried under the pine tree, that will hopefully grow to a great size and cover her grave completely.

After Rizka didn't come inside all night--which was very much unlike her, who was so skinny that the cold affected her too much--my Dad went looking the next morning, since his semester of teaching was over, and found her, sure enough, on the side of the highway. This time he didn't even ask, and buried her underneath a cottonwood a little apart from Lucky's grove. This morning, after discovering Carmen's body near the same unhallowed spot, she too was buried and I haven't seen where yet--I haven't had the emotional stamina. Dad calls that patch of the yard under the cottonwoods "the pet graveyard." I think it sounds horrible, although I didn't say so. I know he does so much to try and spare me more emotional pain, being very much aware of the close bond I easily make with all our pets. I consider it more of a homage to friendship, of faith, of hope in the Resurrection. I pray for more faith, because otherwise I'd give in. There is the Atonement--Lucky helped me learn that when he first was sick and I sobbed every night for answers. I believe in it; I cling to it. I guess there is only one way to learn some lessons, and it's a very hard way.

But still, even though I know that they themselves are not under those cottonwoods; they are in heaven, I believe, doing who knows what with who knows who, but I like to think they--Lucky especially--are waiting for me. and i will be met by them as much as family and friends when I go. I hope that will be so.

What Peace

A poem written so long ago, I don't remember writing it. (actual spelling)

(To Grandma Powell)
What Peace
By Michaela
What peace is, is rain wettening the
hair on your head, rain should not
be a dread, for peace is ahead.

What Peace is, is music lasting
ever 4 ever, for hatred or war
should be never.

What Peace is, is thinking behond
imagine, little is greater, than
thinking with sarcasm.

These three sumbols of peace
are fine, but what is finer is
all the peacer around you, helping
you grow more time.

One Who Blogs

The word "blog" is such a disgusting-sounding word. What multimillion-too-rich-and-important-to-do-their-own-work-and-have-twenty-interns-to-do-it-anyway marketer came out with THAT logo?
Blog. It's that sound full milk cartons make when you turn them upside-down. It rhymes with Slog, Bog, Dog, Glog (which is the way teenagers and college boys drink milk, as I hope you were not previously aware), and Snog. All of which are unpleasant and also very wet. The only worse sounding word I can think of is "Blogger: One who blogs." If that doesn't sound like a ghetto dictionary definition for a slang word for a hobo in New Hampshire, nothing does.

Blog. This bizarre word has become part of modern lingo that every not-paid intern must use in at least every other sentence so that their peers, future employers, and parents all know that they are, in fact, doing something worthwhile with their major(s) and also that they shop regularly at vintage stores (and are proud of it), do asymmetrical and abstract photography in their spare time (one photo two weeks ago in an alleyway with their iTouch), are faithful tai-chi health fanatics (even if they did just start a week ago), are single (it's "complicated"), and "get" art.

Blog, the one word that never fails to make you sound six-times more annoying when you say it. Non-bloggers only have to hear that sloppy-sounding word once to suddenly realize that they still haven't watched that funny video their almost BF sent to their cellphone (NOT a touch screen) or need to flip aimlessly through their non-biodegradable planners while they conveniently turn off their ears.

Blog. It's what makes we hopelessly and proudly addicted people feel smart and quirky and creative and not at all like that other guy whose blog is about all his biking trips last summer. Because OUR blog is different from anyone else's. It's about sock puppets. We're certain its number of "followers" will explode exponentially in about three month or so. We know how it'll go, how all internet sensations gone celebrities went: one person will stumble upon it while searching for their designer woolen socks. Their curiosity will be piqued by our festive background and clever subtitle. They will start reading and be instantaneously hooked. Enraptured, this person will tell their sister-in-law, who will think it's the coolest and most informed blog about sock puppets she's ever seen, and she'll tell her boyfriend, who'll show all his business partners and suddenly we, the inspired, but still nasty-sounding, blogger will become America's leading official on sock puppets. Ventriloquists and puppeteers will read it daily for vital information in their very important fields. And then we are famous. Well, not yet, you understand. We're still waiting for the first follower. But really, the popularity will pick up. Any year now...

I'm All Left

I've been reflecting on the past month and it's made me realize something. Maybe the reason I've been so depressed and lonely lately is because my sister left for college.
This sounds obvious, but it's actually a little surprising to me. She was the one who was always talking about how would she get along without me and how lonely she'd be and how no one knew her better than I. But this month I've been the one lonely, starring at computers, playing SSBB without much zeal, constantly glancing at my facebook chatbox, only to find those distant affiliations orbiting far stars, seeming very dim and unattractive in the large blankness of space. I feel like my sister star has rocketed off to rapidly collect an all knew solar system somewhere beyond the black hole. I never knew how much of my whole entire orbital system that she retained until she left it all to me. It's awfully big. Without her greatness, so many of my planetary fauna are leaving to find other, larger, hotter stars. I am losing a lot of what I was.
I haven't drawn anything in months, and no one gets half the jokes I make. In fact, if it weren't for her, I wouldn't be writing at all, I wouldn't love drawing nearly as much, and I wouldn't be nearly as enjoyably funny or interesting.

What will I do without her? Who will I get after for speeding? Sometimes I speed when I'm alone in the car, just so I have someone to lecture. I still have her CD's in her car, which isn't really hers, since the parents bought it, but it has her unmistakable, down-to-earth, characteristically uncharacteristic smell. She was a constant buzzing in my ear, like an old fan, that I got so used to, I didn't even hear until it's shut off, and I find the silence deafening. She was the long, beautiful hair draping down my back, that I told everyone I couldn't wait to chop off, but now that it's gone, impossible to glue back in, my head is all light, I feel half naked and my neck is so cold!
I've been cracked over a knee, sawn in half, divided asunder, cleaved in two! My right arm is gone and now everything is all left and clumsy.
It's done. No going back. Soon I, too will follow, a little white dwarf among the supernovas, into the void I'll fly, gathering asteroids and comets, and maybe a planet or two, but none will be so intense as my sister star who is still gathering her own planets and maybe someday another star! This is sad. I don't like it. But there is hope: in two years, we could be room mates!
Oh, Caitlyn, how I want you back!

My Favorite Christmas Story

It started the night before. I received a voice mail from Moriah who wanted to go last-minute Christmas shopping. I still had a few loose ends on my "To-Get" list, so I readily agreed.
She picked me up at noon on Wednesday, the 22nd in her green Toyota, front-wheel drive, informing me that she first needed to get her check from my Uncle, whom she and I worked for in the Great Annual Spud Harvest. They had sent the check to her right after the harvest was over, but for some reason or other, it didn't reach her.
Not knowing the way to my Uncle's house, she asked, "Is it here?"
"Nah," I replied, "Keep going. Ok, here. Turn here. Or not. Just keep going to the Powell's (other Powell's) they have a round-about. Wait, not here. Don't pull in here! Oh, ok, pull in here, I guess. I'd stop now. And now we're stuck."
The house whose driveway she'd chosen for a three-point turn was a rental and totally unoccupied at the moment. This meant the driveway hadn't been cleared all winter. And we were stuck in the middle.
Without hesitation, I hopped out of the passenger seat and pushing from the front, managed to get the green little car (that didn't have snow tires, I might add, but "all-season tires," according to Moriah) dislodged the first time and hopped back into shotgun. Moriah tried some fancy maneuvers to swivel around and get us back onto the highway, but only succeeded in re-lodging her car perpendicular to and part way off the snow-covered pavement.
Again, and just as quickly as the first time, I'm out of the car and pushing from the front, Moriah gunning it in reverse. This time we only succeeded in creating a nice, icy well for each front tire.

The day previous, my sister had been in a similar predicament when she was pulling out of our driveway and turned too quickly over the snowbank and was caught in the middle. We and one other sister couldn't get the thing out until two gentlemen whom I've never seen in my life and who I don't expect to see again, showed up from the highway and were able to dislodge the car by putting it into neutral and "rocking" it back and forth until we got enough momentum to heave the car over the bank.

Applying similar tactics, I instruct Moriah to put the car into neutral and we commence heaving the thing forward and back. We continued this exercise for at least half an hour, kicking our ill-clad feet into the frozen slush to give us more tract, without triumph: every time we came close to freedom, the car would peek at the edge of the ditches that harbored the wheels, only to slip back in. I then had a thought. While Moriah tried to call her Dad and other friends of the masculine persuasion, I ran to the nearby willow tree, whose limbs were until then a cursing, having dripped recent rainwater and causing slushy, half-frozen snow over the past several weeks and the partly the cause of our situation, that was now a blessing. Breaking off the winter-hardened volunteer shoots, I then wedged the snapped limbs behind the front tires. After an age of relentless rocking to and fro, Moriah and I finally succeeded in freeing the car from its captor.
At last, the car was swiveled around and pointing toward the highway. We were feeling pretty proud of our less-than car savvy, unprepared-for-emergency-situations, non-masculine, impractically-shoed selves. "not too bad for two girls," Moriah said.
Making sure the coast was clear, we tried to escape the dreadful driveway in one grandiose finale. But alas, we instead heard the now familiar sound of tires spinning. With a groan and a roll of the eyes, we once again climbed out and assessed our situation.
It was then that two gentlemen, whom neither of us recognized, pulled near us on the highway. One was white-haired and fairly robust. The other I guessed to be in his teens and either the son or grandson of the former and equally thickly built. We briefly explained the situation to them, with embarrassed laughter after every sentence. I remember the elder calling to the younger, instructing him on where to push the car, calling him by name, but I can't remember it. Their strategy was one neither Moriah and I considered. They pushed the car backwards, farther into the evil abandoned driveway--which made me more than nervous--with the plan to get more momentum with which to clear the final snowbank. This time, with the older man driving and three of us pushing, he cleared the driveway in one fell swoop and parked it on the opposite side of the road.

A few moments later, Moriah with check in hand and I with fresh money from the Credit Union, we went to Wells Fargo's (Moriah's bank's) drive-through. The process itself was bad enough. This was the first time Moriah had done this without her mother and I was no help, having never deposited a check via window either. Fumbling with nerves, she made a several mistakes on the deposit and the capsule had to be sent back a few times. Embarrassed at the end of it all, Moriah tells me, "I just want to get out of here. At least they'll never see me again." She turns the key to start the engine and make our getaway.

It doesn't start.

After several more tries, the result is the same: her car won't start. Without thinking, I'm out of the car--again--telling her to stick it in neutral. We have the car rolled out of the way of other bank clients, but Moriah's wheels weren't wanting to turn (she comments that her breaks were also feeling weird, like they were sticking), and we wheeled it right into a curb. Just as I am asking myself what we could possibly do, a man in a Taylor's suburban and another, heavier man in a small Sudan arrive simultaneously. The Taylor's man says to us in only a slightly condescending tone, something along the lines of: "So you've pushed it to the middle of the street. What were you planning on next?" Exhausted, we quickly explain that her car won't start. They pop the hood, speculating about a drained battery, incorrect wiring, problematic router, but all are puzzled: when the key's turned, the ignition won't even make the characteristic clicking, chugging noise.
Luckily, Moriah's dad had just recently bought her a tow cable and the Taylor suburban man, who told us we was a mechanic for Taylor Chevrolet, with help from the heavy Sudan driver, towed us to a parking space.
As for starting the car, all signs pointed to the battery: dim headlights, radio giving out, and (for anyone who's a car person and knows the history and makeup of Toyota's) the breaks acting funny. However, all three cars were lacking jumper cables and still perplexed, the two drivers left to whatever pressing matters they had.

Fishing for ideas, I suggest we at least push the car into the space ahead and at least out of others' way. Moriah pushed while I steered with great difficulty. We were going very slowly at first, poor Moriah probably being exhausted from the day's previous events. Suddenly, I notice that we were moving with much more ease, I look behind me to give Moriah friendly encouragement and see another anonymous man pushing beside her. He looked to be in his twenties--probably a college student--with scruffy facial hair, wearing a faded yellow hoodie underneath a light jacket. Later Moriah told me that while she was pushing, he just showed up from nowhere and started pushing without a word, only nodding when she thanked him. As soon as we were safely in the parking space, he left as quickly as he'd come.
My mother did show up, but she was just as perplexed as we were as to the problem. Her car did have cables, but she was unwilling to attempt it, afraid that she might make the problem worse. She left to an urgent errand, promising to come back soon.

Tired and a little put out from the days' events so far, Moriah calls her father and later her roadside assistance, Tri-State Mechanical. Turns out, all the car needed was a jump.

Later, we found ourselves sitting in the garage's lobby, waiting for that darn Toyota's battery to charge. We were half laughing about it (me), and half shaken and tired (Moriah).
We were discussing the bizarreness of our shopping trip so far--and updating a few guy friends about the current status of our adventure via text, we being two teenagers--when an older, severely wrinkly man walks up to us. Neither of us could understand most of what he said. All I could gather was that he was wondering what our car was in for. I think he was trying to tell us what was wrong with his car. We gathered he was trying to crack jokes, so we laughed politely in pauses, since we had no idea what he was saying. He was probably harmless, but Moriah and I agreed that it would have been extremely creepy if either one of us had been alone.

This story does end happy: The stupid car's battery did charge, we went to Moriah's Piano lesson, both of us completed our shopping, and feeling like we'd earned it, Moriah treated us to dinner at Sammy's Sweets and a Cocoa Bean hot chocolate for desert. I told her that we would look back every Christmas for years to come, no matter how far away we live form each other, and remember this Christmas shopping trip. I told Moriah, my increasingly best-est buddy, that this would always be my favorite Christmas story.

Throughout that day and the one previous, I personally have been helped by seven complete strangers. Part of me was grateful I lived in Rexburg, although one friend suggested we "wouldn't have gotten as much attention in January." But upon Reflection, I remembering several times, while either rocking that blasted Toyota back and forth or wondering was to do when the car wouldn't start, I remember praying that we would find a way, that things would work. All I can say is that I'm grateful that the Lord works through others and that prayers are answered and that I've been raised that I can call on that Power when needed. Truly, this will be one of my most memorable Christmases.

The Narcissistist

Well, I IS my blog, after all!

Micha's Yuletide Yearnings


• Practice Mute (for violin)
• Hats
• “Killers” Music
“Muse” Music
“Death Cab For Cutie” Music
Vienna Teng Music
"Iron & Wine" Music
• Cargo pants
• Yarn—lots of colors!
• iPod/MP3 with more memory
• Despicable Me
• Digital Camera (Nikon)
• Sketching Pencils (2B, 4B, 6B, H)
• Fun, Dangly Earings
• Colorful, long necklaces
• Super Smash Bros (For the Wii)
• Other Wii Games
• Diana Wynne Jones books
• C.S. Lewis books (Paralandra Series, Screwtape Letters)
• Photo Album (6”x 4”)
• Futon
• Keys

Gift-Wrapped

I am one of those people who like to make presents look all flawless and picturesque. But making something seem so lovely and delicate only makes that moment of tearing to shreds a person's careful presentation all the more delicious. Indeed, I feel that the precise art of wrapping is to pent up energy daily as a person eyes a package until that fateful morn.

I don't approve of curly ribbons, but I do insist upon neatly folded wrapping around cubic shapes. Boxes, in my opinion, are to complete the purpose and pleasure of surprise that comes with gift-giving. If something is some strange and very decisive shape, there's only a short list of things is could be. But a box, now, anything could be contained therein. It also alludes to the classic image of children gathered around a tree and shaking packages with their names on them, trying to guess what the other got them and the donor giggling with glee because the recipient's guesses aren't even close! Of course, Boxes allow for that slight disappointment when the reality of what the box really contains shatters all the dreams of life-long wishes that do the polka in our sub-consciouses, being instead something useful and not at all fun. But I relish the unknown moment before destroying a present's perfectly crafted exterior to discover the magic inside.

Some people look down upon gift-giving as evidence that a once purely religious and holy celebration has become secular and shallow, but I disagree, at least on my own part. I see gift-giving as an expression of one's love. I don't totally hold with the need to get someone something expensive or overly fancy, but something personal, that creates a deeper understanding of you with that person is wholly Christian, I think.