Hollers, Gorges, Gullies and Such

 

 Trillium Holler

 

Last weekend, we had 8 inches of rain.  The branch that runs through the holler dividing my farm from the farm next door was roaring with water for the next 24 hours. (We say holler, not hollow, where I live.) My friend Clay, who has been working on my house for the past year, came over to work on Sunday morning and remarked that the water sure was loud running down the gorge beside the house.

I said, “Clay, that’s not a gorge.  It’s a holler.”  And so began one of those long, fairly pointless discussions we frequently have, this one being about the difference in a gorge and a holler.  Such discussions are one of the reasons this remodeling job has lasted over a year.

He insisted that a holler has to be big enough to build a little house in and plant a garden.  His wife’s folks lived in a holler.   What I have is a gorge.  I told him that no one around here says gorge.  And what he is talking about is a valley.  I had to stop and go to church at that point.

After church, I met friends for lunch and, needing reinforcements,  asked them what the difference in a gorge and a holler is.  The answer I got from Danny was that a gorge was something that water cut a path through and had real steep sides and a holler had more sloping sides.  That made perfect sense to me and I agreed.  I have a holler with a little branch running through it.

On Monday morning, I gave this piece of information to Clay and the discussion continued.  He still insisted that you had to be able to build a little house in a holler and there is no place in mine to build even a very tiny house.  Since the only way to the bottom is either on foot or at your peril down what’s left of a very steep little road with a very deep ditch on one side, I can’t see wanting to build a house down there anyway.  But that’s beside the point.  So, during lunch with another group of friends, I posed my question to them.  What is the difference in a gorge and a holler?  They agreed with Danny’s definition and expanded the definition that the sides of a gorge would probably be solid rock.  I said, “Like the Grand Canyon.”  My friend Micky said, “No, that’s a canyon.”  I had to agree.  The difference in a gorge and a canyon doesn’t interest me at this time.

On Tuesday morning, I reported my newest findings to Clay and he said, “Well whatever it is, it sure had a lot of water running through it Sunday.  Where does all that water some from?”

 In all innocence, I said, “It comes from the gully.” 

“What gully?” he asked with a puzzled look.

 “The gully that runs into the holler,” I said.  “That’s where the branch starts.”   The look on Clay’s face was priceless.

 “That’s not a branch,” he said.  “It’s a stream.”  At that point I realized that we were about to have another pointless discussion about differences between gullies and hollers, branches and streams.  I had to admit he had a point because it had never occurred to me to wonder why we call the upper part of this geographical feature a gully and the lower part that runs by my house we call the holler.  Come to think of it, when does a ditch, like that one at the side of the steep little road going down to the holler, become a gully? 

So, at lunch Tuesday, I reported on our new discussion.  “At what point does a gully become a holler?” I asked.  No one seemed to have an answer, and then Alice mentioned ravines and gulches.  I refused to go there.

Then she said, “A holler has trees and wildflowers in it, but a gully doesn’t.”  I thought that was a pretty good dividing point but before I could say so, my friend David said, “You and Clay have too much spare time on your hands.”  So, I still don’t know exactly what the difference is in a gully and holler.  I would ask Alexa, but I’m afraid of what she might think.  I can’t wait to find out where this goes Wednesday morning when Clay comes to work.  Come to think of it, we haven’t done any real work on the house since last Friday.  

 

 

Therapy Dog

 

I had a little meltdown this morning and, in the process, I discovered something about Sophie, my year- old collie.  The meltdown involved a tangled mess of cords running to my internet box, phone and power stip.  I don’t deal well with cords – I look forward to the day when everything will be cordless and electricity just comes out of the air somehow.

Anyway, I did have a little meltdown trying to sort out and untangle several wires so I could move my internet box to a higher shelf.  My friend Clay had built this nice little shelf and installed it and was helping me arrange things when the meltdown occurred.  I was listening to Willie Nelson and Sophie and Phoebe were supervising.  Sophie is a very nose-on supervisor.  Everything that happens in or out of this house requires her direct involvement.  If I dig in the yard, she digs in the yard.  If Clay is on the floor nailing a baseboard on, Sophie is right here with her long collie nose poking at the hammer.  I don’t know how I ever got anything done correctly before she joined this family!  Willie Nelson music keeps me sane, most of the time.  Willie was no match for the mess I got in today especially when I accidentally turned off the power strip and he stopped mid-chorus of Whiskey River.

This led to an even bigger meltdown, and it was then that I realized that Sophie was having a little doggy meltdown too.  Actually hers was bigger than mine.  She was glued to my side, whining and pawing at my leg.  The whining turned to barking and she nudged me with a worried expression in her big brown eyes.  It was a pretty effective way to end my carrying-on, because I had to stop and reassure her that I was okay. 

This is not the first time Sophie has shown this trait.  Several months ago, Clay and I had a traumatic encounter with my vacuum cleaner.  I was vacuuming the only large rug in this enormous house when I realized I was putting out as much dirt as I was taking up.  This particular vacuum cleaner does this when a clog in the hose occurs, which is pretty much every time I use it.   Like an idiot, I left the vacuum on the rug and took out the dirt container, which has both a top and a bottom cover.  I didn’t mean to unlatch the bottom, but I did and all the dirt I had just removed from the rug was now on the rug again, in a big pile.  Clay heard my graphic description of the mishap and came to the rescue with a trash can, which we filled with the pile of dirt and tried to unclog the hose.  During this operation, the trash can turned over, spilling all the dirt, plus what came out of the clogged hose, on the rug again.  That was the last straw for me.  I started laughing and went into one of those uncontrollable episodes where you can’t stop laughing and you start crying and every time you think you can stop, it starts all over again. Sophie was not familiar with my tendency to do that and she thought something was horribly wrong.  (She had naturally  been supervising the dismantling of the vacuum all this time.)  Next thing I know, I have 50 pounds of collie in my lap, whining and licking my face.  “What’s wrong, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?” was human language for what she was saying.  “I’ll help, I’ll help, I’ll help,” she continued.  Those brown eyes that melt my heart were so anxious, I had to give hugs and snuggles to convince her I was okay. 

Now, here is the interesting thing about this.  I tried pretending to cry to see what Sophie would do.  She looked at me and walked away.  So, not only does she leap into action when something is wrong, but she knows when I’m faking.

Maybe she missed her calling as a therapy dog.  Or maybe she’s in exactly the right place.  Maybe I need a therapy dog myself.

 

 

 

Kidnapping at Midnight - a Long Ago Tale

 

I was going through papers this week and found a story from twenty years ago.   Time marches on! It's a pretty good memory, so I thought I would share it here.

Some people think life in the country is peaceful, perhaps even a little boring.  The nights are so quiet, they say.  I suppose it mostly is, compared to city life.  But with colts being born, canine encounters with skunks and possums, and coyotes courting and quarreling, I wonder sometimes where all the peace is.

A recent Friday morning was one of those times.  The excitement of an unexpected blessed event, the drama of a kidnapping and the relief of a safe return – we had it all.

I was awakened at midnight by what sounded like a baby kitten outside my bedroom window.  I thought a cat had kittens and brought them to the house, and since I thought the dogs might bother them, I got up to investigate.  I turned on the lights, got my flashlight and went out in my gown to look.

To my astonishment, under the big holly tree by my front porch, I found a cat licking a baby puppy.  My young collie, Kelsey, was licking a second puppy.  I did not know she was expecting puppies – unfortunately it was an underage, incestuous liaison, certainly not of my choosing.

A word of explanation about the cat is probably in order.  She has no real name of her own – I call her Toby’s cat because of her close relationship with Toby, another of my collies.  They have slept together since they were puppy and kitten, and Toy’s cat follows the dogs around like a pesky younger sibling, even going adventuring with them around the farm.

Anyway, Kelsey’s mother, Molly, was trying to get under the holly tree with Kelsey, the cat and the puppies, so I thought I’d better put them  in the dog pen.  I guess even canine moms don’t think their daughters know how to care for their newborn.

So, I crawled under the very prickly holly bush, flashlight in hand and accompanied by Molly.  It was pretty crowded under there, with the two dogs, the cat and the puppies.  I got the newborns and, followed by Kelsey and Toby’s cat, took them to the doghouse.  Kelsey and the cat went in the doghouse and lay down with the puppies.  I fastened the dog pen gate, thought all was well and went back to bed.

A 2 a.m., I heard a puppy outside the window.  Thinking I had missed one of the litter, I jumped up, grabbed the flashlight, turned on the lights and went out again in my gown.  I found Toby’s cat with one of the puppies, back under the holly tree.  She had slipped through the gate with it.  I took it away from her and returned it to Kelsey, who now had five puppies, with the cat trying to bite my ankles, and started back to bed.  The cat passed me, puppy in her mouth, before I reached the front door.  So, I took the puppy back, fastened the cat in the basement and went back to bed.

When I got up at my normal time, I let the cat out and she immediately returned to the doghouse with the puppies and the dog.  She tried to move a puppy again, but Kelsey came out and took it away from her.   When I left for work, Kelsey, the five puppies and cat were all curled up in the doghouse.  I thought things were okay.

But when I came home that afternoon, the cat had moved four of the now six puppies to the garage.  So, I put all the puppies and Kelsey in the garage and put the cat out.  The cat was distressed, but I was relieved.

I did not realize that Kelsey knows how to open the garage door.  Next thing I knew, the door was open and the cat was back in the box with the puppies.  She and Kelsey seem to have worked things out, however, because there have been no more kidnapping incidents.  Kelsey and Toby’s cat are sharing the care of the puppies, and the other dogs look in on them several times a day.  I’ll say this:  They must be the cleanest puppies ever, with both mothers licking them several times daily.  I’m not sure what kind of effect this will have on the puppies as they grow up, but I guess too much love and care doesn’t hurt anyone.  And Kelsey will be glad to have a baby sitter when she is ready to go off chasing rabbits again.

 

Needless to say, I spend a lot of time watching this odd family.  I suppose there is a lesson in this somewhere.  It’s a relationship that goes beyond tolerance of differences, to what some people would think is friendship between traditional adversaries.  Humans have a hard time getting along, even among the same species.  Maybe animals are smarter than we are.

Memories and the Best Gift

2020 was my first Christmas alone in the house I grew up in.  I moved in around the first of April, in the middle of a renovation that is not finished yet, but at a point where the house is habitable. 

The Christmas tree sat in the corner, facing two windows, the same spot it’s been in for dozens of years.  It held not only my treasured ornaments, but ornaments from my childhood and from my mother’s collection.   It was the first time in my adult life that I had two mantles to decorate.

This house is full of memories, shadows of 4 generations of lives lived here.  How many stories were shared and conversations were held in front of the fireplaces, or on the wide front porch?  One of my childhood memories is of conversations around the big dinner table, when three generations came together to share stories of our day.  I don’t remember the specifics of many of the conversations, but I remember the sense of rightness I had at the end of the day.  It was there I learned to treasure conversation, to live with laughter and to share stories, happy and sad, momentous and mundane.

The Christmas memory that is closest to my heart is the year I was 6 years old.  I was born loving horses and from the time I can remember I wanted my own horse.  My granddaddy, who we lived with, had been an ardent horseman in the past, but the horse loving gene skipped my daddy.  My mother still nursed a bad memory of an unfortunate incident with a neighbor’s horse in her childhood, but she went to great pains not to discourage my interest.  I remember this particular Christmas, which started out like any other holiday morning with the tree and the gifts from Santa and a big breakfast.  My cousins were expected at some point and I remember vividly that my mother told me to look out the front door to see if I saw them coming.  I guess I was too young to wonder why they would show up so early.  They weren’t there, but standing in the yard was a pretty palomino and white spotted pony with my granddaddy holding the lead rope.  To this day I can show you exactly where Lucky was standing.

We had many adventures, both good and bad.  In the tradition of ponies, Lucky had his flaws.  His special talent was rubbing up against various objects to try to knock me off. But he taught me to hang on and made a rider of me.  Lucky eventually gave way to a horse, then another horse, then several more horses and colts and many miles on the horse show road bringing back a trailer load of memories.

You see, my family didn’t just give me a pony.  They gifted me with a passion that has lasted my entire life.  A passion that led me to friends, places and experiences I will treasure forever.  Every child needs a passion.  I am convinced that much of the problem with young people who are unfocused and unwilling to commit to a career is that they have not discovered their passion.  It might not be a pony, but there is something out there for everyone.  I have a friend who bought their young son (future mechanic) a set of good tools and a lawnmower that didn’t run, one of the most genius gifts ever.    So, buy that pony, that guitar, that toolbox, that trip to science camp.  And if you teach your children nothing else, teach them to never, never give up on their passion.  Whether it turns out to be their vocation or their avocation, it will make their life complete.