GRAVITY

noun: gravity

1. 1.

Physics

the force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth,  or toward any other physical body having mass.

·  2.

extreme or alarming importance; seriousness.

“crimes of the utmost gravity”

We are all subject to gravity, whether it be that force pulling us towards the center of the earth, or being subject to situations of extreme and/or alarming seriousness or importance. Gravity changes space and time—warping/bending them to an inescapable fate.

What is meant by it all? No matter if we are out of the gravitational pull of the earth or are stuck firmly here on the ground, our mass is still the same. Mass is calculated by multiplying our volume by our density. Think in terms of how much matter can one stuff into the skin sack that encloses our body. So all things being equal, not everyone’s mass is the same.

But gravity, oh wonderful gravity, that is the defining factor that imposes the bad news of how much we weigh.  Without going into a whole long explanation of what consists of weight, I’ll just remind you of Sir Isaac Newton’s Law that shows that no matter the actual size of objects (what weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead) but rather the effect that gravity has on the mass (volume X density =mass)of an object.

You can ask yourself, why is Mike writing on this subject? Well, in my daily thought processes questions always arise that lead to asking silly questions and then looking for answers. In this case, I was intrigued by the dual meaning of the word—gravity.

Which leads me to talk about the second meaning of that word. The first thing that comes to mind is the image of a grave. According to the Oxford dictionary they are not related in any obvious way but, the symbol of the grave relates to the extreme seriousness of a situation. Whereas, “we felt the gravity of formal proceedings of the government”, is not the same as “John was gravely ill”.

Are human beings able to exist long term in any environment without gravity? It would seem not. Our physiology has been designed for our life on this planet. On Jupiter the gravity would crush us, on the moon we would have serious health issues after a period of time, Mars the same. So, our collective dream of traveling to the stars surely is just that, a dream. Unless, there is some provision for generating a faux gravitational pull, we are stuck on this spaceship (earth) for the foreseeable future.

Is that such a bad thing? Does anyone think we could escape the problems we have as humans on this earth? Won’t we just take them with us if we try to reach out to other homes in the universe? I think that we must deal with those problems here and now with all importance and seriousness.

In my youth, before Bill Cosby became full of himself, he was a funny comedian, virtually unknown. He got noticed and put his jokes on a LP vinyl record of which I had. One of the gags had the question “Why is their air?” and he had funny simple answer about filling basketballs, footballs, etc. The real reason that we have air is due to gravity—exerting its inexorable force on the mass of gasses that make up our atmosphere.

Gravity in the first definition is relatively constant now and into eternity. We likely won’t be able to change that. As for the second definition, we must recognize and deal with the gravity of our situation and let the dream of escaping this gravity go for the present.

THE DESERT

HAUNTED AND INSPIRING

“We will till the desert till it blossoms like a rose. We will plant fields of grain, for that crop will give us substance of life and barter for our other necessities of life,” Brigham Young July 26, 1847

Deserts are an enigma; some people hate them, others love them. I think it depends on whether or not you were desert-born or not. What do I mean by that? The people who are happy and evolved to survive in these harsh environments are at home in them. These are those who are there not only by physical birth, but also by spiritual conversion. There are those who never will resolve their dislike of those barren empty spaces where the wind blows free and you can see to the horizon in any direction you care to look; they fear the emptiness. Where the summers are blistering hot and the winters are soul numbing cold.

Why do I call them “inspiring? I do because I have so many examples to refer to, both historically and personally. John Muir,naturalist, activist, famous for his love of the mountains (“Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees..”) also spent a lot of time in the Great Basin desert as well as the Mojave. He seemed overwhelmed at first by the emptiness he encountered. He wrote “Nevada seems one vast desert, all sage and sand, hopelessly irredeemable now and forever.” However a firm believer in the beauty of all nature, he dug past what he call the “savage nakedness” and uncovered the unique and compelling landscapes. ir

John the Baptist and his cousin Jesus Christ both traveled into the desert for solitude and inspiration. Edward Abbey found both solitude and inspiration in the desert and chronicled it in his epic “Desert Solitaire“. I have found that “good tiding” and “nature’s peace” while sitting under a juniper tree or on a rocky outcropping to contemplate the world around me. I find the inspiration to write essays like this one and fictional sories as well. My will to overcome is bolstered by this environment

I have found that “good tiding” and “nature’s peace” while sitting under a juniper tree or on a rocky outcropping to contemplate my world and the world around me. I have inspiration to write essays like this and fictional stories as well. My will to overcome was bolstered by this environment. I was born for this place. I am at home here.

There is inspiration in the desert—yes, but there are ghost here as well. In 1867 or 68, aScottish couple, just East of where I now live, were found murdered (page 275), ostensibly for the $300 they had been saving to return to Scotland. No one was ever convicted for this crime. Do their ghosts roam here? No more than the ghosts of the native Americans who were killed or the ancients who lived here at the end of the Ice Age. Yet, sometimes one hears things, something out of place or reason. The wind often wails with the voices of the dead, and the shifting, whispering sand talks of the past, the glory and horror of those times. Sometimes the birds will stop their tittering as they sense some apparition pass by, seen and felt only by them.

In the deserts of the world, ghosts, demons, evil spirits, and Djinn roam unfettered, taking a toll on the fears and sanity of men. Dust devils, whirlwinds trumpet the words of Gods to prophets. Shifting sand dunes swallow up the unwary, sucked down into purgatory by these evil ones? Maybe.

The deserts of the word are both wonderful and terrible. They inspire, they make men mad—with thirst or solitude or mischievous spirits. Deserts are barren, yet full of life. They are sun baked and sand blasted hell’s; at times cold enough to kill—but they are beautiful in their terribleness. They often provide sacred spaces and room to find oneself. Again, I was born for this place; I am at home here. Peace be with you.

LIST OF DESERTS BY AREA: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_deserts_by_area

CAN O’ PEAS

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The Burden of Sameness

Why is ‘sameness’ a burden? What do ‘peas’ have to do with that? Have you never heard the old saw “…like two peas in a pod”? Vegetable canners pick their products for their ‘sameness’. In any can of peas, there is very little variation in the size, color, ripeness of the little green orbs. Pretty much any canned vegetable or fruit suffers from that sameness—unless it is a bargain brand that uses the odd, the rejects of the eagle eye of sameness.

Where else do we have to endure sameness? Architecture for one. Bring up photos of most metropolis’ in this country (and elsewhere) and count the number of tall, square, glass walled buildings that dot their skylines. There are exceptions, few and rare. While we are on the subject of architecture, I have been struck by the sameness in residential buildings as well. Single family homes and multifamily condo’s and apartments stand out only because they follow a pattern of sameness. I am including the link https://www.google.com/search?q=little+houses+on+the+hillside&client=firefox-b-1-e&ei=y7qVZJSvFJPw9APZ_Y2oAQ&gs_ssp=eJzj4tFP1zcsNM2qSi6uKjJg9JLNySwpyUlVyMgvLU4tVsjPUyjJAPIyc3KKM1NSAWLpEAI&oq=little+houses+on&gs_lcp=Cgxnd3Mtd2l6LXNlcnAQARgDMgUIABCABDIFCAAQgAQyBQgAEIAEMgUILhCABDIICC4QgAQQ1AIyCAguEIAEENQCMgUIABCABDIFCAAQgAQyBQgAEIAEMgUIABCABDITCC4QgAQQlwUQ3AQQ3gQQ4AQYAToECAAQRzoHCAAQigUQQzoLCC4QgAQQxwEQrwFKBAhBGABQ0ixY0TJgv2VoAHACeACAAXmIAcUCkgEDMC4zmAEAoAEBwAEByAEI2gEGCAEQARgU&sclient=gws-wiz-serp#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:ea702aac,vid:w_xH7FI1L9Q to a song written by Malvina Reynolds, used by the producers of the television series “Weeds”. Her words struck a note that has been in the back of my mind since childhood. I am different, yet, the same. Who says we have to color a mass produced template using the same color crayons as everyone else? Why do we have to use the pre-printed lines as our guide? Where is the room for our creativity and individuality?

Now, I am not as much a rebel as I want(ed) to be. In my youth, I dressed like most others of my generation; and I cut my hair like the ‘Beatles’ much to the dismay of the barber on the military installation where I grew up (and my parents too). I aimed for a ‘normal’ and ‘expected’ career path—for a while, but then…

The lyrics to Little Houses on the Hillside talk about the sameness in professions like medicine, law, business, etc. Spewed out of universities that are all full of boxes filled with people trying to be the same. In most, if not all, executive suites across the world are filled with, gray, charcoal, black (and rarely Navy) suits—male and female. God forbid a senior executive wear a tan suit. Red ties, Harvard stripes, etc. are badges of sameness.

Is there anything wrong with ‘sameness’? Repetition is sometimes the right thing to do. Manufacturing is one area where it makes sense…products made of the same components on an assembly line make it possible for everyone to afford them—or repair them. In construction, building to set blueprint cuts the cost of materials by factor of scale, and allows builders to use the same procedures for each unit they construct. In the military, it is wise for everyone to dress the same, follow the same regulations and use the same weapons.

But, and it is a big but—individuality leads to a happier people, innovation, less stress—individuality need not lead to chaos, not that chaos is a bad thing either. Where is the happy medium? Could it be the red entry door in a sea of white ones a good sign or tennis shoes beneath a wedding dress, or a pink shirt in the boardroom? I can’t say. Tattoo’s were once a symbol of individualism, they have become a part of the sameness of our culture. So is pristine skin the symbol of rebellion now?

I just think of the ‘Can  O’ Peas’…don’t be lumped into the can with everyone else.

Just be yourself!

DREAMS

The BOB Ranch, a dream/fantasy ranch.

WHAT DO YOU DREAM ABOUT?

I am a dreamer, not the kind that is in the news, but an honest dream all-night, sometimes in the daytime—dreamer. I dream of things that concern me, episodes of stories that I write, and often just a mishmash of crazy scenes that make no sense at all. I dream of people that matter to me, those that have passed on, and those still with us. I dream of things that I have done, issues that are presently on my mind, ideas that I should have pursued but didn’t, and desires that I would like to achieve before I die.

People might say that I live too much inside my head. It’s true that sometimes my inner dialogue drowns out the “now”. But it’s also true that sometimes the “now” out-competes the inner voice. Dreams take many forms, as unique as each individual, but similar in occurrence.

What are dreams? Some say it is just the random firing of neurons after a day of sensory overload—a kind of deleting files one might say. I’m not convinced, if that is the case then why would some dreams repeat over and over again during the course of your life?

Do you dream? I’ve heard some people say that they don’t dream. Does that happen to you? I find it hard to believe, honestly. If those folk were hooked up to a brain scan, I bet that the data would show differently. Others say that they don’t remember their dreams when they wake up. Intentional or not—what do you think? Animals dream, have you ever watched a dog dream (of what we can’t tell) of chasing a rabbit or experiencing some past trauma? If we could get into the mind of marine mammals, what would we learn? What do whales dream about? Or seals?

Daydreams are a different subject all together. My daydreams are often of early experiences with my Father, and with my (step) Dad. I daydream about my little sister and I visiting our maternal grand mother sitting out under the stars and singing together (The Stars are Bright…Deep in the heart of Texas). I get lost in my daydreams of past hunting trips with my Dad, walking through the deep snow in the cold darkness of the thick pine trees and feeling that cold crisp air that would make ones nostrils freeze with each a breath as you inhaled. I daydream about the ranch that I wanted to own, a place to hide from the world. In my mind it has a name—The BOB (Back of Beyond). I’ve included a picture of this imaginary place.

People claim that they have dreams that portend the future. I’ve thought a lot about that. Is it real? Are they prophets or charlatans? Maybe some of either…                     who can tell?

Have you ever dreamt of someone close to you who has passed on? I once dreamed a realistic dream of a good friend who had died before his time (or so it seemed, who can tell when your time has come?) in it he came and I got the impression that he was waiting for me—coincidentally, our other friend (we were a pack) had a similar  dream where our friend was climbing a mountain and was beckoning us to come—on the same night. I’ve read other stories about those types of dreams, but didn’t expect that I would have one. I hope that you have dreams both asleep and waking, I believe they are essential for our health, physical and mental.

VOICES

THERE ARE VOICES EVERYWHERE

This blog, Skull Valley Tales’ sub title is “A place of voices and dreams”. Every locale on this earth is a place of ‘voices and dreams’. Skull Valley for example, has layers of history going back millennia, eras—from the beginning of time. These layers give up their story (periodically) to my amazement. This little corner of the earth is not unique in that respect. Recent archeological finds in Great Britain have unearthed layer after layer of historical artifacts going back to the end of the Ice Age and beyond. These artifacts are unleashing the pride, passions (and voices) of those who lived then—and of the land that they lived on. I could cite story after story of similar revelations in every part of the world.

Everything on this earth (and maybe in the universe as well) has a voice. Some are louder than others, others just as loud but untranslatable at present. The trick is to hear those voices and try to decipher them. How else can we know what is being said? Is it important to know about these long dead peoples? About the climate, or geology of a place? The echoes of past civilizations, climatic events, tectonic shifts are still reverberating today. We (mankind) need to know what those echoes are saying.

In my religious tradition, it is believed that GOD created everything spiritually before creating them materially. Leading us to the concept that the universe, galaxy, earth, and us, are endowed with a soul. I can’t conceive of any other possibility. This takes a giant leap of faith/deep understanding to comprehend the implication of that concept. I read once that scientists have measured a response from a carrot as it is ripped from the earth–a scream so to speak. Other scientists claim that trees communicate with each other (and us if questioned, https://onetreeplanted.org/blogs/stories/how-do-trees-communicate).

One may dispute this idea. To acknowledge it would be to assign some sort of sentience to everything. If something is sentient at any level, then I think that Rene’ Descartes coined phrase, “Cogito Ergo Sum—I think, therefore I am”, applies.

Leading me to believe that the universe and the earth and those on it, are sentient beings—thinking and carrying on a dialog with…everything. As I sit here, writing this, my inner voice is running wild with ideas and implications of my belief. I hear the songs of many species of birds, the rustle of last year’s leaves on trees, or sometimes the wails of the wind howling across the land. In the distance there is the hiss water sprinklers nourishing plants and crops. If I concentrate hard enough I can hear the trickle of streams of water being led to the fields. In the heat of the summer, I can hear the burden of that heat in distress of the plants and land. And yet, on hot summer nights, the cornfields are speaking the sounds of growth and eventual maturity. The individual plants have voices as they grow in the night after the brutal heat of the day.

What it would it mean for us to communicate with our surroundings. What would be the reason that we would want to? Or should! We have a tough time communicating with each other, let alone hearing and understanding the voice of…everything. If we could find ourselves communicating with each other efficiently, maybe we could hear/listen to the joys/complaints of our earthly home.  We could share in the highs and lows of life that is all around us. Wouldn’t that be wonderful!

Fecundity

fe-cun-di-ty,

the ability to produce an abundance of offspring or new growth; fertility

the ability to produce new ideas

We’re a month past the Vernal Equinox and the sunlit hours are lengthening everyday. In ancient cultures, the New Year began on the day of the equinox; marking the beginning of new growth and fertility in their world. The stark, dark days of winter give way to the rush of growth in plants, and the urge to mate in the animals. The dead, brown stalks of last year’s growth poking up from a bleak, frozen landscape finally over come by the green blush of green grass poking through the those stalks. Dandelions carpet the newly green pastures with a solid yellow blossom cover.

We hear the love songs of birds and watch the building of nests in which to birth and rear their young. Every spring I watch the courting dance of ravens on the wing, flying in tight circles as if to tease each other with their flying prowess. They catch the columns of warming air and rise high above the ground, then diving down to begin again. Magpies are making a nest in the tree just outside the window, (I’m not a fan of the nest robbing birds), hoping that they will feed upon the summer crop of grasshoppers.

The little birds flit through the limbs of trees and lilac bushes that circle the house and yard. The colorful males sing and posture trying to catch the eye of a willing mate. Hummingbirds make the long trip back from the southland just in time to catch the early blooms of the year. This cycle has continued for ages and ages, epochs even.

It’s now the time to prepare the garden in the Great Basin where I live now. I have to be careful of what I do plant because we will often get a late frost that will kill some of the more tender vegetables and flowers.

Spring is the season of fertility. Our forebears have given us a genetic heritage that sparks our souls. Our nostrils flare at the scent of spring/fertility, our ears turn to new sounds. We find ourselves yearning to bury our hands and feet into the warming soil of a freshly tilled garden or plowed field. Years ago I read an article urging folk to take their shoes off and walk in the soft turned earth, promising a feeling of grounding, so to speak, a oneness with Mother Earth (after all, we come from dust and will return to dust—not just a religious saying, but a real fact). We were plowing the family garden with a walking plow (the old fashioned kind). As I was guiding its path, turning the earth over, I remembered that article. I stopped and took my shoes off and continued on—my mind reeled at the sensation. The warm, soft earth moving beneath and between my toes took my breath away. Dad and his buddy mocked me, wondering what I was doing. I tried to explain to them the feelings and benefits of walking barefoot in this plowed ground. They thought it was just “some hippie thing” and shook their head.

Fecundity…an old fashioned word used to label something that is central to this ecosystem that is our earth? Sometimes it is used to describe human behavior/state of being; a statement of fertility that might not fit our modern idea of reproduction; or just mis-used in some one’s discussions to impress.

I encourage you to take your shoes off and feel the fecundity of our earthly home. 

TIME WAS…

Time was life was simple, innocent and less hurried. Some say it was the “good old days” without really thinking about what they were like. Some say there was nothing good about the old days and then they proceed to list all of the things that weren’t so good after all. Remember when there were outbreaks of infectious diseases like polio, measles, tuberculosis, Spanish Flu and the like? A good portion of the 20^th century was laden with two world wars, smaller regional military actions, Korea and Viet Nam. The Great Depression, numerous financial crisis, the boom and bust cycle that is our economic model brought us the tech bubble burst, the ups and downs in the oil patch, and the perennial rise and fall of the mining industry.

Time was there were several good things too. People interacted face to face rather than through impersonal digital communication. Some families actually sat down to dinner together and hopefully talked about something other than memes and on line bullying. The train system in this country was extensive and you could actually book a trip to any small town that happened to be on the rail line. St. John station is a perfect example of that, sitting as it were in the middle of nowhere in Utah where ranches and small farms dotted the landscape. Now one cannot even get a regular flight to some of the places in middle America—it isn’t called fly-over country for nothing. Most small towns and cities had at least one doctor that would come to your house to treat your illnesses and injuries. Sometimes they were paid in livestock or other commodities. Now, they just stuff you in an ambulance and rush to the nearest ER and leave you with a massive financial obligation.

Time was the good guys always won and the bad guys faced the consequences. It was a time when any kid could hunt and gather empty soda or beer bottles and turn them in for nominal deposit fee. It was enough to buy a sack  (small) of penny candy or go to the Saturday afternoon movie matinee and have enough left over after buying a ticket to get a bag of popcorn, a soda pop, and maybe a Hershey chocolate bar. In many households there was some kind of radio that received stations that played popular music, news of the day, radio plays, sports games that the family could gather round and hear together. If the atmospherics were right a family in Kansas could hear stations in New York City or Los Angeles on the AM band and maybe from England, Europe or South America on the short wave stations. In my youth, we could listen to Wolf Man Jack at night, broadcasting on AM with 50,000+ watts from Cuidad Acuna, Mexico, just over the river from Del Rio Texas. Many a teenager, myself included would lay in bed with a “transistor” radio with an earbud plugged in so that the parents didn’t shut you down. Now if you want to listen to radio stations out of your local area you have to have an internet connection to hook up to their live stream.

Sometimes I wonder if the phrase “time was…” is used as an excuse to ignore the present or deal with “modern” life. It is an easy cop-out when faced with the news of the day, or the insane intrusion of constant troubling news, or the consequences of the pervasive consumer society we live in…But truthfully, it is often soothing to reflect on the “Time was…”

SNOW FALL

An Essay

I just finished shoveling the driveway from last night’s storm.  Just an inch of powdery snow fell so it wasn’t too big of a job to clear it away. In between bursts of shoveling, I stood resting, catching my breath. Naturally my mind turned to the past, of hard winters with snow piles over my head, of easy winters when my buddy at work planted peas and potatoes in his garden on Valentines Day.  Here in the Great Basin, you never can tell what winter is going to be like. It becomes a game of chance every evening when I watch the local weather report—is it really going to snow here? Will it be below freezing? Really? A man would go broke betting on the weather in the Great Basin.

 Not all of my thoughts were about the weather, but most were weather related. Some of them were concentrated on my health (Buddy, you really shouldn’t be shoveling this snow—you know what the Dr. says…), others on my youth.

When I was about 15 years old, my family owned a Chevy Suburban and Dad had splurged and bought an extra set of wheels and put studded snow tires on them. During periods of no storms and dry roads, the regular tires were left on for driving around town and even on trips to the city. But after his nightly assessment of the weatherman’s guess at what the future storm situation might be, he would calculate the odds and if they were weighted in favor of snow, then it was decided. He could then bet on the weather. His chips were, “Son, go change the tires.” 

I don’t remember how many times I got called upon to rotate street tires with the studded snow tires that winter. I do remember that it was always cold as hell and a frozen finger always got banged or mashed. I remember mumbling dire consequences if he made me do it one more time, and always there was one more time.

Looking back at the past, I’m glad that he had me do that for many reasons. He taught me the value of caring for my assets, the goodness of a job well done, the feeling of being prepared in advance and not struggling at the last minute to do an important task. Maybe one the best lessons to come out of it was that I learned how to change a tire in iffy conditions and how not to get injured doing it.

When my thoughts rambled back to those days, they weren’t just about the weather. The scrape of the shovel blade on the concrete and the sliding snow grains rubbing against each other set a rhythm that reminded me of days when I was strong and young, working like this all day and exhilaration of the chemicals that my body would release when I stressed it to the maximum, These chemicals bringing a feeling of invincibility, of being larger and tougher than I was.

That feeling doesn’t hang on all that long but it was nice while it lasted. 

I thought of working side by side with Dad and my little brother, the bickering, the joy of being together, the love for each other all part of the experience. I thought about the aging and decline of Dad, the aging and decline of myself and how can my little brother have gray hair.  When these ideas come to the forefront of my thinking, invariably, they get around to the end of life and to an eternal question—what does it all mean?

And so I get to the part where I tell you the answer to that question. 

Some people will disappoint you, some will inspire you, others will pass through your life without a ripple. I hope that we all get to experience those that bring the storms and the lightning, the earthquakes, and tidal waves into our lives. The loves, the dislikes so strong that we will never forget them Nothing about the tedium of the sheer inanity of all the BS around you means a thing. Nothing matters but life itself and the loving relationships that you form throughout it.

Life, that is the point.

What a sight for my morning delight

It has been a hot, dry summer…until 3 weeks ago

The hummingbirds are prepping for a southern winter vacation

BIRDIE

 

She closed the book, placed it on the table, and finally, decided to walk through the door. That opening had haunted her all afternoon, overshadowing the pleasure of reading the book. Now she stood and squared her shoulders, ignoring the shiver of dread that shook her, and stepped into the hallway beyond.

“Watch where you’re going Birdie!” Fat Sally almost knocked her down. Birdie ducked her head and scuttled out of the way. Murmuring “Sorry” as the large woman hurried past her and down the hallway. They called her Birdie here, but her grandmother had named her Little Bird Woman when she first got her monthly flow. None of her family had called her anything else.

Her rubber soled shoes squeaked, as she walked down the highly waxed concrete floors, further irritating her peace of mind, the “Birdie” comment stirring those feelings first. Her grandmother, Far Seeing Woman, would chide her for letting the world disturb her harmony, for distracting her thoughts of the book that she had been reading. Far Seeing Woman often corrected her behavior. She wasn’t called Far Seeing Woman for no good reason. Often, out of the blue, she spoke sharply to Little Bird Woman, pre-empting some bad act. Little Bird Woman was sometimes confused by Grandmother’s foresight. At other times she was grateful for the help.

No one here knew why she was named Little Bird Woman. Grandmother said it was because the little birds of the forest loved her. They flew about her whenever she walked in the woodlands of her homeland. They would land on her hands or her shoulders and look at her, twisting and cocking their head so that they could look her in the eye. The birds would chirp quietly as if they were sharing some daily gossip with Little Bird Woman. And maybe they were. She fed the little birds of the forest crumbs from the bread that her mother made from the seeds and grains that she gathered. Sometimes Little Bird Woman would find a special sweet green that she would tear into small pieces and share with her friends.

These memories calmed the irritation that the squeaking shoes and Fat Sally’s cheeky disrespect. Although the shoes continued to squeak as she continued down the hallway to her room.

Little Bird Woman walked slowly and deliberately. She knew that the faster she walked, the sooner her daily freedom would end. Every six steps would bring her to a doorway, openings to a room. Sometimes a woman would call out to her in greeting, saying “Hey, Birdie…having a good day?” Or if she passed groups of women, they would nod or speak or make rude gestures trying to provoke her, either to laughter or to anger. Little Bird Woman had little of one and plenty of the other.

“Squeak, squeak, squeak…” her shoes counted that nasty cadence, each squeak bringing her closer to her room and captivity. Tension quickly built in her as the figure of Yellow Haired Mary came into focus. She was standing by the door of Little Bird Woman’s room.

“In you go, Birdie. It’s that time.” Yellow Haired Mary called, pointing towards the waiting door. Little Bird Woman growled softly as she entered her room. She turned so that she was facing the door and backed slowly until her back touched the far wall. Giving Mary one more angry look, she turned and faced the barred window. A pair of beautiful rosy finches awaited her, perched on the windowsill. Little Bird Woman smiled as the steel door clanged shut behind her.