A Petrified Tree

I don’t know exactly when he died.  He seemed as still and tall and upright as ever, his arching boughs bracing the two less imposing end trees.  The garden is nearly forty feet long, on the oval, double the length of the hosta conga line that adorns the walkway–really, when I think about it, paralleling the entire length of the house.  Last year, the squirrels built their nest in the far tree, the one of all the three which is most healthy, none of its smaller trunks cleaving the main trunk but rather emerging from a robust centre…  

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I’d Rather Play Solitaire and a note about Andrew Wyeth

So the book is in print now.  My battles with the publisher, I will save for another post, another day.  I never thought my first work of fiction would be about horses, about their egregious slaughter…about Quebec.  What’s interesting is that, as I always found in my new age work, there is synchronicity in all.  I find that not only, like me, did “Wild Horse Annie (Velma Johnston)” have polio, but so also did the model for Andrew Wyeth’s “Christina’s World”.  I mention the latter because a few people have commented on the “author photo” on the back cover of my book:  they say that it immediately brought to mind Wyeth’s famous painting.  I discovered that Wyeth’s model, like me (again), suffered from polio.  Is there something shared amongst us–me, Velma, and Christina–which makes us particularly sensitive to horse abuse?  I know one thing very well–because I remember it vividly:  the numbness in the legs which polio brings may lead one–especially a youngster–to more fully admire and covet the fleet-footedness of creatures like horses.  It may also embed in us a prey mentality, one which would come from not being able to move, much less flee, from a potential predator.  Such a mentality would, at such a young age, imprint a deep vulnerability which–let’s face it–only very young children and animals experience.  A piercing perception into who and what one is, I’d say.  Early childhood disability marks one just as fully as early childhood trauma, and I had the benefit of learning from horses directly when I was a child, as well, perhaps, as the lesson of what happens when one loses one’s freedom to run (away)…which would explain, in large part, my vagabond life up to three years ago.

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