Yellowhorse's Mouth

I was thinking about the story of Dumbo this morning. Dumbo was the circus elephant with enormous ears that everyone made fun of until the day when his fate changed. Dumbo was on that day befriended by a mouse who gave him a magic feather. With this magic feather Dumbo could fly! Soon he was thrilling the crowds, even those who had formerly been quite merciless in teasing him. Suddenly his detractors and all folks were wildly clapping and cheering him. Dumbo was filled with self-confidence and enjoying what he could do –until he dropped the feather. Instantly, Dumbo plummeted toward the ground in imminent crash when the mouse riding with him shouted, “Dumbo! It’s not the feather –it’s you! You know how to fly!” When Dumbo HEARD that, could really hear that message, he was able to soar again this time knowing it was through his own abilities. Sometimes I think we do have to experience dropping “the magic feather” to see what abilities innately exist within us. But here’s to the mouse, who for each of us, will shout out that we already know how to fly.

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"The wastebasket is a writer's best friend."
~ Isaac Bashevis Singer

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I made a strawberry pie this weekend. It has been miraculous in that there always seems to be another piece. I used Hazel’s pie pan that I bought at her auction. She was downsizing her belongings prior to moving into an assisted facility. Hazel would smile at both my “miraculous” conclusion and all the hospitality one pie has extended. Thanks Hazel!

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Hazel and Hershel were my next door neighbors. Our houses were separated by an alley between us and our lives by over 50 years, but blacktop and years were the only separations. They were not only great folk but wonderful neighbors. Hershel would kindly loan me tools to work on my car. He would take time to teach me about adjusting a carburetor or changing a transmission switch plate. I had this 1969 Karman Ghia in need of his expertise which he gladly shared. Hazel always seemed to have Plenty Of: plenty of time, plenty of meatloaf, plenty of perennials to share, plenty of stories to tell, plenty of what I needed. Evenings I would often sit beside Hershel on his porch swing talking. One summer night he talked about the D-Day invasion and his job as an Army ambulance driver. I felt like I was on sacred ground hearing his story. It wasn’t many nights later, we talked on his porch for the last time. I tried to remember what we talked about that last time --when I saw the ambulance and the police arrive in the too early morning hours and Hazel came outside telling me he died. I still cannot remember that conversation just the image of him smiling at me and saying goodnight.
I have new neighbors now. I am on my second batch in Hershel and Hazel’s house. This week I was telling the new occupant, Loretta, about Hershel. I shared that one June afternoon Hershel let me sit in his “Tin Lizzy” a Ford model T. Unknowingly, I stepped on the ignition pedal and the car started right up and was heading right on out of Hershell’s garage with me absolutely perplexed. “Gal! Gal” he cried out. “Get your foot off the starter!” he shouted. “Hershell, what starter?” I yelled back. I had my feet tucked back under the seat away from any ‘normal’ pedals. I learned that day that Hershel, despite using a cane, could move very quickly and two that a Model T has a starter pedal tucked under the driver’s seat.

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My cousins, the Brown's, live in Louisville, Kentucky. And how could I not give a shout out for Big Brown (even though he is not a Yellow Horse) running today?

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Above is a picture by the French painter Poussin. I came across it today when I was taking a virtual tour of the Louvre. The piece is entitled “Gathering Manna.” The visual tells the story of the Israelites who waited daily for their Manna, this miraculous, mystical sustaining food stuff. I am no Old Testament scholar, hardly, but I remember the story from Sunday school in my long ago. The Israelites ate manna for the 40 years of being in the desert on the way to the Promised Land. When I saw Poussin’s painting, it occurred to me that I am complaining about the “manna” in my life; I am sustained, but it’s not by what I want to be sustained by or how. Grumble. Forty years is a long wandering time, I so get that.

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